Книга: Terrible Swift Sword
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Chapter 1
TERRIBLE SWIFT SWORD
Starcruiser Polaris: Book 3
Richard Tongue
Starcruiser Polaris #3: Terrible Swift Sword
Copyright © 2017 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved
First Kindle Edition: October 2017
Cover By Keith Draws
With thanks to Ellen Clarke and Rene Douville
All characters and events portrayed within this ebook are fictitious; any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Join the author's Mailing List at http://eepurl.com/A9MdX
Chapter 1
Commander Edward Curtis sat at the heart of the bridge of the Starcruiser Polaris, his eyes drifting from station to station as he confirmed once more that his crew was ready for the fight to come. Lieutenant Hudson, a recent convert from the Federation Fleet, stood beside him, her eyes locked on the projected tactical display, running over the projected battle plan, with Major Saxon by her side, her eyes flicking to his as he looked her way. Her role was somewhat ill-defined, a strange combination of staff officer, guerrilla fighter and political expert.
Over to his right, at Tactical, Lieutenant Rojek, his Political Officer of twenty years ago, now one of the people responsible for bringing him into the rebellion. Lieutenant Norton sat at the helm, her hands dancing lightly over the controls, a faint smile on her face as she gently guided Polaris through the turbulence of the space warp, nursing her to their destination. And between them, a host of technicians, every station manned for the first time in decades.
She felt like a completely different ship. When he'd found her hiding in an asteroid vault, only weeks ago, he'd had only a skeleton crew to man her, less than a tenth of the usual complement. He'd taken her into battle knowing the odds were against him, knowing that any sane commander would have refused the risk. And by what still seemed like a miracle, he'd won. Now he had to do it again, beat the odds one more time.
“Emergence in three minutes, Commander,” Norton reported. “All systems green.”
“Very good, Lieutenant,” he replied. “Exec, sound battle stations.”
“Aye, sir,” Hudson said, reaching to her console. “Executive Officer to all hands, report to battle stations on the double. Report alert status. This is no drill. I repeat, this is no drill. That is all.” She looked down at her status panel, and said, “All decks have acknowledged, Commander.”
“Weapons systems operational,” Rojek added. “Turret and point-defense crews reporting in. Status green. We're ready for a fight, sir.” Glancing across at another screen, he added, “Grey Squadron reports ready for immediate scramble, all other squadrons on ready alert.”
Reaching down to a control, Curtis said, “Squadron Leader Kani, report.”
“Ready to go, Commander. Flight path calculated, systems green.”
“Not to late to back out of this, Win,” he said, concern laced in his voice. “I can think of something else.”
There was a brief pause, and the pilot replied, “It's going to work, sir. Don't worry. I know the risks, and I volunteered, remember. Just make sure Polaris does its part.”
“Will do. Good luck, Win, and good hunting.” He shut down the channel, then looked up at the viewscreen, a projected view of the target system flickering into life. Hyperborea, a cold world in the middle of an ice age, glaciers sweeping almost all the way down to the equator, leaving only a thin strip of inhabitable boreal forest. And yet, it was still one of the friendliest worlds discovered in two centuries of exploration, a world where the air was breathable, the water drinkable, and where Terran life could thrive, under certain conditions.
During the days of the Oligarchs, at the time of the ecocaust, billions of credits had been spent to transplant the last Arctic species to this world, an interstellar refugium from which they could one day be returned to Earth. That was unlikely to ever materialize, but they'd found a new home here, rapidly displacing the local wildlife, causing an extinction to prevent another despite the best efforts of the ecologists.
Of course, there'd been more to it than that, and Hyperborea had become a source of luxury goods, rare furs and spices unavailable on Earth, and a playground for senior government leaders, taking the place of the Oligarchs in the hunting resorts. Genetic scientists had restored creatures wiped out millennia before, and now mammoths and saber-toothed tigers roamed the landscape, simply to satisfy the blood-lust of a bloated bureaucrat.
This was what they were fighting for. The Federation might have begun in the name of freedom, but it had engendered nothing but tyranny, a slaveocracy worse than the one it had replaced, creating a world that Orwell and Huxley would have known all too well. Curtis and the rebellion were the last hope to bring that to an end.
“All stations show ready, Commander,” Hudson said.
“Emergence in forty seconds,” Norton added. She glanced back at him, and continued, “Normal-space flight path calculated and ready, sir.”
“Don't wait for the order, Lieutenant. You know what to do. Make it happen.” He forced a smile to his face, breaking through the tension he was feeling, knowing that his crew needed to see confidence, not fear. As a playpen for the neo-aristocracy, Hyperborea's defenses were tight. That was what had brought them here in the first place, but going up against them with one ship was st ill a risk, no matter how he sought to mitigate it.
“Here we go!” Norton yelled, and with a blinding blue flash, Polaris slowed to sub-light speed, the stars sliding into position on the viewscreen, a wreath around the shining white orb of Hyperborea it its heart, a green band wrapped around its middle. Instantly, a slew of tactical updates raced onto the display, the sensors feeding data to the combat systems as they worked out what they were facing, the enemies the Federation had arrayed against them. With a thunderous roar, Polaris' primary engines burst into life, Norton guiding the capital ship onto the planned flight path, down towards low orbit.
“Threat warning,” Rojek said. “Just as expected, with a little variation. Three capital ships.” He paused, then added, “I don't recognize two of them, sir. That's Regulus at the heart of the formation, right enough, but...”
“Auxiliary cruisers,” Hudson said, looking over Rojek's shoulder. She turned to Curtis, and continued, “At least, they match the projected plans I've seen, though I can't believe they could have had them ready so quickly.”
“Confirmed,” Rojek added. “We're getting registration codes for Trotsky and Ulbrecht.” He paused, then said, “Enemy formation is moving to intercept, and is scrambling fighters. Five squadrons on direct inbound path, closing fast. Six minutes.”
“Get me a tactical projection on the double, and prepare to scramble fighters when I give the word.” He looked across at Saxon, and asked, “Thoughts?”
“We were expecting three ships,” she replied. “I'm almost disappointed we didn't bring Canopus along for the ride. This is a battle we could have won, with our full fighter strength.”
Shaking his head, he said, “We're here on a reconnaissance-in-force, Major. For the present, we stick to the battle plan. What about the cruisers?”
“We knew they'd build them,” she replied. “You saw the projections for ship conversion.”
“Sure, but we'd estimated six months, and they've managed to get at least two into service in six weeks. The only explanation I can think of is that they were preparing them for something else.”
Frowning, she replied, “If they did, then I didn't hear anything about it. Which doesn't mean anything. ColSec's reach doesn't extend to Sol, and that's where they'd have built them.” She glanced back at the screen, and added, “You're worried about the odds, right?”
His voice low, he said, “They weren't exactly favorable already. If they've started to bring their reserves into the fight, then they just got a hell of a lot worse.” Turning to Rojek, he asked, “Where's my projection, Lieutenant?”
“Just about ready, sir. Launch tubes sufficient for only a single squadron, and only a handful of offensive turrets. Lots of point-defense, though, and based on our initial scans, they've retained a lot of cargo space. I think we'd be better off defining them as armed merchantmen rather than cruisers, sir. One-on-one, they don't represent much of a threat. And our best guess suggests four to seven months for conversion. This isn't a response to the rebellion.”
Rubbing his hand over his chin, Curtis asked, “Then why the hell are they building them?”
“Maybe they were planning a war with the Commonwealth, sir?” Norton asked. “The Fleet talked about it often enough.”
“Talk's cheap,” Saxon said. “War is expensive, and that's something that ColSec would have tried to prevent. The last thing we'd want is our nice orderly outposts and stations messed up by the military. And we'd have been on the front line in a renewed offensive against the Commonwealth.”
Turning to Rojek, Curtis said, “Have our hackers go through local communications traffic. If there are any hints and clues buried in the datastream, I want to know about them, now.”
Cracking a smile, Saxon turned to him and said, “Looks like they've decided to hurl insults at us. Commodore McGuire, commanding Second Cruiser Squadron, wants to speak to you.”
“Fine,” Curtis replied. “Let's hear what he has to say.” The tactical display winked out, replaced with the image of a gray-haired man lounging at the heart of a command center almost identical to that of Polaris, wearing pristine dress uniform while his crew worked all around him.
“This is...”
“I know who you are,” Curtis said. “And I'm not interested in sitting here and listening to a collection of empty threats. For the sake of you and your crew, as well as the captive population of Hyperborea, I'm willing to offer you a chance to surrender. I'll guarantee safe passage for your people to the nearest neutral port, and will happily see you sent back to Earth.” Leaning forward in his chair, he continued, “I defeated you before, Commodore, and I'll happily do it again.”
A twisted smile appeared on McGuire's face, and he said, “I have the advantage, Commander. Three ships to your one, five squadrons to your three, and I intend to exploit them to the full. I have no intention of agreeing to your ridiculous terms, but I will make an offer to your crew. If they send me your head, I'll guarantee a free pardon. Last chance for you to get out of this in one piece.” He glanced at Saxon, and added, “That doesn't apply to you. You die with Curtis.”
“Then I'll be in excellent company,” Saxon snapped. “You're as big a fool as you ever were, Hal, and if you really think that you can defeat Polaris with a few transports, you're crazy.”
“I think you can take it that your terms are not accepted,” Curtis said. “If you or your crew change your minds, I'll accept your surrender until we close to firing range. After that, I'll do what I have to do.” He glanced to the rear of the bridge, and asked, “Status on Canopus?”
“All green,” Rojek said. “Following the battle plan as ordered.”
“Very good,” he replied, as panic raced across McGuire's face. “Close channel.”
“Not bad,” Saxon said. “There sits a very worried man. His career is hanging by a thread, and he knows it. He needs a victory.” Looking across at Curtis, she added, “Just as well that we're about to give him one. I like fighting commanders like him. Though it hardly seems fair.”
“I'll take the win any time, Major,” Curtis said. He looked up at the course track, and asked, “Any surprises, Felix? Nothing new from the surface, from the auxiliaries?”
“Not a thing, sir. Orbital defenses are on standby, and the local fighter formation seems to be holding back. Even without our little forced error, they'd be expecting a second wave. We'd be crazy to come here without our full combat strength, right?”
“Yeah,” Curtis replied. “Crazy. Time to firing range?”
“Three minutes, nine seconds. Enemy fighters will be on us in two and a half. They're holding arrowhead formation, nice and predictable.” He paused, and said, “It looks like a sample exercise from a textbook.”
“Then let's make certain that McGuire doesn't get a passing grade.” He looked up at the display for a moment, knowing that he was about to throw his people onto the fire, and added, “Launch Grey Squadron. Green and Crimson to follow thirty seconds later. Stress to all flight leaders that they are to follow the battle plan exactly as instructed. No variation without my direct order. Norton, prepare evasive course on my order.” He looked at the rapidly growing planet on the screen, and said, “Deploy heat shield, and pass the word to all hands to prepare for turbulence. We're going in, and we're going in hot.”
Chapter 2
Kani cursed under his breath as he looked at the tactical feeds streaming in from Polaris, maps of the settlement below flickering onto his heads-up display as the navigation computer began to plot his flight path through the chaos ahead. He looked over the layout, then reached across to bring up his tactical controls. Throwing switches, he brought up the command network, shaking his head at the complicated chart that flashed into life. In the service of the Commonwealth, he'd never commanded more than half a dozen fighters at once. Now he had forty under his command, a melange of pilots gathered from squadrons that had been scattered all across the frontier when the rebellion began.
The Federation had made the mistake of exiling its best officers to the Rim, sending them where they believed they could do no harm. Efficiency and competence had come second to the chimera of political reliability, and they were paying dearly for that error now. The last five weeks had seen dozens of pilots streaming into Sinaloa Station, signing up to the rebellion in ones, twos, even a whole squadron at once point, many of them bringing their fighters along for the ride. The best of them had joined his Grey Squadron, an elite formation to form the tip of the spear in an engagement such as this.
Most of the frontier seemed ready to revolt. The Battle of Coronado had been a huge strategic victory, one that the Federation couldn't ignore, and since then, the Fleet had largely remained at home, licking their wounds and preparing for a new campaign. In the meantime, one colony after another had pledged to the rebellion, overtly or covertly, and a surprising number of merchant ships had placed themselves at their disposal. It was all coming together so fast, faster than he could have dreamed. And it had given them the resources they needed to launch a new campaign; for the situation was fragile at best, and as rapidly as the victory at Coronado had inspired revolt, a similar defeat could crush it overnight.
“Voronova to Kani,” his wingman said. “Enemy fighters are closing, moving to double-arrowhead formation as they approach. Two squadrons for us, three for Polaris.”
Shaking his head, Kani replied, “They're trying to pin us down while the bulk of formation attacks our base ship. And we're going to let them think that they've got away with it.” Tapping a button, he said, “Wing Commander to all pilots. Break and attack. I repeat, break and attack. For now, Polaris can take care of herself. Engage approaching formation, and good hunting. Out.”
With a smile on his face, he watched as his pilots chose their targets, the strategic computer ensuring that any duplication of effort was minimized. He looked across at Montgomery, the young pilot pulling onto his wing, another recent discovery of his. Two months ago, he'd been a deckhand on the transport Hanoi, cast into the outer darkness after being expelled from Flight School due to the actions of a distant relative, another example of a talented cadet being driven from the service for nebulous political considerations. Already it had cost the Federation Fleet two fighters, and given the natural talent of the young officer, he wouldn't bet against that number rising considerably in the near future.
“They aren't breaking, sir,” Montgomery said. “They're holding trajectory, keeping formation. That's crazy?”
“Inexperienced commander,” Kani replied. “The book claims that those formations are optimized for offense and defense. Tactics-by-numbers. It's a good way to get your pilots killed.” He frowned for a second, focusing his sensors on the nearest formation, watching the pinpoint maneuvers that demonstrated what he already knew. “Rookie pilot, rookie commander. They're throwing people into the fire who aren't ready for it.”
“Seems unfair,” Voronova said. “They're kids, Win.”
“Kids with guns, and kids who are trying to kill us, Lieutenant,” he replied. He paused for a second, then threw open the wing channel again, and added, “If any of the enemy break away, let them run. I want to reward caution today, rather than punishing it. Thirty seconds to contact.”
He locked onto his chosen target, gripping the firing control to enable his particle beams, and swept into the heart of the enemy formation, his weapons lancing out at his target and burning into its hull, the Federation fighter spiraling out of control as the pilot struggled to eject in time. All around, the rest of his pilots were hurling death at their opponents, the battle instantly collapsing into chaos as the enemy forces attempted to counter-attack, their commanders too slow to react to the furious assault.
A glance at the strategic display brought a smile to his face, half a dozen enemy fighters breaking and running for home, a wide gap in the formation that he was able to exploit. Commander Curtis had given him a special mission, and the enemy squadron leader had given him the perfect opportunity to make it happen. Swinging his fighter around, he reached down to open the throttle to full, the force of the engine pushing him back into his acceleration couch as he dived towards the nearest ship, the Trotsky, her point-defense turrets already opening up as he approached.
Behind him, the assault on Polaris was beginning to collapse as her defenses came into play, one of the enemy squadrons coming around in a desperate and doomed attempt to support their comrades. For a brief second, his wing paused, caught between two forces, but Voronova was quick off the mark in responding, leading Crimson Squadron to intercept the enemy in good time. So far, the battle had been almost ridiculously one-sided, but the enemy capital ships were moving into position to launch their attack, and both groups of fighters were running low on fuel and ammunition. It might have been messy and unnecessarily wasteful, but McGuire was pressing his attack. Only his fighter was in position to counter the attack, but as he moved into range, a loud report echoed from the rear of his ship, an explosion ripping into his primary engine, sending a cascade of red warning lights running across his heads-up display.
A quick glance at his navigation computer confirmed his suspicions. He was below escape velocity, certain to enter the atmosphere of Hyperborea. Re-entry was difficult enough in a functional fighter, but in his current state, he was going to have to execute the landing of his life.
“Voronova to Kani,” his wingman urgently said. “I'm on the way...”
“Negative,” Kani replied. “I am irretrievable. Assume command of the wing and continue the battle. Defend Polaris at all costs. I'm expendable.”
“Montgomery here, sir. I think I just have time...”
“Negative!” Kani yelled. “I appreciate the sentiment, but neither of you have time to execute them. I can take care of myself. You two have to take care of the wing. Good hunting. Out.”
Turning off the communicator, he looked at the lumbering capital ships above him, drifting out of range as he fell towards Hyperborea, and with a quick series of thrusts, he set his fighter up for atmospheric entry, looking at the status report on the heat shielding. As far as he could determine, the explosion hadn't damaged his landing systems, only his main engine, but there were some troubling alerts on his engineering status panel. Not that there was anything he could do about it now. He was committed to a descent, using the last of his thrust in an attempt to guide his fighter out onto the ice, his best chance for a smooth, safe landing.
He drove his fighter down, watching the stress sensors on the hull as his fighter bit into the upper atmosphere, short, stubby wings giving him a measure of control. His ship was meant to fly through space, the designers not intending any serious atmospheric operation. Simply landing the fighter would be an act requiring rare skill, but with the damage he had sustained, he was asking for a miracle. One that would take all of his training to deliver.
His sensors began to blur, unable to cope with the growing interference, but his last look at the battle was reassuring, most of the enemy fighters gone from the display. Three squadrons wiped out for the cost of only a handful of their own, a significant strategic victory in itself. Polaris still moved into position above him, slotting into an orbital approach path. Their destinies were diverging, at least for the moment, and finally, his sensors winked out, his bandwidth focused on the landing ahead.
As he fell, his fighter was a ball of flame, the plasma sheath enveloping him as he slammed through the dense atmosphere, rocking from side to side as his thrusters struggled to keep him stable, to keep his heat shield absorbing the worst of the titanic forces tearing at the fabric of his fighter. His viewscreen flickered as the hull sensors failed, one by one, bandwidth rapidly diminishing.
Amber lights flashed on as his fighter began to slow, damage reports streaming in. He'd expected as much, and had been resigned that this was a one-way trip. As his fighter settled into the glide path for terminal descent, he risked a quick glance at his status monitor, checking on the pilots he had left up in orbit. Nothing had disturbed them, all of them were still lazily cruising through the sky. Then, on the distant horizon, he found what he was looking for. Two clusters of lights, connected by a single, steady beam. The settlement, the capital of the colony, Ericsson City.
Most of the planet was uninhabited, only a few remote scientific and mining outposts scattered across the ice. He had no cold-weather gear, no survival equipment at all, and knew that any delay in his recovery would cost him his life. He had to land near civilization, and his hands danced across the controls as he brought up a map of the surface, towns and settlements snapping into life on his heads-up display.
There it was. Work Camp Five, his target. A hundred and ten miles from Ericsson City. He swung the nose of his fighter around, snapping off the warning alarms with the touch of a button, using the last of his thruster fuel to steady him into a glide path. His stubby wings could do little more than arrest his descent, but at least he still had an element of control over his destiny. Faintly, in the background noise, he could make out a tinny voice barking instructions, some ground controller attempting to guide him in, but his communication system had been too badly damaged in the descent. He knew where he was going, anyway.
Thirty thousand feet, descending. The landscape rolled out beneath him, lush forest sliding into icy-white landscape, points of light scattered around, thin trails for monorails and transport links. His sensors picked up some civilian traffic in the air, all of it racing for the ground, for safety, as though they feared he would launch an attack. Even if he'd wanted to, none of his combat systems were working, his missiles useless in atmosphere.
He paused, smiled, then brought up his tactical display, locking the missile clamps securely into position. They might not be able to shoot anything down, but they could certainly give him a final boost, and with his fuel tank warning lights winking urgently at him, he'd take all the last-minute help he could get. As the ground raced towards him, he tugged his restraints, making sure he was securely strapped in, and braced for landing, his computers using their final seconds to give him the best possible chance to live through impact.
At the last instant, the missiles fired, sending him clear of a tall rocky outcrop onto a wide, frozen lake, a perfect spot for a landing. He tugged the nose up, giving himself one final lift, then slammed into the surface, a cascade of ice behind him as his landing gear ripped into the surface, snapping away in the first seconds, sending him into a lazy spiral as his engine faded away.
More warning lights, a decompression alarm as his hull fractured in a dozen places. He could breathe the air, but it was cold, desperately cold, and his breath instantly condensed as he frantically engaged the capture protocols, purging his database of the precious information stored within. He reached down for a control, then cracked the cockpit release, sending a chilling blast slamming into him. The wind was fierce, snow falling from the sky in waves all around him.
The computer displayed a final question, and he tapped a button to confirm, the destruct system activating with a sixty second delay, giving him just time to scramble from his fighter, sprinting into the safety of the tree line, slipping and sliding across the ice as the seconds ticked away. He tried to count down with the computer, managing sixty-two before the roar of the explosion echoed through the air, the blast hurling him from his feet as he wrapped his hands around his face.
Behind him, the ice was melting for the first time in years, water bubbling up all around, and he finally reached the safety of the bank, collapsing into a snowdrift in the lee of a tall, frost-smothered tree. He looked at the column of fire and smoke behind him, and a smile spread across his face as he glanced at his watch. Nobody for a hundred miles could have missed that landing. With a little luck, he'd be in a nice warm cell within the hour.
Chapter 3
Hudson turned to Curtis, and reported, “Squadron Leader Kani has made it down to the deck, Commander. Our last telemetry readings showed serious damage, but our sensors tracked a figure running from the fighter before detonation. I think he made it.”
“I hope so,” Curtis replied, looking up at the strategic view, at the three capital ships still bearing down on Polaris. “Time to go, people. Bring our birds home, and let's get the hell out of here. Full acceleration, Lieutenant Norton. Stand by to release ballute.” He looked up at the trajectory plot, a smile creeping onto his face. He'd dived in towards the planet, preparing their disposable heat-shield to make it look as though he was aerobraking into orbit, and McBride had happily danced into the trap, setting up his attack to intercept on that course.
Space was big, though, big enough to give him ample room to maneuver, and he intended to use every bit of it in order to make his escape. Polaris' engines roared to full as her fighters raced to the landing deck, moving smoothly into approach formation, breaking calmly from the remnants of the dogfight taking place in orbit behind them.
“I'll be damned,” Rojek said. “We're going to be leaving the system with two more fighters than we left it, and that's after our losses. Looks like some of McBride's people aren't willing to renew their acquaintance with the man.” Turning to Curtis, he continued, “I've got Sergeant Dixon on the hangar deck with a fire team, just in case one of them tries something stupid.”
“What's the count, Lieutenant?” Curtis asked.
“We lost three fighters, including Kani,” he replied. “All the pilots but Kani made it back, sir. Search and rescue managed to get them out of the air. Clean sweep.” Frowning, he looked down at his status panels, and added, “We'll be in firing range of Regulus in ninety seconds. Not for as long as we would have been, but they'll still have time to press an attack.”
“Prioritize defensive fire,” Curtis replied. “We're not out to destroy that flotilla today, just get out of the system in one piece. Norton, go red-line on our acceleration. We've got to burn the engines as hot as we can. And calculate an escape course to Sinaloa Station.”
“Course already plotted,” she said, turning with a smile. “Lieutenant Moretti, under protest, has given me one-oh-five on the reactor. We should outpace Regulus easily. We’re already drawing ahead of Trotsky and Ulbrecht.”
“If I didn't know better,” Hudson said, “I'd wonder if he wasn't trying to make himself a target, trying to lure us back into battle.”
“And what makes you think he isn't?” Curtis replied. “Never underestimate your opponent, Lieutenant, no matter how big an ass you think he is. Besides, Admiral Yoshida's pulling the strings, not McBride.” He looked across at Saxon, and asked, “Anything from the surface?”
“Kani managed to come down exactly on target,” she said. “Less than three miles from our agent's location. Lots of foot and air traffic heading out there. I'd say that part of the plan is working just as we'd expected.” She glanced across at Curtis, and said, “I'm only worried that we've done a little too well. I didn't think we'd get this close to the planet.”
“Me either,” Curtis replied, “but we are where we are. How long to firing range?”
“Thirty seconds minus,” Rojek said. “Beginning defensive salvo. I want to put them off a little. Permission to fire at will if I get a good target of opportunity?”
“Don't let me hold you back, Felix,” Curtis replied with a smile, settling back in his command chair to watch the action unfold on the screen. A series of rhythmic pulses pounded from the hull, the outer turrets opening up to throw shrapnel and particle beams towards their enemy. Not like their last battle, where they could only fire a single salvo. With every station manned, Moretti's technical crews watching over the systems, the full strength of Polaris could be employed, and he watched with satisfaction as a bow wave of destruction swept back towards Regulus, right into the path of their projected salvos. As the last fighters approached, Voronova had them turn to release their missiles into the fray, one last problem for McBride to worry about.
“First impacts,” Rojek said, matter-of-factly, as though announcing that the coffee was ready. Outside, the forces of two equally-matched capital ships raged at each other, the wave sweeping back and forth as the ships gained momentary advantages, the skill of the two warring tactical officers ranged against each other. Theoretically, they could continue the stalemate forever, but on the flanks of the battle, Ulbrecht and Trotsky were moving into position, adding their force to the attack. Their half-dozen mass driver turrets could contribute little, but their defensive fire surged into play, pushing the threshold dangerously close to Polaris.
Beads of sweat were running down Rojek's face as he worked, carefully making microscopic adjustments to buy them time, give them the edge they needed to survive the battle, to win through to the other side. On the viewscreen, Hyperborea flashed past, a dream in the distance as Polaris raced for the gravitational threshold, desperately gaining ground as they made for the safety of warp, the engines already warming up to rend space once more.
“Closest approach,” Hudson said, quietly moving over to Rojek, ready to relieve him at a moment's notice if necessary. There were stories from the Revolution that the strain of prolonged combat had driven men mad, their minds unable to disengage from the silent fury of battle as it waged around them. Everyone on the bridge was silent, unwilling to disrupt Rojek's concentration for even a second, only the rhythmic pounding of the turrets breaking through the strained silence.
Polaris was visibly gaining ground now, despite the best efforts of Regulus to catch them, McBride pushing his ship to the limit in order to catch them. Then, suddenly, the breakthrough, as Regulus abruptly ceased accelerating, dropping away behind them, listing lazily to the right. Saxon glanced at Curtis, a predatory gleam in her eye, and Hudson reached over to an auxiliary monitor, her grin widening as she read through the damage projections.
“He was running one-fifteen at the high point, sir. Probable power systems failure. No chance that they'll be able to make repairs before we've left the system.”
Instantly, the situation had changed, the bulk of the offensive enemy fire gone, the defensive formation broken as the two auxiliary ships struggled to compensate for the loss of their flagship, knowing that the hunted had suddenly become the hunter as the disparity in firepower instantly made itself clear, the line of battle sweeping drastically towards them as Polaris' turrets reached for new targets, getting firing solutions on Ulbrecht and Trotsky.
“Felix,” Curtis said. “Get 'em.”
With a nod, Rojek replied, his hands racing across his controls as he issued new fire priorities, directing the gunnery crews to throw everything they had at the auxiliary ships. Trotsky's commander realized the desperate situation first, hurling his ship out of the battle, turning back towards Hyperborea and the safety of the planet, gambling correctly that Curtis wouldn't give chance. That left desperate Ulbrecht on her own, pressing the attack forward.
“Hudson,” Curtis said. “Warn them off, for God's sake. Offer a ceasefire.”
“They aren't replying, sir,” she said, and Rojek focused his full attention on the doomed ship. Her crews were good, well-trained, but they were outmatched and they knew it, Polaris able to send wave after wave of kinetic projectiles into her side, ripping angry holes in her hull that sent fountains of atmosphere racing forth, tossing her around. Still her commander attempted to press on, desperately seeking to justify his attack somehow, render the sacrifice his crew was making worthwhile. A few escape pods launched, all destroyed instantly by the weight of firepower in the battlespace, two of them shot down by their own guns as they drifted in front of the surviving point-defense cannons.
Curtis' heart was breaking as he watched Ulbrecht lumber on, knowing that he'd have made the same decision if their roles had been reversed, that he'd have done anything he could to bring down the enemy ship, even if it meant the destruction of its own. He couldn't even order a unilateral ceasefire, not without exposing Polaris to immediate attack. All he could do was sit and watch while a brave ship died, another series of projectiles crashing into her hull, breaches on every deck, bodies hurled into the void on the fury of escaping atmosphere.
The end was a mercy. A white-hot flash as the primary reactor finally failed, the titanic reserves of energy released uncontrolled in a split-second. Where once there had been a brave ship and her crew, now there was merely a tangled collection of wreckage drifting through orbital space, Polaris soaring well clear of any potential pursuit.
“We are free, and clear to navigate,” Norton said. “Four minutes to the gravitational threshold. No chance of anything intercepting us before we leave the system. Clean sweep, sir.”
“And Ulbrecht? Any survivors?” Saxon asked.
“Not a chance, Major,” Rojek said. “Nothing could have lived through that.”
Nodding, Curtis rose to his feet, and said, “Proceed to Sinaloa Station. Lieutenant Hudson, you have the conn. I'm heading down to the hangar deck.”
Hudson looked at him, surprise on her face, and replied, “Aye, sir. I have the conn.”
Curtis stepped towards the elevator in long strides, Saxon running after him, only just making it through the doors before they closed. She waited for them to clear the bridge, then stabbed a finger on the override controls, bringing them to a dead stop.
“Major…,” Curtis began.
“Teddy, you did what you had to do, and you didn't have any choice, and you damned well know it,” she said. “I know exactly what is running through your mind. Mareikuna.”
“Those bastards out there didn't have a chance...”
“They did what they thought was right, and they died for what they believed in. There are no conscripts in the Federation Fleet, not yet. They all signed up, and they all knew the risks...”
“Risks?” Curtis snapped. “Don't talk about risks. They didn't take risks, Major. There was no realistic chance that they could survive the attack. None. Zero. As soon as their commanding officer committed to engage Polaris alone, they were dead. And I was their executioner.” Closing his eyes, he said, “I'm sick of this, Liz. Most of them were good people. They thought they were doing their duty to defend the Federation.”
“Just like you did, at Mareikuna,” she replaced. “There are no easy answers, Teddy, and you know that. You know that you're going to have to do this, again and again, send more crews, more ships to their doom. Kill people wearing the same uniform you did. What other choice do we have? You want to quit? Run to the Halo Stars, out into unexplored space?”
“Of course not.”
“Then get a grip, damn it!” she said, reaching across to the wall panel, bringing up a map of explored space. “Look at that. Nine billion-plus human beings scattered across half a hundred systems, all of them counting on you to pull off some sort of a miracle and bring down the Federation. We can't do that while their Fleet is intact, and you're going to have to destroy it, a ship at a time. Or millions die, and billions labor under oppression for the rest of their lives, until freedom is just a forgotten memory.”
“I know,” he said, with a resigned sigh. “It was just for a moment. Up there on the bridge, watching Ulbrecht die. I thought I was back there again, twenty years ago.” He grimaced, then continued, “Hell, twenty years? Sometimes it feels like yesterday.”
Nodding, she replied, “That's a side effect of the drugs they fed you. Time can seem to distort in your mind. In a very real sense, those events only took place a year or so ago, as far as you are concerned. You kept sharp, you kept your edge, but you're going to have to live with those memories deep inside. That, or go out of your mind.”
“Do I get to choose?” he replied, cracking a smile.
She shrugged in response, then said, “Sorry, I can't permit you that luxury. Not until all of this is over, anyway.” Placing a hand on his shoulder, she added, “If you need to talk, then you know where to find me. I won't pretend to know what you're going through, but I've had some recent experience at throwing away everything I used to know.”
“I guess you did. I could say the same about everyone.” Tugging his jacket into position, he said, “I'm sorry, I've been...”
“Hell, if you can't vent at your senior aide, who can you vent to?”
“Is that what you are today? I've been trying to work it out.”
“At the moment,” she replied. “Subject to change. Now, game face on. Let's go welcome our pilots home, and meet our latest defectors. A few more battles like these, and we win by default.”
Chapter 4
Even with the door to the labor barracks closed, nothing could stop the bitter cold from leeching in. Major Gabrielle Cordova tugged the too-thin blanket over her, shivering as she attempted to sleep, periodically looking up at the old clock on the wall ticking away the seconds before she and the rest of the labor gang would return to work, back to slave on their appointed task for the day under their brutal Federation overseers.
A month ago, she'd woken from a deeper slumber, deposited by one of Saxon's friends into the makeshift hospital of a labor camp, given a false name, a false identity. It had taken her no time at all to realize that she had been deposited as a sleep agent, placed to prepare the way for a later attack, though the choice of Hyperborea seemed strange, a world that didn't have any obvious strategic value other than the luxury goods harnessed for the bureaucrats back on Earth.
Most of their work revolved around the processing of such wares, amusing novelties and diversions for the new aristocracy. She'd spent the better part of a week in a slaughterhouse, preparing mammoth steaks for shipment, then transferred to a maintenance detail on the outside of the factories after a run of deliberately sloppy work. Cold, miserable and desperate it might be, but it gave her the best chance she could find to escape from confinement.
She was in good company. Every laborer dreamed of escape, even if just for an hour, for a moment. Any potential chance to return to Earth, to see their lost loved ones again would be snatched, no matter how desperate the odds, and discussion of the possibility of seeking freedom was ubiquitous. The guards tolerated it, happy to let them have a psychological release, trusting in the cold environment outside to keep them secure. It was a hundred miles to the major settlement, the only starport on the planet. A long walk, even under ideal conditions, and the guards were careful to ensure that they were never issued with the materials they'd need to survive out there, even for a moment.
Suddenly, a siren sounded, jolting her from her reverie, and a black-uniformed guard stepped into the room, violently pushing the nearest worker out of bed before dumping a mass of thin coats onto the ground.
“Up and at 'em!” he yelled. “There's a ship down not far from here, and all of you are on the salvage and rescue detail. Special privilege from the Governor; once you've done this, you get to rest for the day. Though there's a blizzard coming in, high winds, set to hit just about when you reach the crash site, so it's a toss-up whether you'll get to live to enjoy it.” He barked with sadistic laughter, and continued, “Form into your normal work groups, and when you're ready, leave the barracks and head towards the column of smoke. You can't miss it. Last group out gets to work in sanitation for the next week, without face-masks.”
The sadist turned and left the room, leaving the inmates to struggle for the coats. Cordova was quick enough to snatch one that almost fit, noting in disgust that there were barely enough of them to clothe three-quarters of the people in the room. They'd have little enough chance of living through one of the ferocious Hyperborean blizzards in the rudimentary survival gear. Without them, anyone trapped was as good as dead.
“Thinning out the herd,” a grim-faced technician, Dixie Norris, said, sliding on her coat. She'd been the only one Cordova had recognized, a minor figure from the Caledonian Underground she'd met a few years previously on her solitary visit to that world. Evidently she hadn't made much of an impression; Norris didn't seem to recognize her, or at least had the good sense not to admit it. She looked around for the other two members of her work crew, Jack Pierce and Peri Logan, a field medic and an engineer respectively in civilian life.
Both had their sad stories to tell. Pierce had made the mistake of showing up his supervisor while working in a construction yard, a man with the connections to take petty revenge on his subordinate. Logan's husband had been the target of a senior bureaucrat, and forged documents had been sufficient to sentence him to a ten-year sentence on Triton Station. She'd been collateral damage, cursed to the hell of the labor camps to fill production shortfalls. Life in the Federation for those without the right last names was nasty, brutish and short.
Cordova led the way out of the room, stepping into the freezing gloom outside. The guard had been right, the column of smoke a beacon leading them to the target. She trudged through the snow, cold seeping through her, shivering as she labored to their goal, the rest of her group by her side. They'd been one of the first ones out of the barracks, only a cluster of guards swathed in heated suits ahead of them, the faint whirring of a buggy in the distance.
Leaving the domes of the labor camp quickly behind, Cordova forced herself into a dreary routine, hardly even knowing why they'd been sent out here in the first place. They had no equipment, no training. And as she closed on the molten lake, it was obvious that there was little or nothing there to salvage, the craft that had crashed lost beneath the waves.
Then she saw him, a familiar figure being roughly taken through the trees, back towards the camp. Squadron Leader Kani. Polaris had been here, minutes before, had fought a battle somewhere in the sky. And they'd lost. Had they won, the guards would be treating the fighter pilot like long-lost royalty, their best chance of good treatment from the victorious rebels. Instead, he was a prisoner, dragged through the snow.
One of the guards walked over to them, looking with contempt at Cordova as he began, “We need you to search the perimeter of the lake. Command thinks that the rebels might have someone down here on the surface, someone he was trying to contact. Or that there was some sort of equipment cache he was trying to find. Go right around, and if you find anything, I'll see that you get transferred to Ericsson City, spend some time in a nice warm factory complex.”
“How far is it?” Norris asked.
“A few miles. The exercise will do you good. Move.”
Cordova looked at the others, shrugged, and started to walk, her mind seething with fear. If she had been sent here to support an attack, it increasingly looked that she might have missed her chance, that the rebels had been and gone already. Potentially leaving her stranded here for as long as the duration of her doctored sentence. Months, years, maybe decades.
There had to be another answer. There were rebels on Hyperborea, on every colony world, and the news that Sinaloa Station had been liberated had only fanned the flames. It was just possible that there was someone out there, someone that was trying to contact them.
“Hey,” the black-uniformed man said. “You aren't out here for a stroll.” He gestured at Cordova, and added, “Pay attention. Look around you, search the landscape. You won't find anything staring at your goddamned boots.” He fumed, gestured at a rocky outcrop in the distance, and added, “You might find anything out there. For all you know, the rebels have planted mines throughout this whole area. The next footstep you take might be your last.” Shaking his head, the guard turned away, spitting on the ground in disgust, while one of his comrades brought across a steaming cup of coffee, the smell drifting towards Cordova on the wind.
“I'd like to get that bastard,” Norris muttered.
“Join the queue,” Logan replied. “Damn, I can almost taste that coffee.”
Shaking his head, Pierce said, “Let's get on with this, shall we? The snow's getting thicker. We won't be able to find our way back to the camp before long.” The gruff engineer moved into the lead, wearily trudging across the landscape, while the four of them swept their surroundings with their eyes. The landscape was littered with tree stumps, the ancient forest being hacked down to provide worthless desk trinkets, but there was still life here, plants struggling to survive in the cold of the Hyperborean winter, waiting for the all-too-brief summer, a glimmer of hope in the far-distant future.
The snowfall grew, and the horizon became indistinct, the four searchers huddling closer together, not wanting to risk becoming separated in the wilderness. A thin layer of ice had already formed across the surface of the lake, freezing over once again in the bitter, wretched cold. By tomorrow, it would be safe to walk across once again.
“I can't see a damned thing,” Logan said. “There's nothing out here, and those bastards can't see what we're doing. Maybe...”
“What?” Pierce replied. “Make a break for it? In these rags, in this weather?”
Cordova squinted at the rock formation the guard had noted earlier, a brief shining glint coming from something tucked in behind hit. With a quick glance behind her, she pressed on towards the rocks, the rest of the group following, the snow falling harder with every step, chilling her to the bone. Behind the rocks, out of sight of the crash site and the rest of the search parties, was a battered old buggy, door invitingly open, as though waiting for them.
“It's a trap,” Pierce warned, placing his hand on her shoulder.
“To hell with that,” Norris replied. “Trap or no, it's got to be warmer than this wilderness.” She stepped into the cab, sliding into the driver's seat and throwing the heating controls to maximum. “Come on in!”
Cordova followed, Logan and Pierce right behind her, slamming the door closed as the heat rapidly built up, condensation forming on the walls and control panels. She looked over the readouts, checking the power supply and status indicator. The buggy might have seen long service, but it was fully operational, more than ready for an extended trip.
“Where to?” Norris asked, looking at Cordova.
“Why are you asking her?” Pierce interjected.
“Because she's a Major in the Democratic Underground, and I'm assuming this was all planned as her escape route, which means she hopefully has some idea where we're going.”
Shaking her head, Cordova lied, “They didn't tell me the details in case I was interrogated. There must be something in the cabin, though. Some hint.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Pierce said. “I'm no rebel. Hell, I don't like the Federation, but I've only got a few months left on my sentence, and...”
“You think you'll ever get to go back to Earth?” Logan snapped. “And even if you did, do you really think you'll end up with anything better than a plastiform crate to live in?” Turning to Cordova, she said, “I never joined the resistance. Never even thought about it. But I'd be honored if you'd take me now, Major. They took everything from me, a piece at a time, and I'd like to get a little payback.”
“They'll kill us,” Pierce said. “If we drive this thing back to the camp, then...”
“Then we go back to the barracks, and that's all. Assuming one of those trigger-happy bastards doesn't blow us away when we approach,” Logan replied.
Reaching underneath the control panel, Norris pulled out a folded piece of paper, opened it, and read, “The Harland Bar and Grill.” She frowned, then said, “That's about thirty-five miles south of here. Well out of our way if we're heading for the city. That ring any bells for you, Major?”
“No, but it's the best lead we've got,” Cordova replied. She looked at Pierce, gestured at the door, and said, “Get out.”
“What? I'll freeze to death out there.” He gestured at the window, the blizzard raging outside, and said, “It'll take me hours to get back to the base, even if I make it.”
“Maybe, but that's your choice,” Cordova said. “You can probably earn a few points with he guards by reporting everything you've heard here, though you might as well point out to them that we'll be long gone by the time you have a chance.”
“I'll stay,” he said. “I don't...”
“You're either a trustee working for the Federation, or you'll turn on us the first chance you get,” Cordova said, coldly. “At best, you'll freeze up as soon as we get into a firefight. Either way, you're a lot safer out in the storm, and we're a hell of a lot safer with you somewhere else. You can either get out under your own power, or I can throw you out. Your call.”
“I'll go,” he said, looking daggers at her. “One day we will meet again, Major, and...”
“Sure,” she replied. “I'll be counting the hours. Go.” He cracked open the door, sending a blast of cold air into the cabin, and walked out into the storm. Cordova looked across at Norris, and said, “Get her moving.”
“Was that necessary?” Norris asked. “I mean...”
“Either he takes his chances with the storm or we end up killing him later on ourselves. This way he at least has a chance. Now start her up. My little act of mercy just gave us a deadline.”
Chapter 5
Kani sat in his cell, taking sips from the bowl of weak soup set on the table before him. The guards hadn't provided him with any new clothes, and he shivered in his flight suit, the walls imperfectly sealed and permitting traces of the chill to seep into the room, evidently a deliberate design flaw. He glanced at his wrist, then frowned. An automatic reflex, but everything had been taken from him in a rough and brutal strip search.
It had been Cordova he'd seen out in the wilderness, when he was being taken back to the base. He was certain of it. Or would have been, if he hadn't thought her dead, killed in the final stages of the assault on Sinaloa Station. He took another sip of the soup, making a brief game of guessing what might be in it, trying to work out which mix of artificial flavoring had been deployed. Before he could get past the ubiquitous chicken, he heard footsteps outside, and the door rattled open to admit a black-uniformed figure, a gaunt man wearing the uniform of a senior ColSec officer, a weary expression on his face.
“Squadron Leader Kani?” he said. “It's a pleasure to meet a warrior of your evident skills.”
“Evidently I wasn't skilful enough,” Kani replied. “Or I wouldn't be down here, enjoying the luxuries of Federation hospitality.”
The man grimaced, and replied, “I am sorry about that. If it was up to me...”
Kani chuckled, interjecting, “Is this the part where you talk about being a civilized man, and how everything will work out for the best if I decide to cooperate?”
Forcing a smile, he said, “I'm glad we understand each other.”
“I wouldn't go that far.” Kani paused, then said, “Out of curiosity, who am I talking to?”
The man shrugged, and replied, “It can't hurt to tell you that much. My name is Mikhail Petrov. You can call me Micky. All my friends do. And I legitimately hope that I can count you in that number.” Sitting next to Kani, he continued, “I do have a few things I can offer. We have trading connections with the Commonwealth. Both of us know that, so there's no reason to keep them secret, I think. I'd be willing to offer you safe passage back to Khiva Station.”
Raising an eyebrow, Kani said, “What makes you think I'd be safe when I got there?”
“Then the Commonwealth isn't working with you. Interesting. You're rebelled against your own people to join the fight. Courageous of you, if ultimately misguided. You realize, I hope, that you almost started a war?”
“I rather thought I was fighting in one already.”
“True, but I meant between the Federation and the Commonwealth. Oh, I know that we've been in an undeclared conflict for decades, but there was serious talk of launching a full-scale expedition. The Fleet could take your worlds...”
“Go ahead,” Kani replied. “The Rebellion could certainly use the distraction.”
“They're your people. You swore an oath of allegiance to them. Doesn't that mean anything to you? Anything at all?”
“It means more to me than a man like you could possibly know, and that's why I'm here. There are, what, fifty thousand slaves on Hyperborea...”
“Indentured workers. And that policy began under the Oligarchy. Your Commonwealth.”
“A policy vastly expanded by the supposedly freedom-loving Federation. I'm not here to talk about history.” Gesturing at the door, he added, “You think any of those workers would fight for you? Sooner or later, they're going to rise up and push you and your kind out of power. I'm going to do everything in my power to make that day dawn as rapidly as possible.”
“I would point out that your options in that regard are extremely limited at the moment. As it stands, you aren't going anywhere, and you aren't going to free anyone.” He paused, then said, “Let's talk about Major Cordova.”
“She died a hero.”
“She was spotted here, on Hyperborea, shortly after your arrival. And is currently loose on the surface of the planet.” Folding his hands together, he added, “Let's cut to the chase. I offer you freedom, and a ticket back to the Commonwealth. Or to the Halo Stars, if you'd prefer. We've got contacts out there as well. Your call. In exchange, I want complete details of the plans of Major Cordova...”
“The dead don't tend to plot. As far as I know, she's dead.”
He paused, then said, “I actually think I believe you. It makes sense that an operative who might be captured wouldn't be briefed on the plans of those still in the field. Very well, I'll restrict my request to one simple question. What is Edward Curtis planning?”
“He's going to form a musical dance troupe. Swan Lake his way to power.”
Taking a deep breath, Petrov replied, “Squadron Leader...Win...I can only protect you for a little while. I am not the master of my own destiny. Only your status as a Commonwealth officer has protected you thus far, but unless you are more responsive, I'm not going to be able to stop my colleagues from having their sport with you. Their techniques are brutal, savage. And effective. Ultimately, you're going to talk, one way or another. Wouldn't it be better to survive the process?”
“Squadron Leader Winston Kani. Wing Commander, Starcruiser Polaris. I don't think we've got around to serial numbers yet, but if you need one for your records, I suppose I can come up with something for the occasion.” He looked up at Petrov, and said, “The first day I put on my uniform, I knew that it might mean that I was called upon to sacrifice my life. If I buy my people a few minutes more, just a few minutes, then it's worth it.”
Shaking his head, Petrov replied, “I really can't talk you out of this, can I? You don't have to die here, and your war doesn't have to end. I'm realistic enough to know that as soon as you leave this planet, you'll find a way to rejoin the rebellion.”
“Meaning that you'll almost certainly kill me, should I be naive enough to co-operate with you. Not exactly a tempting prospect, Micky.”
“I keep my word when I give it. You can be sure of that. It's foolish not to in this business. If your word is worthless, nobody in their right mind will make a deal with you. And I'm a very good deal-maker, Win. One of the best. That's why I'm out here. You see, I think you and your people are playing some sort of bluff. That right now, your Fleet is assembling for an attack, and you're trying to buy some time by confusing us. You're stalling, hoping that when you do admit what you are planning, we'll accept it.” Glancing at the door, he added, “It won't work. Not with the drugs we have access to. You'll tell the whole truth as you know it, answer any question we put to you, and your deception play ends here.”
“Why do you even care?” Kani asked.
“Because I still have some of my soul left, Squadron Leader, and I'd like to hold onto it if I can. I'm a loyal Federation officer, but that doesn't mean I don't have a heart.”
“Funny,” he replied. “I always considered that something of an oxymoron. Though perhaps you aren't the first ColSec administrator I've met who thinks that way.” Looking up at him, he said, “Let's turn this around. Help me get out of here. Join the rebellion. I'd bet there's a little shining gleam in the dark abyss of your conscience that tells you that it is the right thing to do, even if you'd never admit it. I'm sure you know a way to the starport.”
With a sigh, Petrov said, “You aren't going to talk, are you. A shame.” He turned to the door, and Jack Pierce limped into the room, his leg swathed in bandages. “This is one of our best interrogators, though he's been moonlighting as an undercover operative for a while. And I'm afraid he has little reason to love your Major Cordova, or your rebellion generally.”
“She left me to die in a snowstorm,” Pierce said. “I'm going to take great pleasure in her interrogation at some point in the very near future.” Turning to Petrov, he asked, “Is everything ready at the Bar and Grill?”
“It's a waste of time,” Petrov replied. “But yes.”
“Capturing traitors...”
“Do you honestly think that they'd just blurt out where they were going?” he replied. “You've spent too much time talking to people under chemical control. It was a bluff, and a pretty obvious one. Nevertheless, I have dispatched a field team to put the area under surveillance.”
Pulling out a black case, Pierce said, “Shall we get on with this, then? We've wasted enough time.” Clicking it open, he withdrew a hypodermic spray, holding it up in the air. “This should have him singing like a canary in a matter of minutes.”
Clutching his wrist, Petrov replied, “Nothing permanent unless you genuinely have no choice. Or you'll be going back into the indent barracks for real this time.” Looking at Kani, he continued, “He's still a Commonwealth officer. The Political Directorate have expressed interest in trading him for some of our people, but nobody's going to give a damn about a zombie.”
“He had the choice to cooperate. We've wasted enough time. Sir. Let me do my job.”
“Last chance, Squadron Leader,” Petrov said. Reading the look on Kani's face, he said, “Go ahead, Pierce. Let's get this miserable business over with.” He pulled out a recorder, laying it on the table and switching it on with the touch of a button, while Pierce ripped off the sleeve of Kani's flight suit, exposing his bare skin to the cold.
“I'd say this won't hurt a bit,” Pierce said, “but we went to a lot of trouble to ensure that it will.” He slammed the spray into position, and with a faint hiss, injected the serum into Kani's bloodstream. Instantly, the pilot felt as though his arm was on fire, every nerve ending firing at once to send waves of agony running through his system, tears flowing freely from his eyes. The drug rapidly spread throughout his body, and he collapsed to the floor, spasms wracking his form as he struggled to retain control, to retain consciousness, to hold on long enough to beat the serum.
“Too much,” Petrov said. “You're going to kill him.”
“No,” Pierce replied. “Look at his eyes. He's through the worst of it. I guess his heart was strong enough, after all.” Turning to Petrov, he added, “I had a crash cart standing by, just in case. Adds to the effect, sometimes. Always best to make this people realize that they're not immortal.”
“Neither are you,” Petrov said, darkly. Looking down at Kani, he continued, “Squadron Leader, can you hear me? Can you understand me?”
“Go to Hell,” Kani spat.
“Lie to me, Squadron Leader,” Pierce barked. “What color is your hair?”
“Bl…,” Kani began, but the words wouldn't come to his mouth. “Purple! Purple!”
A smile cracked across Pierce's face, and he said, “Now we can talk a little more sensibly, can't we, Squadron Leader.” Looking at Petrov, he continued, “We could have reached this point an hour ago, but the humanitarians must occasionally get their way, I suppose.” Glaring back at Kani, he asked, “What are the plans of the rebel fleet?”
“No!” Kani yelled. “No!”
“You will talk, Squadron Leader,” Pierce said, his voice a dull monotone. “What is Edward Curtis planning? Where is he going to attack? Tell me, Squadron Leader, and I will make all the pain go away. You want to tell me. You need to tell me. Now.”
“No!” he screamed, another wave of pain surging over him. He tried to hold back, tried to resist, but it was impossible. He couldn't fight the serum any more. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to talk, and Pierce continued to drone on, asking the same question again and again, while Petrov looked implacably on.”
“Hyperborea!” Kani yelled. “They're coming back! In full force, to free the slaves!”
“When?” Pierce pressed. “When?”
“Day 122, Hour 20. I don't know down to the minute. But that's when they're coming.” The tears flowed once again, the pilot clenching into fetal position. Pierce looked up triumphantly at Petrov, snatching the recorder from the desk.
“Thank you, Squadron Leader,” Pierce said. “That's all I wanted to know. Now I can make sure we arrange a suitable reception for them. You'll have lots of company in your cell soon. Coming, Petrov?”
“I think you can have the glory, Pierce,” Petrov replied, his voice laced with sarcasm.
“Suit yourself,” Pierce said, striding out of the room, while Petrov dropped to the ground, holding the weeping Kani. “It'll be alright, Squadron Leader. It's going to be alright.”
Chapter 6
Commander Michael Curtis lay on his bunk, trying and failing to relax. His ship, the Starcruiser Canopus, had been orbiting Sinaloa Station for three weeks now, while Polaris took the lead in a series of hit-and-run operations to hold the Federation Fleet off-balance. He'd agreed to the strategy when his father had first suggested it, accepting the logic that Canopus was the more capable ship, and therefore the one they could least afford to risk, but that didn't make waiting around any less palatable.
At least they were making progress. New recruits had arrived, small clumps of officers opting to switch sides, mostly the frontier fighter squadrons. The Federation had exiled their best to the distant outposts on the rim, letting their careers languish in favor of the political elite and their lackeys. Now they were reaping the results of that policy, and the rebellion was far stronger for it. Canopus was overloaded with four squadrons, its hangar deck densely packed, and Sinaloa was defended by two squadrons of its own.
He flicked through the latest set of intelligence reports, more good news on every page. Rebel groups were openly operating on almost every colony world, and riots were becoming hourly occurrences on Earth itself, the population on the verge of total revolt. The Battle of Coronado had been a tremendous victory, and one that the Federation had been unable to conceal. Too many ships lost, too many crewmen killed. That had given the rebellious factions something to hope for. One more major victory would push them over the top.
“Commander?” his communicator squawked. “Polaris just jumped into the system, sir. Commander Curtis…,” the technician paused, and continued, “I mean...”
“My father, Spaceman,” Mike said with a smile. “I get it.”
“He's on his way over here, sir. Requests a senior command conference at once. And he wanted to tell you that Phase One had been completed successfully.”
Nodding, Mike replied, “Have Commander Duval and Lieutenants Hammond, Schmidt and Petrova report to the briefing room on the double. Inform Lieutenant Kenyon that she has the deck for the present.” He paused, then added, “You'd better contact Major Morgan, as well. I think he's on Sinaloa Station right now.”
“He's already on his way, sir,” the technician replied. “Polaris must have contacted him.”
“Very well. Thank you, Spaceman.” He flicked off the communicator, rose to his feet, and reached for his uniform jacket, lying on the bed. He looked at it for a moment, then slid it over his shoulders, tugging it into position as he stepped out into the corridor, walking towards the waiting elevator. Three weeks of inactivity, and now the action was about to begin.
“Wait a minute,” a soft voice said, and he turned to see Lieutenant Petrova, his political officer, running towards him. He held his hand at the threshold of the door long enough to allow her to slide into the elevator, then tapped the control for the briefing room. “Sorry, Commander.”
“Not a problem,” he said with a smile. “Caught me by surprise as well.”
“You seen the latest reports?” she replied. “Apparently a Federation cruiser has rebelled. It's all over the networks. Broke out of formation at Caledonia and raced for the threshold before anyone could stop them.” Plucking a datapad out of her pocket, she continued, “Auxiliary Cruiser Castro. Bit of a shock that they've already got some ready.”
Grimacing, Mike replied, “It was always likely, I'm afraid. There are usually a few transports under repair. If they're half-stripped down already, they'd have an easier job for the conversion.” He paused, then asked, “Any other details? Personnel, capability?”
“Just the name of her Captain. Commander William Ortiz.” Mike's expression fell, and she asked, “That a problem? You know him?”
“He was my roommate at the Academy. And the best man at my wedding.” He sighed, and added, “No, it won't be a problem. He's a good man.”
“I didn't know you are married. It's not in your file.”
“I'm not.” He looked at her, and said, “Mind if we change the subject?”
She glared back at him, and replied, “For the moment. I've completed the latest set of reliability checks.” At his grimace, she continued, “I don't know what else to call them. In any case, I haven't found any sleeper agents in the latest batch of recruits, though I'd still recommend keeping them to Sinaloa for the moment. Just to be on the safe side.”
“Fine,” Mike replied. “I don't think we could fit any more on Canopus anyway, though Polaris might want to add a fourth squadron.” The doors slid open, and the two of them walked down the corridor. “How are you doing with this? Changing sides?”
She paused, then replied, “That's not how I think of it. I haven't changed. The Federation did. It just took me a long time to realize it.” She frowned, then said, “My father was the same way. He's a ColSec administrator. Out on the frontier, because he believed in things like rights for detainees, due process, that sort of thing. I haven't seen him for a while.” She sighed, then added, “I followed my mother into the Political Directorate. Lots of arguments there.”
Mike smiled, and replied, “I take it she has a different philosophy.”
“You'd be right about that. It's a minor miracle they're still together, though being on different planets probably helps a bit. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Mike's face fell, and she said, “Did I say something wrong?”
“Bad memories. Forget about it.” They walked into the briefing room, the rest of the Canopus contingent already there, snapping to attention at his approach. He returned the salute, then took his seat at the head of the table, Petrova taking the chair to his right, Schmidt that to his left. Nominally, Hammond was acting as his Executive Officer, but that was simply to allow Schmidt to remain at Tactical for want of a good enough replacement. In every way that counted, she was his second-in-command.
He glanced at her for a moment, shaking his head. When they'd first met, they'd been enemies, rivals for the same command, he'd thought. Until he'd learned that she was a rebel operative, that she'd been working against him the whole time. Now that he'd switched sides to follow his father, she'd transformed into his most loyal officer, a change that had caught them both by surprise. He looked up as Major Morgan walked into the room, the rebel soldier somehow managing to look smart in urban camo, dropping into a chair at the middle of the table.
“Commander,” Morgan said, with a nod.
“Major,” he replied. “How are your Marines coming along?”
“Slowly and painfully, but I can throw a company into the mix when you want it. Four slightly shrunk platoons, but it'll do for our purposes. Assuming we've got some action coming up.”
“We do,” Curtis said, Mike's father walking into the room with Saxon and Rojek behind him. “And when I tell you what we're planning, Major, I expect you'll be missing the happy days of training simulations.” Turning to Mike, he said, “You've got a good force assembled, Commander.”
“All ready and willing for action,” he replied.
“I hope so.” Curtis sat down at the far end of the table, and said, “I'm going to have to be quick. Polaris will be jumping out of the system in about an hour from now.” Looking around the room, he added, “We're going back to Hyperborea, ladies and gentlemen, and this time we're there to stay. The first assault was a total success. Three squadrons shattered, probably beyond repair, and one auxiliary cruiser destroyed.”
“More of them?” Petrova asked. “We knew about Castro, but...”
“At least three, then,” Saxon replied. “Probably more. We've got full tactical specifications for you. Our guess is that they were preparing them before the rebellion started, but we've got no idea as to why.”
“That's the first I've heard of it,” Petrova replied, looking anxiously at Mike. “They must have kept it really deep and dark.”
“Won't they be expecting an attack at Hyperborea?” Schmidt asked. “Given that...”
“I hope so, Lieutenant. That's the entire goal of the operation.” With a smile, he said, “My intention, people, is to force the Federation Fleet into battle at a time and place of our choosing.” All eyes were locked on him as he continued, “Admiral Yoshida is doubtless preparing his forces for an attack. Sooner or later, he'll come here, to Sinaloa Station, with sufficient force to overwhelm our defenses. That's certain. I'm going to move faster, before he is ready.”
Frowning, Morgan replied, “Surely hit and run raids, to keep them off-balance...”
“That will delay the inevitable, Major, but it won't win us the war. Let me say this quite clearly. If this war lasts more than a few months, we lose. Already the Federation has managed to add additional ships to their Fleet. They have immeasurably greater shipbuilding capacity than we do. In twelve months, they could have a couple of dozen auxiliary cruisers. In twenty-four, new Starcruisers. We lose. It's as simple as that. We have to break the Fleet, and we have to do it quickly, regardless of the risk. That's why I drew the enemy forces into battle. They won't pass up a chance to take us down.”
Mike's eyes widened, and he added, “Even if Castro joins us...”
“Three ships. Eight squadrons, maybe nine or ten. And we'll have surprise on our side, as well as a few other tricks.” Reaching for the desk controls, he brought up a strategic view, and continued, “I've had a lead on some additional forces that we might be able to bring into the battle. Polaris will be departing in an effort to recruit them. In the meanwhile, Canopus will remain here, at Sinaloa, and gather as many rebel forces from the Federation as possible. You'll be in command, Mike. I don't care how you do it, but I need the strongest task force you can muster.”
Nodding, he replied, “What sort of time-frame are we looking at?”
“We're launching the attack in seventy-two hours, forty-one minutes from now.” He raised a hand to forestall protest, and said, “The decision is mine, and is made. Our expectations are that we're going to face a force of at least six capital ships, likely under the command of Commodore McGuire. I believe you know the man rather well, Mike.”
“If he's in command, I can probably take him down with a single squadron,” Mike replied. “We can't get that sort of luck. Yoshida-san will come himself.”
“All the better. We're going to have the beat the best they've got at some point. Let it be now,” Saxon said. “And with a little luck, they'll be having some trouble on the surface as well. I've got a few friends down there, and they're unleashing all the hell they can. You'd be surprised how many ColSec people are switching sides.”
“Rats deserting the sinking ship,” Morgan said.
“Not at all,” she replied. “We know where the Federation's going, and most of us don't like it very much. You don't have a monopoly on morality.”
“Anyway,” Curtis interrupted. “Mike, you'll attack at Zero Hour. With an approach vector to bring you in by the innermost moon. That should give you a few options for your attack. Polaris and whatever forces we've gathered will come in at Zero Plus Four, coming in towards the North Pole. That should throw off their response, with a little luck, and still allow our forces tactical integration. Mike, as the first on the scene, I'll leave organizing that to you.”
“What about my forces, Commander?” Morgan asked.
“With a little luck, they'll be supporting the revolt on Hyperborea when we arrive,” Saxon said. “That's the intention, anyway. You'll remain on Canopus for the moment.”
Shaking her head, Schmidt replied, “That's a lot of eggs in one basket, Major.”
“If we had more baskets, we'd use them,” Curtis said. “We don't. Any other comments?”
“What are our options for retreat?” Petrova asked.
“None,” Curtis said. Locking eyes with her, he continued, “This is it, people. This is the battle that will win or lose us the war. If we wait any longer, we lose our momentum. A big victory here, at Hyperborea, will send a cascade of revolts across the colonies, and cripple the Federation Fleet. We've got one chance to make this work, and we're going to take it.”
“Or die trying,” Schmidt said, gloomily.
“I think that's implied, Lieutenant,” Curtis replied. “We're better than them. Better pilots, better crews, better ships. Now we get to prove it. Dismissed.”
Chapter 7
The buggy bounced precariously across the terrain, throwing the passengers around the cabin, the ground radar images projected onto the viewscreen providing their only view of the outside world through the blizzard raging all around them. For a while, Cordova had been concerned that they were being followed, that all of this was some sort of ColSec trap, but it had rapidly become obvious that there was little danger of interception while the weather was this bad. Their progress had slowed to a crawl as Norris inched her way across the landscape to their destination, picking her way through the trees.
“About half a mile to go,” the driver said, turning to Cordova. “I still think you shouldn't have left Pierce behind. For all you know...”
“The man was a maggot,” Logan replied. “I'm not going to shed a tear for him, and neither should you. Odds are that he would have turned us in, anyway. He smelled like a traitor. Stank of it. They've got them all through the barracks, just in case we actually manage to try something.” Her smile gleamed, and she replied, “We are trying something, right?”
“That partly depends on what we find at the Bar and Grill, but we're going to unleash as much hell as we can, yeah.” Turning to the woman sitting in the back seat, Cordova added, “You realize that the odds of coming through this in one piece...”
“Just as long as I take some of those bastards with me. That's all I'm asking.”
“Signal up ahead,” Norris said. “Contact approaching.” She frowned, then added, “There's another one, in the distance. I think. Out at extreme range, north-north-west. Comes and goes.” Shaking her head, she continued, “The storm's playing merry hell with the sensor systems. It could easily just be a ghost image. At three miles distance, I don't think it matters much anyway. They'd be lucky to get here in an hour.”
“If ColSec is monitoring us, we should take the first step. Take the fight to them.”
Shaking her head, Cordova replied, “If we've seen them, so has whoever we're trying to contact. Security's probably been watching us since the beginning. We're just going to have to move faster and smarter, that's all. Which is nothing new. What about the vehicle up ahead?”
Squinting at the display, Norris said, “Civilian half-track, no registration, older design, but good and rugged. Probably a hell of a lot faster than we are in this terrain. And they'll be on us in a few minutes. I hope they're friendly.”
“And if they aren't?” Logan replied. “What difference does it make. We don't have a single weapon between us.” She cracked a smile, and added, “We'll still give them a fight they'll never forget if it comes to it.”
“Let's hope that it doesn't,” Cordova said. “We need friends out here.” She paused, then reached for the door, saying, “I'm going out to meet them. Alone. If you don't hear from me in the next ten minutes, turn and head into the storm. You'll still have a chance of getting away with the weather to cover you.”
“Don't you trust us?” Norris asked.
“I don't trust them,” Cordova said, cracking the hatch. “Close this door behind me, and don't do anything stupid. That's my job.” She slid into the bitter cold, shivering the instant the freezing air hit her, wrapping her too-thin coat around her as she staggered towards the approaching half-track. The snow smothered the landscape, settling quickly on her shoulders, and every step was an effort as she lurched towards the twin lights of the unknown vehicle.
Knowing it was futile, she glanced to the north, trying to spot the other truck in the distance. ColSec weren't usually this subtle. Under normal circumstances, she'd have expected them to simply launch an attack, even in this weather. Waiting and watching required far more patience than they generally exhibited, a weakness they'd exploited time and again in the past.
She walked on through the snow, the half-track coming to a shuddering halt ahead of her, the engine still rumbling away. A door swung open, and she could see a figure waving her onwards, rifle in hand. If this was a trap, it was the strangest one she'd ever known, and by the time she reached the vehicle, she was beyond the point of caring. As long as it was warm, that would suffice.
“Good morning!” a cheerful voice said, as a hairy hand reached down to pull her into the warm cabin. “You Major Cordova?”
She climbed gratefully in from the cold, and was greeted by a tall, stocky giant of a man lounging in the driver's seat, a battered baseball cap perched on his balding head, advertising that he was a fan of the Martian Manhunters. He reached down to the side, pulling out a steaming cup of coffee, and passed it to her with a smile.
“You've got me at a disadvantage,” she replied.
“Jake Harland. Until a few hours ago, I ran Harland's Bar and Grill. And the local branch of the Democratic Underground. I've heard a lot about you. Nice to finally put a voice to a face. Any more of you in the buggy?”
“Two others.”
“I'll drive over and we can pick them up. Thought you might run into ColSec?”
“I'd be lying if I said it hadn't crossed my mind.”
Throwing the engine into gear, he replied, “You might have. Got a few of them on the side of the angels. More now than before.” As the half-track started to move towards the buggy, he added, “You'd be surprised what happens when people get a sniff of freedom for the first time. Used to be nice out here, outside the city. Nobody ever bothered us much. Lately it's got worse. A lot worse.” Gesturing at the rear of the cabin, a poorly-concealed rifle rack hanging from the roof, he added, “Meaning that we're going to have to start dealing with it.”
“How much do you know?” she asked.
“Probably more than you,” he chuckled. “And that isn't much. All I know is that one of my ColSec contacts told me that you were coming, and that he was going to arrange an opportunity for you to escape. I spotted your buggy on radar a couple of hours ago. You've had good timing, by the way. Those snoops out at long-range won't see anything other than a blur.”
“You saw them?”
With a shrug, he said, “Nothing they can do to us. Assuming they aren't on our side. My friend's arranged for fake surveillance in the past a few times.” He paused, then asked, “Is it true that the Fleet's coming?”
Cordova looked into the snow for a moment, and replied, “I can give you an opinion, an educated guess. I don't know anything more than you do.”
“I'll take what I can get.”
Taking a sip of coffee, she said, “I've been placed here as a sleeper agent. Major Saxon wouldn't have done that unless there was some good reason, and this is the first opportunity I've had to get away. I think I'm here to raise enough chaos on the surface that the Fleet has a chance to knock out the orbital defenses and liberate the planet.”
“I like the way you think, Major,” Harland replied. “I like it a lot.”
“No guarantees, though. I can't offer any promises. I'm not in a position to deliver. That's just my guess, and I intend to operate on the assumption that it's correct. What do I have to work with down here?”
“We're talking about mobilizing everyone, putting a little army into the field to smash the grins off the faces of those bastards in the city, right,” he mused. “Say thirty, thirty-five, but most of them won't be as willing to put their necks on the line unless they know they've got a real chance. Hell, I'll take the risk, but not all of them will. You're going to need a way to convince them, something big.” A frown crossed his face, and he said, “No way we can contact your Fleet. Not a chance. So we'll have to do something down here.” Pulling up opposite the buggy, he said, “Go get your friends. I'll remote-link that rattletrap of yours to head off into the wilderness by itself. Give those snoopers out there something to do for a while.”
She nodded, reluctantly cracking open the door and gesturing for the others to come in. Norris eagerly raced from buggy to half-track, Logan taking longer, suspicious at every shadow, finally climbing into the cabin with an anxious scowl at Harland. Abruptly, the buggy's engine started, the vehicle stuttering into the deep forest to the south, tires kicking snow all around.
“Ready?” Harland asked.
“Where are we going?” Logan replied, looking suspiciously at him.
“I've had an idea, but I don't think you're going to like it,” he said.
Cordova glanced at Logan, and said, “Get it over with.”
“We need to do something big. Something that will rally all the rebels on this planet. That, and we've got to get in touch with all of them at once, and we don't have the sort of communications network to make that possible without taking extraordinary levels of risk. We haven't got time to do this the hard way.” He looked at Cordova, and said, “If you're right about an attack, we have to assume that it is imminent. My contact must know more than he's told us, but right now, we don't need to know the details.”
“Who says?” Logan replied.
“I do,” Cordova said. “If we get captured, the less we know, the less we can admit. Right now we don't know a damned thing.” Turning to Harland, she asked, “What are you suggesting?”
“A Carnation,” he replied. “It's the best thing I can think of, and it'll be a hell of a spectacle.”
“What the hell does a flower have to do with anything?” Norris asked.
“Back during the second half of the twentieth century,” Cordova replied, “a group of democratic insurgents in a country called Portugal overthrew the dictatorship that had ruled the country for half a century and more. They organized their revolt to begin during a popular event, broadcast all across the national communications networks. In effect, they had the government pull the trigger for them.” Turning to Harland, she added, “Is anything coming up that we can take advantage of? Some sports championship, a concert, something like that?”
“Actually, I was thinking of modifying the plan a little. We're going to need to put on our own show.” Gesturing into the gloom, he added, “The city and some of the frontier towns are connected by the old monorail. I know a substation, maybe ten miles away, and the local station operator is one of us. He'll sneak us into the next freight train, and they run every few hours, even when the weather is as bad as it is today. That'll get us all the way into the city by nightfall, and we'll be getting close to prime-time. Not like there's much else to do at night, and there's only a single channel, state-run. Everyone will be watching, either at home or in one bar or another.”
“Wait a minute,” Logan said. “Are you suggesting...”
“We're going to infiltrate the station, break into the recording, and Major Cordova's going to come back from the dead and give a nice speech to the local population, calling them to revolt. There are enough old hunting weapons out there that we can give ColSec a real fight, especially if the administration has bigger problems up in orbit.” He looked at Cordova, his eyes falling for a moment, and he said, “Though once we do this, we're committed. Not just us, but everyone on the planet. There'll be no way out. Freedom or death. You understand?”
“That's the choice that all of us are making right now,” she replied. “The Fleet will come. You can bet your life on it.”
“Funny,” Norris said. “That's exactly what we are doing, Major. Are you sure about this?”
“No, but we haven't got time to wait for confirmation,” she replied. “We're going to go ahead, all the way. We don't have a choice.”
“And if you're wrong,” Norris replied, “A lot of people are going to die, and the resistance on Hyperborea will be wiped out. As well as a lot of political prisoners and indentured workers, as well. You and I both know that there are people out there who would massacre them on general principles, just to be on the safe side.” At Logan's glare, she added, “Don't get me wrong, I'm in favor of this. I just want to be absolutely clear what is at stake.”
“We all know what is at stake,” Logan said. “And the people enslaved in those labor camps aren't exactly living now. Just existing. They deserve a chance for real freedom, and we're going to find a way to give it to them. No matter what it takes. I'd rather die than live in that hell another day.”
Nodding, Cordova said, “We're going ahead. She's right. We've got everything to gain. In a few days from now, this planet can be free, all the slaves liberated. I'd say that's worth the risk.” Cracking a smile, she added, “All I've got to do now is work out what the hell I'm going to say.”
Chapter 8
Curtis walked the decks of Canopus, so similar in so many ways to his own Polaris, the few differences stark reminders of the period that his ship had spent in essential stasis. Just as he had, in his own way, back on Titan. Two decades in a drugged stupor, waiting until the time was right for him to rise again and retake his ship, his life. He still hated Cordova for what she'd done to him, what she'd cost him.
And yet, it had worked. The crewmen who paused at his approach, snapping parade-ground salutes, were testament to that, at least. They'd switched sides to follow him in rebellion against the Federation, a rebellion that he believed grew more urgent with each passing day. He knew the odds against victory in the battle they were facing, far greater than anything he would normally have countenanced, but there didn't seem to be a choice. They had to fight, and they had to win. That was all there was to it.
As he stepped into the vast hangar deck, his transit shuttle waiting for him near the launch tube, his son walked towards him, a distorted mirror of his own past, so similar and yet so different. Both of them had been scarred by their trip through life, and both did everything they could to conceal them, even from themselves. A burst of pride ran through him, once again. His son a full Commander, a year younger than he'd made, and as fine a ship driver as any he had ever met.
“Commander,” his son said, gesturing at the shuttle. “Your chariot awaits, and traffic control has cleared you all the way to Polaris. I understand Lieutenant Hudson has already completed preparations for your departure. They're good to go as soon as you get back on board.”
“You trying to get rid of me, son?” he said, with a faint smile. “Your old man cramping your style?”
Shaking his head, Mike replied, “Hell, no.” He glanced at the shuttle, then said, “We haven't had time to get together since all this began. I...”
Clapping his hand on his son's shoulder, Curtis said, “I know. We'll have the time, as soon as all of this is over. Once we've smashed them at Hyperborea, we'll have to catch our breath for a while. Hopefully we'll get a chance then.” Raising an eyebrow, he asked, “No concerns, no questions, no fears?”
“No,” his son replied. “So far we've accomplished everything we've set out to do. I have faith. Faith in your plan, our skills, our people. They're the best of the best, and they've earned victory. All we've got to do is give it to them.” He paused, then said, “Though I'd rather we were going into battle together. How many ships do you think you can bring in?”
“I don't know, and I can't tell you where I'm going. I made a promise, and I mean to keep it. You'll understand as soon as we arrive.” Looking at the shuttle, he glanced at his watch, then said, “I suppose I'd better start thinking about making tracks, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Mike replied. “I suppose so.” He cracked a smile, and said, “I'll see you in a little over seventy-two hours, then. Castro signaled, a few minutes ago. They're on their way. That'll help. We might get a few more ships like that coming in.” He looked down at the deck, then said, “Damn it, Dad, I...”
“Easy, son. Easy. I know how you feel. I feel exactly the same. But we've got a job to do.”
“I know,” he said. “Just make sure you don't get lost again, you hear? I'm going to need you to pull of one of your miracles if we're going to beat Yoshida. That bastard still owes me money from the last time we played poker, and I want some real muscle with me when I collect.”
“Still running back to the old man for help, huh?” Curtis replied. “I'll be there, son. Count on it. And with any luck at all, I'll be bringing some friends along for the ride.” He reached around his son, wrapping him in a bear hug, then clapped him on the back and walked towards the shuttle, not trusting himself to look back. He'd only just found his son after twenty years, and now he had to leave it again. On a mission where there was a very real chance that one of them wouldn't make it back. All across the deck, as he stepped into the shuttle, the crew stood to attention.
“Fleet Commander, departing,” Mike said.
Curtis turned, snapped a salute, the stepped back onto the shuttle, the door closing shut as the elevator airlock engaged, taking him back to his ship. Back to the only place in the galaxy that felt even close to home. He sat down in the nearest couch, the only passenger on board, and glanced across at the slowly rotation station behind them. They'd be leaving behind sufficient strength to defend Sinaloa Station against a light attack, a single capital ship, but any serious opposition would overwhelm it. A part of him wanted to leave greater strength behind, protect the people who had entrusted their lives to him, but he knew that would be a mistake.
A glance at the intelligence analysis suggested that the Federation had already made it. Their forces were scattered far and wide, single ships ready to repel attacks. Admittedly, he'd done his best to put them on the defensive with a series of hit and run raids, with the capture of Sinaloa Station itself, but that didn't excuse the mistake. Yoshida was smarter than that, but he wasn't the master of his own destiny, and his political masters had doubtless ordered him to protect their own interests before that of the Federation. Another reason to beat them, another weakness to exploit.
He looked out of the side window at Polaris, running his eyes over the familiar lines of his ship as he approached, a smile curving on his face. A swarm of fighters flashed past, one of the newly arrived defense squadrons completing training exercises, preparing for a battle they prayed would never come. That so many of his comrades in the Fleet still felt as he did filled him with hope. There were political creatures everywhere, but that was the name of the game. Even so, hundreds, thousands of them had taken the chance to join the right side, to fight for freedom, to follow the spirit of the oaths they all swore. To defend the people of the Federation, from all enemies internal and external.
And the Federation itself had become the greatest enemy he could imagine, one that would condemn all humanity to eternal slavery unless he could stop them. Already millions of people lived under the control of chemical suppressants, just as he had done on Titan for so long. It was only a matter of time before that was extended to the entire population, an army of drones marching to the beat of the same drum. Orwell's nightmare made real, two centuries later than he had predicted.
Unless he could stop them. He and the rest of the rebellion, a handful of people who still remembered what freedom was, what it meant. It had all fallen away so quickly, but there was still a chance, a fighting chance to win, and he was going to take it.
The shuttle drifted into position, close to the bridge, ready to transfer him through the emergency airlock. A light flashed on his watch, seventy-two hours exactly remaining until he was scheduled to return to Hyperborea. One appointment he had no intention of missing, no matter what else might happen. With a loud report, the two airlocks mated, and the pilot turned from his seat, a smile on his face.
“Docking successful, sir. Complements of Sinaloa Station Shuttle Services.”
“Thanks for the ride, Spaceman,” Curtis replied, making his way to the hatch.
“Any time, sir. Good hunting!”
He walked back onto his ship, the airlock slamming shut behind him as the pilot made his way back to the station. Tugging at his uniform jacket, a smile on his face, he walked down the short corridor to the bridge, the door sliding open at his approach. Hudson had been sitting in the command chair, but was already rising at his approach.
“I yield the conn, Commander.”
“I take the conn, Lieutenant,” he replied. The elevator next to him opened, and Flight Lieutenant Voronova stepped out, snapping to attention. “Take the helm, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, sir,” the fighter pilot replied, moving to replace Norton at Guidance Control. The erstwhile helmsman yielded the console with a frown, but Curtis made to silence her protest with an upraised hand.
“It's just for the jump to warp,” he said. “This time I need Voronova to handle it.”
“Course computed,” Voronova reported. “Ready to proceed to the threshold at your discretion, Commander.”
“By all means, Lieutenant, let's get this show on the road.”
“Aye, sir,” she replied, bringing Polaris' engines to full power, the hull shuddering as she rapidly built up acceleration, guiding the ship towards the gravitational threshold.
“Want to tell us where we're going now?” Saxon asked.
“You don't know either?” Hudson replied. “I assumed...”
Turning to them, Curtis interrupted, “A wise woman once advised me that the best way to keep a secret was to tell nobody about it until you had no other choice.”
With a smile, Saxon said, “I suppose I should be happy that you're taking my advice, but I'd still like to have some clue about our final...” She paused, looked at Voronova, and said, “You crazy son of a bitch.”
“Got it, then? I'm surprised it took you that long.”
“Sorry about that, I haven't been getting much sleep lately.”
As Polaris gathered speed, Rojek turned from his station, and said, “For the benefit of those who haven't….”
“Khiva Station,” Saxon said. “We're going to Khiva Station.”
“The heart of the Commonwealth?” Hudson asked, her eyes wide. “Nobody in the Federation even knows where it is!”
“And it's going to stay that way,” Voronova said. “Under the conditions of the deal I made with the Commander, I handle all the navigation on this trip. All files deleted.” Turning to Saxon, she added, “If you want to try an intrusion hack, you're more than welcome. I could use the practice.”
Shaking her head, Saxon replied, “Not necessary. The information I might get isn't worth the time or effort. Either we'll come to terms with the Commonwealth, in which case it'll be public information soon enough, or we won't, in which case we won't leave the system alive. I presume you realize that is a very real possibility, Commander.”
“One that I think is worth the risk,” he replied, moving to his command chair. “They're sitting on a task force, Major, three ships, dozens of squadrons, bases scattered all over this part of the galaxy. Bringing them into the war at this point would swing the odds in our favor.”
“And if they decide to intervene in their own interests, we'll be in an excellent position to blunt their advance before they can do serious damage to the Federation,” Saxon replied. “Smart.”
Looking at the viewscreen, Hudson said, “One ship, going right into the lion's den? And these are the very people that the Federation was established to overthrow! What makes you think that they'll help us now?”
“That was fifty years ago, Lieutenant,” Voronova replied. “Two generations ago. I've never even seen Earth, and nor have the vast majority of personnel in the Commonwealth Navy. We're anxious for action, and to do something to justify our existence. If the Commonwealth Government won't commit us to the fight, then we might just have to take matters into our own hands.”
With a sigh, Saxon replied, “Would it be possible for us to finish the first civil war we started this year before we engage upon a second one? I'm good at multitasking, but this is getting out of hand.”
“It's a little late to worry about that now,” Curtis replied. “We're committed.”
“Just to get this straight,” Hudson said, “We're jumping into the middle of enemy territory to conduct surprise diplomatic negotiations, and we have to be at Hyperborea to participate in the largest space battle for fifty years in a hair under three days. I can barely begin to contemplate the number of ways this can go disastrously wrong.”
“Me either,” Curtis said, sitting in the command chair. “We're just going to do everything we can to make sure it goes write. Lieutenant, you may engage space warp at your discretion.”
“Aye, Commander,” Voronova said. “Threshold attained. Initiating system egress.”
“Here we go again,” Saxon muttered. “Just what makes you think you can pull this off?”
Looking at Voronova, Curtis smiled, and said, “Maybe I've got an ace in the hole.”
Chapter 9
The half-track stuttered to a stop, coming to rest under the pylons of a towering monorail, shining metal gleaming in the light. The blizzard had mercifully blown itself out, and Cordova looked up at the scattered stars in the sky, a million points of light that seemed to call to her, willing her to join them again. Harland reached under his chair, pulling out a pistol and stuffing it into his pocket, then turned to Cordova and her fellow escapees.
“That's where we're going,” he replied. Glancing at his watch, he added, “The train should be along in a matter of minutes. We'll have to climb.”
“They'll have seen us,” Norris said, bluntly. “We had a real chance while visibility was down to nothing, but their orbital network must be monitoring us by now. There can't be that many vehicles running around out there.” Gesturing at the sensor display, she added, “And that contact is back, out at extreme range.”
“Don't worry,” Harland replied. “I've got a plan. You're going to have to trust me on this one. I know that doesn't come easily, but you'll just have to try.”
“One false move…,” Logan said.
A smile cracked his weather-worn face, and he said, “Relax. I've got this.” Gesturing at the pylon, he said, “I called ahead to my friend. As soon as he gets the signal, he'll stop the train, right here. There's a maintenance hatch underneath one of the carriages. We use it for smuggling, and the security guards at the far end have been paid off. They won't inspect it unless they have a real reason to. So nice and quiet, all the way to town.”
“Got it,” Cordova said.
“You take point, Major. I'll be right on your tail.”
She nodded, wrapped her coat around her, and stepped out onto the crisp snow, shivering once more as the force of cold air hit her. The winds had relaxed from their raging height, but still whistled through the pylons, the remnants of the gale blasting through her too-thin garments. She looked at the ladder, welded to the side of the nearest tower, rising a hundred feet into the sky, and stepped onto the lowest rung.
Carefully, testing her weight at every pace, she began to climb, periodically looking around, expecting to come under attack at any second, to hear the sound of bullets ringing against the metal, snipers attempting to bring her down. Below her, Norris began to follow, Logan a few paces behind, but Harland had returned to the truck, lugging a heavy bag out of the storage compartment. He looked up at her, threw her a wink, and dragged the bag over to the pylon, leaving a heavy trail in the snow.
Cordova froze for a moment as the pylon began to shake, a low rumble in the distance, and looked to the right to see a shining light running down the track, miles distant for the moment but approaching fast. The train that would take them to their destination, speeding towards them. She glanced down at the base of the pylon, then heard another noise in the distance, the motor of a buggy, slamming through the frost-laden trees. ColSec had found them.
“What do we do?” Norris asked.
“Climb,” she replied. “All the way to the top. They won't be able to see us on the tracks.” She looked down at Harland, still working at the base of the pylon, and hissed, “Come on, damn it! We're out of time!”
“Don't wait for me,” Harland replied. Lacking an alternative, Cordova continued to climb, scaling the side of the pylon with greater speed, her previous care and caution dismissed as an unnecessary luxury. The whole track was shaking now at the approach of the train, and she knew that time was running out, crawling hand over hand up the slippery ladder, knowing that there was only one safe haven in this wilderness, one sanctuary to give them a chance of surviving and accomplishing their mission.
Finally, she rolled onto the top, beside the long, slender rail that buzzed with energy, radiating the warmth generated to prevent ice and snow from causing a catastrophe. She could see the train approaching now, a silver cylinder flashing through the night, running lights winking on and off, casting strange shadows across the landscape. Norris rolled onto the platform beside her, then looked down at the base of the pylon.
“What the hell is Harland doing?” she asked.
“I'm going down there,” Logan said, starting to descend.
“No,” Cordova replied. “Get back up here. We've...”
Hate in her eyes, Logan looked up, and said, “He's betraying us. I'm going to stop him. If you're happy to let him sell us out to ColSec, that's your problem. Not mine.” Before Cordova could stop her, she began to slide down the ladder, and Norris shook her head, looking up at the train.
“Do you think he's sold us out?” she asked.
“Don't ask me why, but no, I don't. Though I do think there's something he's not telling us.” She gestured at the tree line, and said, “Company. Two buggies, maybe eight people. Keep down low. With a little luck, they won't spot us up here.”
“They'll stop the train,” Norris said, and Cordova's eyes widened.
“Oh, damn.”
“What?”
“That's his plan. He's going to slow them down long enough to give us a chance to get away, and make it look as though they've taken out everyone.” She peered down at Harland, the old rebel digging into the snow, tangled equipment that might to an untrained eye appear to be an explosive charge wrapped around the pylon. He pulled out the barrel of a machine gun, hastily setting it up to cover the approaching ColSec guards, then glanced up at the approaching Logan, rifle in hand.
A bullet cracked through the air, fired by one of the would-be ambushers, perfectly aimed to catch her in the side. Logan cried out in pain, and her hand slipped from the rung of the ladder, sending her dropping to the ground with an agonizing crack. She looked up, desperation in her eyes as she took her last breath, blood spilled onto the snow. Norris was about to cry out, but Cordova slammed her hand over her mouth, silencing her with a glare.
“She's dead,” she hissed. “All the tears in the galaxy won't bring her back. You want to join her? Go ahead and jump. But you're not taking me with you. We've got work to do.” Harland had finished setting up the machine gun, firing a series of staccato pulses into the gloom to avenge the dead rebel, screaming a war cry as flame and smoke flew from the barrel of the gun.
The train slid smoothly towards them, gliding to a stop, and Cordova ducked down to let it pass over them, feeling the crackle of electricity from the live rail to their side. Norris looked down at the gunfight, watching as Harland sacrificed his life to give them a chance to escape, while Cordova looked for the promised hatch, their escape route from the battle.
As the soft boom of an explosion shattered snow from the trees, a column of smoke rising into the night air, she found what she was looking for, and her tired, cold fingers worked the release mechanism, dropping the hatch free. Without waiting for Norris, she scrambled inside, rolling into the cramped chamber, merciful heat filling the air. As Harland noisily expired with a doleful cry, echoing through the darkness, Norris climbed in after her, tugging the hatch shut behind her.
“You think we were in time?” she asked.
“I don't know,” Cordova replied, pulling out her pistol. “Though if anyone decides to stick their head up through that hatch, I can promise you that they'll regret their curiosity.”
The two survivors lay in silence, the sounds of battle fading beneath them. A solitary gunshot concluded the battle, followed by a desperate, fading cry, and Norris glanced at Cordova in confusion. They'd never know what happened down there. Only that a brave man had given his life for his comrades. That was enough for the history books.
Cordova's spirits sank as she head the unmistakable noise of someone scaling the ladder, boots ringing on the metal, muttered curses from outside. First one, then a second, and they heard footsteps outside, whispered conversations from the two guards searching the exterior of the train. One of them drifted away, but the other grew closer, ever closer, coming up to the hatch. Cordova tightened her hand on the pistol, trying and failing to think of a way to escape. They were trapped, and the best they could hope for was to die in a hail of bullets.
The hatch cracked open, and a familiar figure peered inside, the same guard who had directed them to the buggy, hours before. A smile crossed his face, and he winked at Cordova, peering down to his comrade.
“Nothing out here,” he yelled.
“You sure, Micky?” his partner asked. “I'm sure I saw someone climbing onto the tracks.”
“Probably the one Fernandez shot on her way down. There's nobody here, anyway. Pass the word that the train is clear to proceed.”
“Hey, wait a minute, sir. The regulations...”
“To hell with the regulations. The cargo on this train is perishable, and there's a ship waiting in orbit to send it back to Earth. You want to be the one to explain to Secretary Ramirez why his daughter isn't getting that fur coat she wanted for her birthday? Close it up, and send the signal to the driver to proceed as planned.” With a last glance up at Cordova, he said, “Besides, I've got a hot date in town tonight, and I don't intend to miss it.”
With a faint chuckle, the man outside replied, “Won't your wife be upset at that?”
“You going to tell her?”
“Depends on whether you can sneak me back a bottle of vodka tonight.” There was a brief pause, and he added, “We've cleared the charges from the pylon. Nothing to worry about.”
“Then let's get going before the blizzard comes back.” Petrov dropped back down to the platform, slamming the hatch shut, leaving two confused rebels looking at each other, Cordova fumbling her pistol back into its holster. After a moment, the train began to shudder as it built up speed, rattling along the tracks on its long, twisted path to Ericsson City, the end of the line.
“What the hell happened there?” Norris asked.
“I think we just found Harland's contact,” Cordova replied.
“But he killed him!” Norris yelled. “And Logan!”
Taking a deep breath, Cordova said, “Logan chose her fate as surely as if she'd shot herself with that bullet. Trying to get back down to the surface was suicide. As for Harland, he had to make it convincing. If ColSec knew that someone had driven out to the pylon, they wouldn't have stopped until they'd caught them.” Shaking her head, she continued, “He gave his life to give us a chance.”
Norris' eyes widened, and she replied, “I didn't think it would be this way?”
“What did you think would happen?” Cordova snapped. “This isn't a game. This is a war, and in war, people get hurt, get killed. Sometimes you have to sacrifice someone to win. And we've got to win. There are thousands of people just on this planet depending on us to free them, and for the next hundred years they'll be singing songs about the Last Stand of Jake Harland. He knew that, going in. He'll never be forgotten. Not unless we betray what he died for.” She glared at Norris, and said, “It's a little late for you to bail out now. Don't make any mistake about it. That could be you down there, pretty damned easily. Or me, for that matter. And it would be fine, as long as it got us one step closer to our goal.”
“I don't know how you can be so cold about it. Two people just died, and...”
“And two people lived, and we've got a job to do.” She frowned, then asked, “Harland seemed to think that we'd get there in time for peak broadcasting. That's got to be eighteen hours away. How many stops does this train make?”
“Dozens, I guess. It loads up at every work camp along the route, heading to the spaceport.”
“Then we're probably going to be here until morning.” She looked around the cramped space, and settled into a corner, tugging off her coat and stuffing it into position to serve as a pillow. “We'd better get what rest we can. No point keeping watch. Either we'll make it, or we won't.”
“How can you think about going to sleep after what just happened?”
“Unless you've got a time machine in your pocket, there's nothing we can do about that. All we can do is make sure that they died for something. We've got a long road ahead of us, and we're going to need all our strength to walk it. Sleep, or don't sleep. Your call. I've made mine. Good night.”
Chapter 10
Mike sat in the command chair, watching fighters and cruisers dance all around him as the nightmare of battle unfolded, his squadrons ripping into the enemy forces, facing far greater odds yet still fighting valiantly. They were dying by the dozen, demonstrating greater bravery than he could ever ask, while the Federation forces closed in, sweeping on both flanks to envelop Canopus in a trap. Polaris was gone, a cluster of exploding wreckage far behind them, her commander defeated as three enemy cruisers closed on him, a devastating array of firepower far too great to be countered.
“Get us out of here,” he found himself saying, leaning forward in his chair. “We've lost this game. Full speed to the gravitational threshold.”
“Damage control reports serious damage to the main engines,” Schmidt replied. “Losing power, losing acceleration. We're struggling, Commander, and the enemy flotilla is gaining ground rapidly. They'll be in optimum firing range in less than sixty seconds.”
“Inform Commander Duval...”
“He's dead, sir,” Petrova said, coldly.
“Then find out who the hell is in charge of our supposed fighter escort, Lieutenant, and inform them that they need to spend more time covering our flanks and less time on some sort of personal quest for glory! They'll have to cover our retreat.” Looking to the side, he said, “Castro. Any report from them?”
“Serious damage to their outer armor. They're losing hull integrity, will have to reduce speed,” Schmidt replied. “They've offered to move to our rear, to cover our retreat.”
Grimacing, Mike said, “Accept. Tell Commander Ortiz that he should abandon ship, and that we'll find a way to retrieve his people. Assuming we manage to fight our way out of the system ourselves.” His eyes were locked on the tactical display, and he continued, “And find out what the hell happened to their fighters!”
“All gone, sir. Down to the last man. They died trying to get Polaris out of low orbit.”
Shaking his head, Mike turned to the helm, and said, “Kenyon, more speed!”
“There's nothing left, sir,” she protested. “I'm giving her all the acceleration she can stand. We've suffered too much damage to the superstructure as it is. She'll tear apart if I run any hotter!”
“Newsflash, Lieutenant,” Mike barked. “We're dead if we stay. Take the risk. Maximum power to the engines, and prepare for a best-speed transition to Sinaloa Station. We'll regroup there with anyone that's left. Signal...”
“Castro, sir!” Schmidt said, gesturing at the viewscreen. Mike turned to the display just in time to watch his old friend die in a ball of fire, his ship joining the other mass of debris haunting local orbital space. That left only one significant target for the near-untouched Federation flotilla, four cruisers bearing right towards them, weapons hot. He looked up at the tactical display, trying to will his ship to greater speed, but already a series of red lights were running across the status monitor, the hull buckling as Kenyon forced it beyond safe stresses in a bid to escape.
With an ear-splitting crack, the rear hull failed, the ship tumbling end over end in an uncontrollable spin, crewmen spilling out of the countless hull breaches, blown out into space with the escaping rush of atmosphere. Kenyon desperately tried to retain some sort of a trim, Schmidt firing one last burst of point-defense fire at the approaching salvo of kinetic warheads, but the end was inevitable, and swift.
The lights flickered off on the bridge, and the doleful sound of 'Taps' played over the speakers, the computer ending the battle simulation with the destruction of the last ship in the rebel fleet. Mike sat back in his chair, rubbing his hand on his forehead, while the crew hastily began the process of returning the ship to normal flight operation.
“Well,” Kenyon said, “I guess we've got some idea of how not to do that now, right?”
“I don't think this is an appropriate time for levity, Lieutenant,” Mike replied. He looked around the bridge, and said, “That performance, ladies and gentlemen, was nothing short of pitiful. If that's the best you can muster, we might as well contact Admiral Yoshida and surrender now.” Rising to his feet, he walked over to Kenyon, and said, “Helm control was far too sluggish. You've got to anticipate a lot better than you are, or we're going to get killed.”
“I lost four thrusters on the first wave of the attack, sir,” she protested. “There's only so much I can do with the equipment at my disposal. And the enemy formation shouldn't have been able to hide so effectively behind the moon. That's a simulation error.”
“You really think they won't be able to throw us a few surprises, Lieutenant? We're attacking a prepared, defensive position. That means that we're going to have a lot more to deal with than with a traditional fleet battle. They know the lay of the sky, and they'll have their ships ready to go. Not something we'll readily be able to deal with.” Turning to Schmidt, he added, “Turret co-ordination was lousy. I want those crews drilled and drilled again until they get it right. And Duval's fighters were a bad joke. No cohesion at all.”
“For most of them,” Petrova noted, “it was their first time acting together as a single flight group. It takes time for any group of pilots to get to know each other, get used to working together, and you can't expect them to...”
“All of them are experienced pilots, graduates of Flight School, and they're all flying in their usual squadrons. I can't help but think that our current legal status has some of our people thinking that they don't have to follow the rules any more, but nothing could be further from the truth.” Looking around the room, he added, “I could cite half a dozen uniform violations off the top of my head. We're supposed to be an elite ship, one of the finest in space. Time to act like it.”
“Commander,” Schmidt protested, “the whole purpose of this exercise was to find problems to iron out, defects to repair...”
“Then we have indeed done well, Lieutenant, because we've found far more than I'd ever dared to fear. Get this straight, people. Nothing less than our absolute best is acceptable. We're going into battle, and the fate of billions of lives depends on our success. They're watching and waiting for them, and we are damned well not going to let them down!” Turning to Petrova, he said, “The enforcement of discipline is your ultimate responsibility, Lieutenant, and I want you to go department-to-department and see what you can do. Find the problem cases, and deal with them. I don't care how you do it, but I want every station on the ship at peak efficiency.”
She looked at him, wide-eyed, and replied, “Aye, Commander.”
“We're going to do this again,” he said with a resigned sigh. “And again, and again, until we get this right, even if we spent the next forty-eight hours in non-stop simulated battle. Because if we get ourselves shot up as badly as we did today, we're going to have a lot worse to deal with than some lousy music over the speaker. You're letting both the ship and yourselves down, and I will not have that any longer.” Rubbing his forehead again, he said, “Lieutenant Schmidt, you have the deck. I'm heading down to the hangar to debrief the pilots, and they'd better have a damned good explanation for the debacle I just saw on the screen.” Leaving his stunned staff behind him, he walked into the elevator, tapping a control for the lower deck.
“Sir, may I have a word?” the hitherto-silent Hammond asked.
“By all means, Lieutenant,” he said, holding the door open. “Come along.”
When the door closed, Hammond began, “I know that I don't have much formal military experience, Commander, but with all due respect, you were out of line back there on the bridge.”
“Indeed.”
“You don't berate subordinates in public. Not like that. Especially not in a crisis situation. Lieutenant Schmidt was quite correct. The exercise was intended to find areas of potential improvement, and it did. We've got a list of things to solve for the next time, and you've got some good officers up there. They know what needs to be done, and you're riding them too hard.”
“I'd rather they stayed alive to hate me, Lieutenant.”
“It isn't a question of that, sir. They know that you're under pressure, and...”
Raising an eyebrow, he replied, “I'm glad I have their sympathy, Lieutenant.”
Shaking her head, she said, “That isn't quite what I meant, sir. Only that they understand that you might not be quite yourself right now, but you're going to have to lighten up on them a little. Cracking on the pressure isn't always the answer.”
“Maybe I haven't quite made this as clear as I should have, Lieutenant, but we're going into battle in a little under three days, and we will be facing vastly superior odds in that engagement. Any mistake, any defect, and we will die. It's as simple as that. So I'm sorry if you think I'm being a little harsh, but I don't have the luxury of time. We were lucky during the Battle of Coronado, and we caught the enemy by surprise. We won't have that advantage this time.”
Looking up at him, she replied, “I haven't known you for long, Commander, but this isn't like you. Everything I've heard about you suggests that you aren't this sort of officer.” Gesturing at the door, she added, “Those people have given up everything they once knew, everything they had back home, and they've done it because they believe in you. Their whole worldview is fragile right now, and in my personal opinion, sir, they need support. Not to be lectured on something they know perfectly well already.” She glared at him, and added, “If you think this insubordinate...”
“No,” he replied, holding up a hand. “No, I don't. Had you said this on the bridge, I'd have thrown you in the brig. We're in private, and I've never refused to listen to the advice of my subordinates in the proper place and time. You get a pass.” Taking a deep breath, he said, “Go back up to the bridge, and inform them that we will be holding a second exercise in two hours, and that I expect all department heads for a briefing in an hour to advise on how they intend to improve their performance next time. After we've completed the second exercise, we'll go on low time for twelve hours, give everyone a chance to take a breath. Will that satisfy you.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “I'm sorry to...”
“You did your job, Lieutenant. Now let me do mine. I stand by my statement that our fighter wing was a bad joke, and I don't think anyone other than Admiral Yoshida will be laughing if we end up fighting that way for real.” The elevator stuttered to a stop, and the doors slid open. “Dismissed.”
“Aye, sir,” she replied, snapping a salute, stepping out into the corridor. Mike closed the doors again, his hand poised over the controls, hovering over the mechanism for the moment. He pulled out his datapad, looked at the date-stamp, and cursed, memories flooding back to him. Anxious fingers danced over the controls, going deep into his personal database, dredging up files he generally only recovered late at night, alone in his cabin.
After a moment, he found the image he was looking for, one he had taken himself, fifteen years earlier. A tall blonde woman, hair cascading over her shoulders, with a baby cradled in her arms, a cute smile on its face. He looked down at the picture for a long moment, the only one he had left from those years, those happier times of long ago, and sighed, his hand shaking as he reached for the wall communicator.
“Curtis to Bridge,” he said.
“Schmidt here, sir.”
“Cancel all battle drills for the next twenty-four hours. The ship is to go onto stand-down until then. You have the deck until further notice. I'll be in my quarters.”
“Sir,” she protested. “We have to complete our tactical preparations, and the department heads...”
“Handle it,” he replied. “Stand-down for twenty-four hours. I'm sure the crew will appreciate the break. Curtis out.” Shutting off the channel, he reached across for the controls, tapping for his quarters, leaning back on the wall as he sped towards his cabin, his eyes never wavering from the image on the datapad.
“Damn it, Bill. Why did you have to come back today? Why today?”
Chapter 11
“Come on, wake up, Win,” a voice urged, shaking Kani from a dreamless sleep. “We're out of time. You have to move, right now!” Kani's eyes opened to see Petrov standing over him, a holdall in his hand, dressed in cold-weather gear. “Get this on, and come with me. If we're going to get out of here, we've got to go now.”
“What?” he muttered, trying to rise.
Glancing to the rear, Petrov said, “I'm working with Saxon. I'm your contact on the surface. My guess is that you've already completed the mission you were sent down here to complete, and if you want to live through it and do some good, put this kit on and come with me, now. I've got a way out of here, but the window of opportunity for us to escape is pretty damned narrow, and closing by the minute.”
Reaching for the back, Kani started to tug on the thick jacket, and replied, “The serum...”
“I knew that Pierce wouldn't dig deep enough. I figure that if he'd asked a few more questions, we'd have all been in real trouble. Lucky for you the guy's a butt-kissing moron.” He shrugged, then said, “Well, not just luck. I made sure he was your interrogator. It's all about pushing the right collection of buttons.”
Sliding his feet into the boots, Kani rose to his feet, and asked, “Where are we going?”
“I've got a plane waiting outside. I'm assuming your piloting skills are up to the challenge.”
Cracking a smile, Kani replied, “Never ask a rocket jock that question. Lead on.”
Petrov raced down the corridor, Kani struggling to follow as he took turn after turn. Cameras tracked their every move, but Petrov simply ignored them, rushing on towards his destination, so Kani followed suit, demonstrating a similar lack of concern at the surveillance systems. It had occurred to him that this might be a trap, some ColSec ruse to uncover more information about his real mission to the surface, but so far, everything had gone perfectly according to plan, right down to the shaped charge he'd placed on his own fighter before launching from Polaris.
At the end of the corridor, a pair of guards stood watch, snapping to attention at Petrov's approach. For a moment, Kani thought that his suspicions had been confirmed, some sort of trap sprung at the last instant, and he turned to run, but before he could make a move, one of the guards smoothly drew a pistol and shot his comrade in the foot, sending him collapsing to the floor. Petrov faced forward, hypodermic in hand, slamming a shot of tranquilizer into the man's arm, his struggling figure slumping as his muscles relaxed. Finally, the feared sirens began to sound, and Petrov sprinted across the threshold, his co-conspirator following with a regretful glance at his erstwhile comrade.
Inside, a small biplane waited, a colonial design that could have flown out of an aviation museum, metal frame gleaming, engine ready. Kani walked into the hangar, then climbed into the cockpit, settling at the controls as Petrov and his comrade settled into the passenger compartment behind. As he ran his eyes over the controls, trying to rapidly familiarize himself with the display, he heard footsteps approaching, and turned to see a squad of troopers running into the room, Pierce in the lead. He tapped the starter, the engine firing with a series of angry jerks, and eased the throttle up with his right hand, guiding the plane carefully onto the waiting runway outside. Gunshots echoed all around as he gathered speed, the plane moving ever faster along the hardened surface, sending a spray of snow into the air on both sides.
“Any idea what the specs on this thing are?” he asked, not really expecting a reply. It had been years since he'd flown in any sort of atmosphere, never a plane like this, but it seemed a forgiving creature, and he gently eased her into the sky, gently tugging back on the control stick as he raced past a hundred miles an hour. A crosswind immediately pushed him to the left, but a series of experimental tugs on the stick dragged him back on course. Glancing behind him, he saw half a dozen figures futilely chasing after them, emptying their clips into the sky, and pulled back once again, sending the plane rising over the treetops.
“Don't go too high,” Petrov warned. “The orbital network will be watching us like a hawk. The defense systems will engage at anything over a thousand feet. Lower than that, and they'd risk damaging the landscape.”
“They actually care about the wildlife?”
“What, burn the Chairman's garden world?” the guard said. “More than the life of the poor damn bastard at the trigger is worth, believe me.”
Nodding, Kani guided the plane down, skimming just over the treetops, and asked, “Where are we going? This thing doesn't have any maps on it.” Looking around the cockpit, he continued, “And where did you find a beast like this, anyway?”
“Squadron Leader, you are currently flying the pride and joy of Chancellor Thierrs. It's a restored Waco biplane, as flown by the Mexican Air Force a couple of centuries ago. We've got a few indent mechanics who work on it for him.” A smile spread across the rebel's face, and he added, “I thought we could use some more insurance. Nobody's going to shoot us down, that's for damned sure. Not from the surface, anyway. From orbit they might be able to get away with it. Though even so, I suspect that the man who fired the missile would earn a one-way ticket to Triton.”
Shaking his head, Kani replied, “How do they expect to win a war like that?”
“Personally, I rather hope they don't,” Petrov said. “Though I admit that I'm biased. Turn thirty degrees west, and run straight on to town.”
“Aren't you worried that they'll know where we're going?” Kani asked.
“There's only one place on this planet where we could go,” the guard replied. “Unless you want a scenic tour of the gadolinium mines. There's one big landing field and a few smaller ones, and by now, all of them will be covered.”
Frowning, Kani said, “I'm having enough trouble keeping this bird in the air. I think I can manage a landing on a decent runway, but if I try and set her down anywhere else, in this climate, we're going to have problems. She's not really rigged for arctic conditions.”
“Part of the authenticity,” Petrov replied with a grimace. “You really don't want to know how much it cost to ship this thing out here.” He grinned, and said, “I've got a plan. Just keep us low and steady.”
“Not a problem,” Kani replied, guiding the plane towards the dawn, the sun rising over the frost-covered landscape. He looked out at the wilderness beyond, spotting a pack of mammoths running through the trees, tusks raised high to the sky as they bellowed the forest awake. Even with a combat rifle, he wouldn't want to take them on.
Over to the right, he saw the local monorail track, the train itself miles ahead of him, and swung around to hang low over the rails, using the natural path through the terrain. That, and it occurred to him that he could garner even more safety by putting Hyperborea's only reliable transport link in danger. One overshoot could easily wreck the track beyond repair for a mile in either direction.
He peered into the distance, searching the horizon for the city as the plane flashed over another work camp, a dull dome rising for the sky, surrounded by tree stumps, the latest work of the labor gangs. Kani frowned, looking at the devastation they'd wrought in such a short space of time. Hyperborea's bio-system had been ravaged enough by Earth already. The Federation was giving every sign of wanting to strip-mine the planet, remove everything worth taking and leave a dead world behind.
“I know,” Petrov said, shaking his head. “We all feel the same way. A lot of the locals would rather be independent. I've been stuck here for five years, and it breaks my heart to watch them ruin the place. There are plenty of good minerals on the local moons, more than enough to support a civilization without resorting to all of this.” He grimaced, and added, “And whenever one of the Central Committee turns up to visit, they treat us like god-damned feudal serfs, doffing our caps to our masters.”
“Not any more,” the guard said, looking out of the window. “Not any more.” He turned his neck forward, and pointed at the horizon, saying, “There it is. Just to the left.”
Kani followed the man's finger, and spotted the city in the distance, a cluster of domes reaching to the sky, surrounded by rough-hewn buildings scattered in all directions, nestled on the banks of a frozen river. He turned the plane away from the tracks, lining up a straight-line approached, then turned back to Petrov.
“Where do you want to land?”
“There's an autopilot hidden on the console. Just tap the altimeter three times, and it'll automatically bring the plane in to Amundsen Field.” He reached under the chair, bringing out a backpack, and added, “We're not going to be on board when that happens.”
“Parachutes?” Kani asked. “Won't they spot us?”
“Not if we get undercover quickly enough on landing.” He passed the backpack to Kani, and said, “Strap it on, lock it tight, and release it right away when you reach the deck. Then run for cover, wherever it is. We'll try for the shanty down. Nobody there has any love for the Federation. You'll find a rebel on every street corner.” Petrov smiled, and added, “I've never been happier to say that than I am right now.”
Tugging on the parachute, Kani pulled back the throttle as low as he dared, and replied, “It's been a long time since I've used one of these. And last time, I wasn't trying to land.” At Petrov's expression, he said, “Skyriding in the Thulian Stratosphere. You really ought to try it some time.”
“You're crazy,” the guard said.
With a shrug, Kani replied, “I'm here, aren't I? Where do we link up on the ground?”
“Go for the Prancing Mammoth,” Petrov said.
A smile spread across Kani's face, and he said, “That I've got to see. Let's go.” He pulled open the door, testing the straps on his parachute for one last time, and rolled out into the air, the chute deploying less than a second after he fell away from the plane, snapping into position with a crack as he dived through the trees. He counted two more parachutes falling after him, as the plane banked away towards its destination, now with only a computer at the controls.
He was drifting away from the town, a gust of wind tossing him carelessly into the forest, and he reached for the control straps in an attempt to guide himself to a safer landing, raising his feet to avoid crashing into a tree. While he fumbled with the controls, he caught his canopy on a wide-ranging branch, arresting his fall and leaving him dangling in space, a hundred feet above the ground.
Cursing his ill-luck, he swung himself around, trying to get to the tree itself, the straps and the chute creaking above him, tears already forming in the material. Just as the fabric began to give, he reached the trunk, wrapping himself around it and slamming his chest into the tree to release the canopy, a tattered sheet fluttering to the ground beneath him. All around him, he could hear sirens, and he looked around to see the source of the trouble, half-expecting guards to race towards him at any moment. One glance down indicated to truth of the alert, and he saw a pair of huge beasts rushing from the forest, sharp fangs dropping from their mouths. Their distinctive howls left no possible room for doubt. Sabre-toothed tigers, recreated as sport for Oligarch hunters a century ago, now a growing menace on the planet.
Whistles blew in the streets nearby, and he could hear the sounds of a crowd fleeing for safety, running into the cover of the buildings. If his guess was right, ColSec wouldn't intervene. He'd doubtless already managed to trigger a local security alert, and as a rule, they rarely gave much of a damn for civilians in any case. Which at least meant that he wouldn't be caught up here. He could spot half a dozen of the tigers running around, and five of them raced into town, doubtless chasing some luckless or careless individual still picking his way through the streets.
Which left only one, glaring up at him with cold, soulless eyes, teeth shining bright in the dawn as it waited for him to descend. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, it raced away to join his fellows, and he breathed a sigh of relief. By lucky coincidence, they'd give him the perfect distraction. He looked down at the ground, trying to spot whether the predators were still around, and shook his head.
Somehow, he didn't think anyone would object to him waiting a few more minutes, just to make sure. He'd gone to a lot of trouble to get here, and ending up as tiger food wasn't on his agenda. The Prancing Mammoth could wait a while.
Chapter 12
“Emergence in three minutes, Commander,” Voronova said, while Norton looked down at the helm controls over her shoulder, anxiously monitoring their return to normal space. “I'll be putting us a hundred thousand miles from Khiva Station.”
“All decks are on standby alert,” Rojek added. “I can be at battle stations...”
“No,” Curtis replied. “That's not on the agenda today. We're here to make allies, not wage war. Blasting into the system all guns blazing will only invite a fight.” He paused, then added, “Having said that, monitor all activity in the system. Though we'll bug out of the system rather than try and fight them all off if necessary.”
Turning to him, Voronova said, “Some of them will listen to reason, sir. There are enough people in the Commonwealth who want to go home, regardless of the political consequences.”
“And just as many people who will attempt to take advantage of the situation,” Saxon warned. “The exiles won't give up their dreams of conquest easily or quickly.”
“That's what you're here for,” Curtis replied. “I want live intelligence reports on anyone we encounter. No matter how minor.”
“All prepared,” she said, holding up a datapad. “Let's hope Federation Intelligence did its job right for a change. I suppose there's a first time for everything.”
“One minute,” Voronova said. “Preparing for transition.” She looked up at Norton, and asked, “Am I getting anything wrong?”
“Not yet,” Norton replied. “Just don't get too comfortable.”
“Don't worry, I'd far rather be sitting in a fighter right now. This ship handles…,” she looked up at Curtis, her face reddening, and said, “Sorry, sir. I'm not used to a ship of this size.”
Cracking a smile, Curtis replied, “Relax, Lieutenant. You're doing fine.”
“Ten seconds,” Voronova said, reaching across the console. “Initiating warp dump.”
Polaris slewed back into normal space, sending waves of nausea running through Curtis as the inexperienced helmsman managed the transition. A flash of blue light washed over the bridge, and the starfield snapped into view, framing a purple and orange ball at the heart of the screen, a series of pinpoint dots arranged all around. The heads-up display immediately flickered into life, data streaming alongside each one as the combat computers labored to match the ships in the system with known hostile targets.
“I have positive identification of Achilles, Agamemnon and Theseus, Commander,” Rojek said. “All of them have gone weapons hot, and are heading on an intercept course. Two fighter squadrons are orbiting the planet, but none of them have moved to engage as yet.” Turning to Voronova, he said, “This make sense to you?”
“First Cruiser Squadron,” she replied. “I was expecting them.”
Nodding, Curtis said, “Maintain current posture. Norton, take the helm, but hold position for the moment. No hostile moves. Voronova, I assume we have an escape course plotted?”
“Ready to go, Commander.”
“Then in that case, hail the Commonwealth Squadron.”
Rojek turned to the communications technicians, the staff working to establish a link-up with the incoming squadrons, struggling to keep their firewall in position as the Commonwealth hackers began their work. Technically, it was a hostile act, but Curtis was trying to ignore it, knowing that he'd have done the same in their place. Until the kinetic projectiles started to fly, there was a chance that all of this would still work out.
“I have Commodore McKinnon for you, Commander,” one of the technicians said. “Voice only, no audio, maximum scrambler.”
Reaching for a headset, Curtis said, “This is Commander Edward Curtis, currently in command of rebel space forces. I'm here to discuss options for joint military action against the Federation. While Polaris is armed, we are holding at alert status for the present. I request permission to hold my current position at the edge of the system while we discuss terms of alliance and cooperation, and suggest that a ten thousand mile buffer zone be maintained to reduce the risk of an accidental incident.”
There was a long pause, until finally McKinnon said, “The last time we met, Commander, we were exchanging kinetic salvos. I presume you understand that what you are suggesting is contrary to my orders? That I have firm and precise instructions to capture or destroy Polaris?”
Nodding, Curtis replied, “I presumed as much, Commodore, but that sort of an attitude isn't going to get either of us anywhere. If you close any further, I will pull Polaris out of the system before you can reach me, and in the unlikely event that you find a way to get here first, my ship is the match for any two of yours. You won't do well in a battle. As I believe we have already proven.” Leaning forward in his chair, he added, “I'm here to talk peace, not war. I know that the citizens of the Commonwealth have wanted to return home for decades. Maybe we can find a way to make it happen. I'm willing to make the first move.” Taking a deep breath, he said, “I will come unarmed to Khiva Station and discuss the situation with you and the Commonwealth leadership.”
“Unarmed?” McKinnon said, as Saxon looked on with disgust. “What guarantees for your safety would you require?”
“I'll accept the word of a senior officer of the Commonwealth. Just as I would expect you to expect the word of a senior rebel officer. If you promise me safe passage back to my ship, we can have some sort of basis for negotiation.” He looked up at the glaring Saxon, and added, “The party will consist only of myself and my senior aide. No guards, no staff. Just two persons.”
Hudson shook her head, whispering, “Sir, we can handle all the negotiations remotely. You can't put yourself at risk like that? Do you really think that they'll honor their word? We're talking about the Commonwealth here, and...”
Turning to his deputy, Curtis replied, “If we're not willing to show an element of good faith, Lieutenant, then these negotiations are doomed to fail from the outset.” Gesturing at the screen, at the still-approaching cruiser squadron, he added, “If we can get those ships and their fighters into the war, we've got an excellent chance of finishing the Federation for good. I'm willing to put my life on the line for that.”
“Let me go instead, sir, as your representative,” Hudson said.
“No. It has to be me.” He cracked a smile, and replied, “I'm replaceable, Lieutenant. You can command Polaris just as well as I can, and my son is more than capable of commanding the fleet.”
“Commander,” McKinnon replied. “I've spoken to my superiors on Khiva Station, and they're willing to meet with you on those terms. You can travel across on one of your shuttles, and we will maintain a distance of ten thousand miles between our ships and yours, as you stipulated. I don't need to tell you that any hostile move on the part of you or your ship will result in your immediate destruction.”
“And the other stipulation I made?” Curtis asked.
“You have my personal guarantee that both you and your aide will be permitted to leave Khiva Station and return to your ship unmolested, as long as your crew maintains a non-hostile posture. Defensive systems are acceptable, offensive systems are not.” She paused, then asked, “What is the status of our three pilots?”
Looking at Voronova, he replied, “I have to report that Squadron Leader Kani is currently missing in action, and that Flight Lieutenant Nguyen fell in battle. Her attack was instrumental in the destruction of a Federation Starcruiser and our victory at the Battle of Coronado, and I would like to recommend her for a posthumous decoration. As for Flight Lieutenant Voronova, when last I saw her she was safe and well.”
“Thank you for that, Commander. I will see that Lieutenant Nguyen's next of kin are informed of her loss. I presume you will return her personal effects?”
“They'll be on the shuttle with me.”
“Very well. We'll be waiting for you, Commander. McKinnon out.”
Rojek turned to Curtis, and asked, “Are you sure about this, Teddy?”
“No, but it's what has to be done.” Looking up at Saxon, he asked, “Ready for a trip?”
“No, but I suppose I don't really have a choice, do I.” Unclipping her holster, she let her weapon drop to the deck, then walked over to the elevator, while Curtis removed his pistol and laid it on his chair.
“Hudson, you're in command until I get back. Should something go wrong, then you are to leave the system at once, regardless of the status of myself and Major Saxon. No rescue attempts, no desperate battles. Keep the rendezvous with the rest of the fleet at all costs. Understood?”
“Aye, sir,” she replied. “Good luck, Commander.”
“Thank you. I think I'm going to need it.”
“For once we agree,” Saxon replied, tapping the control for the hangar deck, Curtis only just stepping inside before the doors slammed shut. She looked across at him, and said, “This is insanity. You do realize that, I hope.”
With a shrug, he replied, “That's got us this far.”
“Even so.” The elevator skimmed through the decks, finally depositing them on the hangar deck, the scattered pilots watching as the two of them walked to the waiting shuttle. Curtis paused for a moment, looking at the assembled fighters, four full squadrons ready for battle, more than the ship had ever been designed to hold. A force that he'd never dreamed he'd command, ready to attack on his order. Saxon frowned, waiting at the hatch, and he followed her into the shuttle, moving into the cockpit and dropping down in front of the flight controls.
“Requesting departure clearance,” he said, throwing a switch.
Hudson's voice replied, “Granted, Shuttle One. Safe journey.”
Shaking her head, Saxon replied, “I have got to try and cure that woman of her optimism at some point. I think she's beginning to infect the rest of the crew.” Pulling out her datapad, she said, “If our intelligence is correct, it'll be Admiral Crawford we're meeting. You couldn't have picked a more dogmatic, inflexible dinosaur to negotiate with. McKinnon might be more tractable, but...”
“I've read the files,” he said. “We can deal with them. I'm sure of it. To an extent, we're giving them exactly what they want.” Turning to her as the shuttle dropped through the decks, he added, “Everything ready at your end?”
“Naturally,” she replied. “In a cruel and hostile galaxy, my sense of enlightened self-interest remains the one thing you can truly count upon.”
“Attention,” the overhead speaker barked as the shuttle dropped clear of Polaris. “This is Khiva Traffic Control. Switch over to automatic guidance. We'll bring you in.”
“Roger, Traffic Control. We're complying now,” Curtis replied.
“Understood. Out.”
“Not even a please or thank you,” Saxon muttered, as Curtis threw the controls.
“At least we get a nice relaxing ride,” he replied, gesturing at the gas giant ahead. The shuttle dived for the planet, furiously decelerating to bring them out of orbit, locking them on a glide path into the atmosphere. He looked around at the ships, old relics from the last war that had been kept in pristine condition, then glanced across at the sensor display, a trio of targets closing at high speed.
“Fighters,” Saxon said. “Still think this was a good idea?”
“Nothing wrong with an honor guard,” he replied.
“Perhaps they'll honor you with a twenty-one-missile salute at your imminent funeral.”
Cracking a smile, he asked, “Don't you think you'd get one?”
“You only get a funeral when you die,” she replied. “I have no intention of dying here today, Commander. If I felt otherwise, I'd never have boarded the shuttle in the first place.” She looked down at the scanner screen, and raised an eyebrow as another dozen contacts appeared, adding, “Though I might have to revise that assessment under the circumstances.”
“They're just being careful,” he said. “I'd feel the same way if the roles were reversed. For all they know, we're on a suicide mission.”
“Funny,” she replied. “I'm beginning to agree with them. You said that your son is equally capable of commanding the fleet? I think we might have a chance to prove that theory.”
Chapter 13
“Signal from Castro, sir,” Schmidt said, her voice echoing over the ceiling speaker.
“What is it?” Mike replied, moving from his bed, his eyes locked on the picture on the wall, a blonde woman holding a little girl in her arms. “Trouble?”
“They're requesting assistance, Commander. They're at Icarus Point, and they've been pinned by a pair of enemy squadrons operating from the local station. No immediate threat, but they're unable to leave the system unless we can come get them.”
“Can't they punch a way out with their fighters?”
“They say not, sir, and I've looked at the sensor logs they've sent. I'm forced to agree with Commander Ortiz.” She paused, then added, “I've had Lieutenant Kenyon plot a course, and we can be there and back in eighteen hours.”
“If we strain our drive units sufficiently that we'll find it tough to pull out of Hyperborea should things go wrong,” he replied. He rubbed his eyes, and said, “We're going to play this one differently, Lieutenant. I want a new course plot from Icarus Point to Hyperborea, and calculations on how long we can wait here for more ships to turn up.”
Schmidt paused, then said, “We were meant to gather forces here, Commander, and Icarus Point's a long way from our target. Potentially straining our drive units. If I might recommend...”
“Noted. My decision stands, Lieutenant. Inform Commander Ortiz that we will be there, but perhaps not as soon as he'd like, and suggest that he continue to explore ways of breaking out of the trap he fell into by himself. We're not Castro's keeper. Curtis out.” He snapped off the communicator, then lay back on his bed, the digital frame flickering to a new image, back from his time at the Academy, two cadets with their arms wrapped around each other, grinning at the camera. He and Ortiz, twenty years ago. The door slid open, and he looked up to see Petrova walking into the room, glancing at the image before reaching across to the frame and switching it off.
“I heard what you said to Schmidt,” she began.
“And as I told her, my orders stand.”
Shaking her head, she replied, “That's not what I'm here to discuss. As it happens, I agree with you. It stands a good chance of throwing off the enemy a little, making them guess about our next move. That's not the issue. I need to talk about you.”
“Pretty boring topic of conversation.”
“Under Fleet regulations, Commander, I'm empowered to relieve you of command if, in my opinion, you're unfit to hold it. Now, we're nowhere near that point, but...”
Bursting out in laughter, Mike replied, “Fleet regulations? You've got to be kidding me.” Pointing at the door, he said, “You go out there and find someone willing to help you relieve me. Go on. Try. I haven't had my morning laugh yet. Not that I want the damned job, anyway.”
Her mouth moved into a faint smile, and she replied, “Point taken. Nevertheless, we're going to have a conversation, Commander, and we're going to have it now. Are you going to have trouble dealing with Commander Ortiz? I've looked over his record, and while it's not exactly that of a high-flier, he seems a competent enough officer, if more of a follower than a leader. Not a disadvantage for the commander of an auxiliary.”
“Bill's not the problem. Not really. It's more what he represents that is the problem.”
Nodding, she replied, “I did a little digging. Today is your sixteenth wedding anniversary.”
“That's a nice sick joke right there,” he said, his eyes filled with venom. “The records were wiped. Largely to avoid embarrassing a senior figure in the Commerce Directorate. It was as though neither of them ever existed, erased from history.”
“Tell me about it.”
“And if I refuse?”
She drew her pistol, leveled it at his chest, and replied, “Then I'll have to shoot you. Even if it means my death. In your current state, Lieutenant Schmidt is probably a better choice to command the ship than you are, and all that matters now is the survival of the ship and crew, as well as the completion of the mission. That's how strongly I feel about this.” With a sigh, she continued, “Damn it, I'm worried about you, and I'm not the only one!”
“You try having your best friend try and sell you out. That'll give you some trust issues.”
“I've given you no reason to doubt me.” She looked at the door, then said, “I give you my word that nothing you say here will leave this room. But you need to talk to someone about this, and I guess I'm the only one left. There's nothing happening for at least twenty hours, no ships entering or leaving the system, and your staff are more than capable of handling the routine. So talk. For both our sakes.”
With a shrug, he replied, “What the hell. Why not. Let's travel back in time to when I was as green a bastard as the Academy ever turned out, all spit, polish and hell-fire, ready to take on the galaxy by myself before breakfast. Right about at graduation, I'd already found out that my father had crashed-out his career, and that only made me more determined to excel.”
“And you graduated top of the class.”
“Who's telling this story, anyway? But yes, I did. Got my pick of postings. And then I found out that my girlfriend was pregnant. We'd been talking about getting married anyway, so we moved things up a little. Had the ceremony right in Admiralty Hall, and the Commandant performed the service. My whole class turned up.” He sighed, then said, “Including Ortiz's father.”
“What did that have to do with it?”
“Turned out he had a wandering eye. I spent my first year on Earth, working in Fleet Headquarters. That's where I met Yoshida-san. Hell of a tactician. I learned a lot from him. My wife and I had a little girl. We called her Sara. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen in my life.” With a deep sigh, he continued, “Then I was posted. A big step up. Acting Lieutenant on Borealis, Guidance Control, replacing someone who'd been injured. The Admiral, Commodore he was then, told me not to take it. Said he needed me back home. I think he was trying to tell me something.”
Nodding, she replied, “That's on your record. You earned the Order of Merit during that cruise, right? Fighting against the rebel remnant out at 36 Ophiuchi.”
“Eight months of action. At first I got a letter from my wife every day, images of her and my daughter. Then every three days, then every week. I didn't think of it at first. We were in action most days, the ship was damaged, I ended up running Tactical for a while. Then I got a final letter. She'd left me. Said she couldn't handle the separation, the loneliness, some crap like that. I put in for emergency leave, tried to get back, but it got blocked. Not by my commander, he'd pushed it as hard as he could, but someone on Earth wanted me to stay out on the frontier, I guess. Took me a long time to work out why.”
“I'm sorry,” Petrova replied. “I truly am. It must be...”
“Wait,” he said, raising a hand. “It gets worse. I got back home eventually, and it was all over bar the shouting. Ortiz turned up, sadder than I'd ever known him, and told me what had happened. His father had managed to get her a job working for him at the Commerce Directorate, In-System Transportation, and put on a full court press for months. It worked.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “And to his credit, Ortiz stopped speaking to his father that day.”
“What about his mother?”
“That's where it got messy. Real messy. And for a little while, I reaped a few benefits from that. You see, the bastard's wife not only didn't know, but she was the daughter of a senior figure in Planetary Security. One of those marriages. So Administrator Ortiz couldn't get a divorce, had to enjoy his new family on the side. As a result of which, I managed to get joint custody. While I was on Earth, she was mine. And then I found out...”
“That the bastard was the one who had arranged your extrasolar postings in the first place, and the one who had prevented you going home in time to fix things.”
“Why do I get the feeling you've heard stories like this before. Then-Commodore Yoshida rode to the rescue, got me a posting to the Academy so that I could have Sara for a year, and started making threatening noises about bureaucrats interfering with the lives of Fleet officers. Might have help some other poor son of a bitch, even if it was too late for me.”
“Where is she now? Why was the record wiped?”
As though he hadn't heard her, Mike continued, “It was the happiest year of my life. I spent most of it at home, working on a new set of distance-learning courses for service personnel, so I was with Sara the whole time. And I knew that the Fleet had my back, that someone was standing with me. Bill helped, as well. His sister used to babysit for me. Ironic, huh. The kids of that bastard were two of my best friends.”
He looked down at the deck, his eyes filling with tears, and said, “It couldn't last forever. I had to take a posting sooner or later, and I ended up on the frontier for six months, out at Lucifer Station. Deputy commander. For a while, it looked like I'd be able to take her with me, but it fell through. Legal challenge stopped me taking her off Earth. Should have known it. Her mother promised me she'd take care of her.”
“Did she run off with her?”
“They went to Erebus, to the ski slopes, for a holiday. Her, Sara and Ortiz's father. Had a great time, by the looks of it. And then they stepped onto a transport to go back to Nova San Francisco.” Burying his head in his hands, he added, “They never made it. Accident. Crash. Everyone on board was killed.”
“My God,” she replied, putting her hand on his shoulder. “I can't imagine...”
“I didn't even find out about it for a month. Time lag. By the time I could get back to Earth, it was all over. And then I learned the worst of it. In order to save embarrassment, my wife, my child, were wiped out of the records. They were never there. Never existed. After all, for a senior bureaucrat to be caught on holiday with his mistress might have raised questions. And they were dead, and nothing could bring them back. My little girl was dead. And as far as the Federation was concerned, had never been.”
She moved over to the bed, wrapping her arms around him, and he continued, “I guess I went a little crazy for a while. Ortiz's mother took me in for a bit. Guilt, I guess. And sympathy. She was hurting too, as bad as I was. She'd loved the old bastard. Yoshida gave me as long as he could, and then offered me my pick of postings. Anything to get me back on my feet. I ran for the frontier, and stayed there as long as I could.” Tugging at his jacket, he added, “The Fleet was all I had left. No family, all gone. Just the Fleet. So I figured I'd be the best damned officer there ever was, that I was going to pay them back, get that star on my shoulder.”
“You've done that, and more,” Petrova whispered.
Looking up at her, tears in his eyes, he said, “I'm a damned traitor! I'm leading the rebel fleet against them, and I'm about to kill thousands of people who are the nearest thing I have left to a family. My father's only just come back, and he's gone running off somewhere, and the odds of us both getting out of this battle aren't exactly promising. It's the longest long shot I can think of. And then Ortiz comes back, a ghost out of my past. I hadn't seen him for a decade.” Taking a deep, hacking breath, he added, “He's switched sides for me. Because of what happened. He always said he'd stand with me if I needed him, and I guess he decided this was the time. So that's more people thrown into the fire because of me.”
Holding her close, she said, “You're doing the best you can, and you're fighting to make sure twisted bastards like that don't get to rule the roost any more. You're fighting to avenge the death of your daughter, and to give it some meaning. And that a man would defy his own father to stand with you says more about your character than anyone ever could. You're the man we need, right now. And you aren't alone. I'm here. So are a lot of others.” With a smile, she said, “You'll see your father again. Don't ask me how I know, but it's all going to work out. You'll find a way. I have faith in you. I believe in you. You just have to believe in yourself.”
“I don't know how. Everything got ripped away, and…”
“Then let me help, Commander. Mike. Let me help.” She stood up, moving to the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I'm locking the door. I don't think we should be disturbed for a while. Do you?”
“Why?” he asked. “Pity?”
“Try mutual need. Now are you going to take that jacket off, or shall I?”
Chapter 14
The train slowed to a stop, Cordova and Norris already standing by the hatch. If their counting was correct, they'd be just outside the city, the final station before the end of the line. Slowly, carefully, Cordova cracked open the seal, peering through the gap, white-covered trees and rough-hewn buildings scattered around outside. She gestured for Norris to follow, then opened the hatch all the way, carefully sliding out of the carriage and onto the raised platform by the track.
Out here, the train traveled far closer to the ground, only a dozen feet from the surface. Without thinking twice, she jumped, rolling with the force of the impact and sprinting for the cover of the trees. Behind her, Norris moved more slowly, and Cordova silently urged her on, spotting a pair of guards lazily making their way along the length of the train, conducting a desultory search. At last, Norris leapt, her landing harder than Cordova's, her right leg twisted by the force of the impact. Muttering under her breath, Cordova moved back out of cover, half-helping, half-dragging her to safety, her comrade walking with a decided limp.
“How bad?” she asked. “Can you walk on it?”
“I don't think it's broken, just sprained,” Norris replied. “Give me a minute.”
“I'm not sure we've got one,” Cordova said, looking around. One of the guards had noted the dropped hatch, was turning to his partner, scribbling something onto a datapad. “Damn. We're going to have to move, whether you're ready or not.”
“Can I help?” Petrov said, stepping out of the shadows. “I have a buggy waiting on the far side of the trees.” He looked at Norris, frowned, and tossed her a packet of pills, adding, “Take one. They should keep you moving for a while. I'm here to take you to a safe-house.”
Frowning, Cordova asked, “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“A friend,” he replied, his lips curling into a smile. “Mikhail Petrov. Call me Micky. Liz Saxon sent me to make sure you got down to the surface. I've had to go rogue myself, so I guess I'm in this as deep as you are right now.” Gesturing at the trees, he added, “If you've got another ride, then I'll go. Otherwise, I really think we ought to be moving. One of your shipmates is waiting.”
Shaking her head, Norris said, “I don't like this, Gabi. I don't like this at all. Every step of the way, he's been here.” Turning to Petrov, she asked, “If you had an escape route of your own, why couldn't we have taken it with you?”
“Because this way, we had two chances of getting a mission team into Ericsson City. We can have this debate later, but the train guards aren't going to hang around forever. By now they've already gone to get their supervisor, and he'll probably raise a general alert.”
“We'll trust you,” Cordova replied. “I guess we don't have any choice.”
“Smart,” he said. “A little late, but better than nothing.” He turned away, walking through the trees, while Cordova and Norris limped after him, the latter swallowing the proffered pill, nodding as it took effect. As promised, a buggy was waiting for them, sitting on a dirt-track bulldozed through the snow, paw-prints all around. With a wry grin, he added, “Sabre-tooth. Caused a little trouble earlier. They're coming into town a lot these days. Not as much game in the local area as there used to be.” He climbed into the buggy, gesturing for them to follow.
“Won't someone stop us?” Norris asked, sliding into a passenger seat.
“I'm still a ColSec administrator, at least on paper, and I've spent the last few weeks dropping heavy hints that I was about to take part in some sort of secret mission. Hopefully nobody will ask too many questions as long as I stay away from a security area.”
“We've got to get to the broadcast station,” Cordova said.
Nodding, he replied, “And we will, but not yet.” He glanced at his watch, and added, “Not until tomorrow. We can't move too quickly on this.”
“Tomorrow?” Norris asked. “What happens tomorrow?”
“What you don't know can't be extracted under interrogation if this goes wrong.” Tapping his cheek, he said, “I've got a suicide pill. Standard ColSec issue. Let's just say I'm looking forward to a nice trip to the dentist as soon as the war is over, but until then, I don't intend to risk being taken alive.” He shivered, and added, “I've seen what happens to people after interrogation. That isn't going to happen to me.”
“And how often have you done it to others?” Cordova asked.
“Too often,” he replied. “I can tell myself that I only did it to people who deserved it. Though it wouldn't be altogether true.” With a sigh, he said, “Out here, we spent more time catching criminals than rebels. Hell, with how things have gotten lately, more and more of us are on your side, Major.” Gesturing at the city ahead, he added, “These people are our responsibility, and it's time we stopped letting them down. They deserve a damn sight better than they're getting.”
He guided the buggy into the shanty town, driving past a collection of improvised shacks, the local population turning to stare at them as they approached. Cameras flashed from every street corner, tracking people as they walked along the side of the road. Most of them were wearing battered jumpsuits that looked as tired as their owners, only a few equipped with actual cold-weather gear, the lucky ones staying well clear of their brethren.
“Quislings?” Cordova asked.
“Funny, isn't it,” Petrov replied. “There's always someone willing to help grind their neighbors into the dirt for a quick payday. I wouldn't want to be in their place after we've liberated this planet. Though I suspect the same story will be told all across the Federation. Dirty things, revolutions. I just wish it wasn't necessary.” He pulled up in front of a larger building, a flashing neon image of a mammoth rising on two legs, rearing up to the sky with trunk and tusks high.
Looking around, Norris asked, “Just walk in? It's that easy?”
“Welcome to the place where nobody wants to know your name.” Petrov cracked open the door and walked inside, nodding at the muscle-clad bouncer standing by the door. After a moment's hesitation, Cordova followed, Norris limping after them. The bar was filled with people, mostly locals, a few spacers wearing the garish uniform of the Commerce Directorate. Old folk music played over the speakers, and the room reeked of stale beer, slopped on every counter.
Petrov walked up to the bar, and said, “Tell me about the rabbits, George.”
“I don't know what the hell you're talking about,” the bartender replied, sending a brief flicker of fear through Cordova.
“Sure you do,” he replied, holding up his hands. “About so big, covered in fur?”
“You talking about Harvey?”
“That's the guy. He was supposed to meet me at thirteen-hundred.”
With a nod, the bartender gestured at a side door, and added, “You won't be disturbed.”
“Thanks, Frank,” Petrov said, nodding at Cordova and Norris to follow him into the anteroom. Inside, sitting at a table, a familiar face was sitting, Kani staring with disgust at Cordova as she walked inside.
“Then you are alive,” he said. “Pity.”
Norris looked at the two of them, and Petrov said, “Miss Norris, permit me to introduce Squadron Leader Winston Kani, temporarily attached to the rebel space forces.”
“I thought it was you,” Kani said, his eyes still laser-locked to Cordova. “I didn't think I could possibly be right. The footage was extremely convincing.”
She nodded, sat at the table, and replied, “I didn't know myself until I woke up on my way out here. I've been in a labor camp for the last few weeks, waiting to be reactivated.”
“After what you did, they should have left you there.” He looked up at Petrov, and asked, “How much of this do you know?”
“Only that Liz Saxon told me to keep an eye on both of you. She didn't give me many details.” He looked at the two of them, and asked, “Are we going to have a problem?”
“She and her father, the glorious rebel leader from whom she inherited her rank. Twenty years ago, they put Commander Curtis on ice. Doped him up with every tranquilizer in the book and then some, and stuck him in a dead-end hellhole on Titan just like this. They kept him in a chemical stupor for the last two decades. She only decided to wake him up when she thought he might be of use to him. Didn't work out quite like you planned, though. He's a lot more independent than you gave him credit for.”
“What I did...”
“Don't even try to justify it!” Kani snapped. “People like you are the very reason we need to have a revolution! It's the sort of thing ColSec would do, or the Political Directorate. We're meant to be better than that, damn it!” He took a deep breath, and said, “Commander Curtis relieved her of rank and position. If she hadn't 'died' in the attack on Sinaloa Station, she'd be rotting in the brig right now. I guess ColSec did it for us. Pity you managed to escape.”
“It worked,” Cordova replied. “Whatever you think of it, the plan did everything that it was intended to do, and it's brought us to the brink of victory. You think I haven't suffered myself? I got to watch my father shot in front of me at fourteen. Fourteen. Other kids got to go to school, to prom. I got to plan guerrilla raids. My sweet sixteen was an attack on a relay station.”
“Cry me a river,” Kani said. “You're no better than the people you're fighting. The dividing line between freedom fighter and terrorist is narrow enough at the best of times, and I know for sure which side you walk on. Count me out.”
Sitting between the two of them, Petrov replied, “We don't have time for this. Either of you. I don't expect you to like each other, but we're short as hell on trained operatives, and I can't have the only two we've got at each other's throats.” Lowering his voice, he continued, “I've got thirty-plus people, good fighters, ready to move at our signal, and I can bet that a thousand more will get into the game as soon as the action kicks off. We've got to trigger it, and more than that. The Fleet's coming back. Soon.”
“How soon?” Cordova asked.
“Thirty-eight hours. I got a signal from Canopus an hour ago. And that's all I got, no tactical or strategic information, just an approximate time.” He looked at the two of them again, and said, “If they're coming to liberate the planet, they're going to need all the help they can get. My latest information has six capital ships in orbit. Four Starcruisers, two auxiliaries.”
“Six ships?” Kani said. “How many squadrons?”
“Sixteen, counting local defense forces. I don't know how much your people have at their disposal, but that's more than you've used so far.”
Frowning, Kani replied, “To the best of our knowledge, we don't have anything like that much strength at our disposal. Commander Curtis must have something else in mind, though I don't know what. Defections, maybe?”
Shaking his head, Petrov said, “Nothing on the boards other than Castro. Auxiliary cruiser. A lot of fighter pilots, individual fleet personnel switching sides. No heavy hardware, though. After Coronado, the Political Directorate tossed everyone they weren't completely sure about into detention on Triton.”
“That'll help our fleet,” Cordova replied. “That's a lot of experienced personnel that they won't be able to count on. Rookie captains make mistakes. Maybe the Commander's counting on that to help him out.” She paused, then added, “He's counting on us.”
“With a full-scale insurgency taking place down here, their attention will be diverted. Maybe we can draw some of the heat our way. That's about the only thing we can do to help them right now, I figure. And it all comes down to that attack on the broadcasting station.” He glanced at his watch, then said, “Figure we hit the place at nineteen-hundred tomorrow. Right during the Evening News. We've got a few people on the control staff to help. That's about half an hour before the Fleet's scheduled to arrive.” He looked at Kani again, and asked, “Can you work with Major Cordova for that long?”
He glared at her, nodded, then said, “After this is all over, I know that Commander Curtis is going to want to have words with her. She doesn't get to slink off into the shadows. She pays for what she has done.”
“If that's what it takes, I agree.” Looking at the door, she asked, “Now what?”
“We wait,” Petrov said. “We're safe enough here, at least for now. What'll you have?”
Frowning, Norris asked, “We're just going to sit here and get drunk?”
“Unless you have a better idea.”
Chapter 15
The shuttle sailed through the sky, gently easing towards the awe-inspiring sight of Khiva Station, a long, narrow aerostat suspended under a huge helium balloon, permanently drifting through the clouds of Golgotha, a thousand miles above the surface. One of the wonders of the galaxy, rated with the failed Martian terraforming project and the Titanian space elevator as examples of the excess of the Oligarchs. It had become the heart of the Commonwealth, the home base for much of its fleet, and until now, no Federation citizen was known to have reached it.
Curtis ran his eyes over the structure, shaking his head in disbelief at the faded grandeur on display, running lights winking at their approach. The shuttle gently maneuvered onto the docking trapeze, clamps locking in position to drag it up into the station, Saxon looking at Curtis with the closest approximation of fear he'd yet seen on her face. It was an awe-inspiring sight, a deliberate and overt demonstration of superiority, but beneath the surface, he could see the reason why the Commonwealth had never managed to invade the Federation. The paintwork was old, worn out, strange noises coming from the docking ports, and as his shuttle was deposited on the deck, he looked around at a collection of shuttles and fighters that might have been ripped from the pages of a historical textbook.
The door slid open, and he walked over to the airlock, a pair of crimson-uniformed guards waiting outside, standing at parade rest. One of them gestured towards an elevator, and with a quick glance at Saxon, he followed them across the deck, knowing that within moments, any secrets on his shuttle would have been carefully gleaned by the maintenance crews. One look at the ships on display told him that they knew their job, all perfectly serviced and ready for action. Skilled technicians, who deserved better equipment to work with than they had.
“In here,” one of the guards said, gesturing at the open elevator. “It'll take you to your meeting. Every step you take will be tracked. Any attempt to go elsewhere, and you'll find out how long it takes to fall to the surface.”
“Have you considered a job as a tour guide?” Saxon asked. “I think you've missed your calling.” She followed Curtis into the elevator, the doors slamming shut as the mechanism jerked into life. “Sluggish. Poor maintenance.” She gestured at the control panel, two buttons missing, and said, “All of this looks impressive, but I give them ten years at most before they start running into real trouble out here.”
“Agreed,” Curtis said. “They're on their last legs, and they know it. That's one more thing in our favor. If they wait much longer to launch their attack on the Federation, they won't have anything left to fight with.” He frowned, then added, “They need us every bit as much as we need them.”
“Go ahead and push that line, but be careful how far you go with it. They'll want to return to our space on their terms, not ours.” She paused, and asked, “Just how far are you willing to go, anyway? What are you willing to concede to them?”
Knowing that they were being monitored, he replied, “We're fighting to free the people of the Federation from tyranny, and to establish an independent state from the Colonies. I'll go along with anything that doesn't detract from that goal.”
Nodding, Saxon said, “That's about what I thought you'd say. Just hold onto that thought.”
The door slid open, and they stepped into a waiting room, a pair of guards wearing riot gear standing on either side of the elevator, rifles at the ready. Curtis turned and snapped a salute, and the two men instinctively returned it, Saxon watching from the side.
“Carry on,” he said, heading to the office door, noting the approving look on the faces of the guards. If his guess was right, they didn't get many salutes from senior officers. Not in the playbook of the old Oligarchy. He glanced at Saxon, then tapped for admittance, waiting for a moment before the door slid open. Inside, three people, two men and a woman sat at a long table, all wearing Commonwealth dress uniform, with another man sitting alone by the side of the room.
“Commander Curtis?” the woman said, “I'm Commodore McKinnon.”
“My pleasure, ma'am,” Curtis replied, nodding his head.
Gesturing at the bald man to her left, she said, “Admiral Anthony Crawford, Director of Fleet Operations, and ex officio member of the Supreme Council.”
“Commander,” Crawford said. “I speak for our government, and under the circumstances, I have been empowered with deciding whether or not to reach an agreement with you. Anything I decide will be ratified, I can assure you of that.” He looked at Saxon, and said, “I'm surprised to see one of our operatives with you.”
“I'm sorry to disappoint you, Admiral, but I'm working for the rebellion now. They have my loyalty.” She turned to Curtis, and added, “My goal was always the liberation of my people. When it became apparent that the Commonwealth wouldn't provide that, I found someone who would.”
Frowning, Crawford replied, “I don't think that our discussion will...”
“Major Saxon is my senior aide, Admiral. If she leaves the room, I go with her.”
“Not until we've finished, Commander.”
Turning to McKinnon, Curtis said, “Commodore, you gave me your word as an officer of the Commonwealth that I would be permitted to leave unmolested at will. What is that word worth? Because if this is how it is kept, we're all wasting our time.”
Glaring at Crawford, McKinnon replied, “My word's good, Commander. You can leave when you wish.” Turning to the other side, she continued, “Wing Commander Kowalski, commander of local fighter forces, and Lieutenant Commander Mendoza, Admiral Crawford's aide.”
“It's a pleasure, Commander,” Mendoza said. “I've been watching your progress with great interest for the last few months. The attack you launched at Sinaloa Station was a masterstroke.”
“I had a good ship and a good crew with me,” Curtis replied. “That's my secret.”
“And a little bit of luck,” Saxon added.
Folding his hands together, Crawford said, “I have been empowered, Commander, to offer you and your crew citizenship in the Commonwealth. If you bring Polaris into our fleet, then you will continue as her commanding officer, with one of our people assigned as your new Executive Officer. In addition, I can offer a promotion to Commodore, and command of a new cruiser squadron. Similar offers are extended to Canopus and the rest of the personnel under your command. I don't deny that you would greatly improve our combat capability, and finally give us an opportunity to plan the invasion and conquest of the Federation.”
A frown spreading on his face, Curtis replied, “I'm not sure where you've been for the last two months, Admiral, but the Federation is on its knees now. With the forces I have at my disposal, we're on the verge of bringing it down for good. We don't need to delay, we don't need to wait. The time to move is now, not some time in the far-distant future.”
Nodding, McKinnon said, “Our latest analysis suggests that your assessment is correct, Commander. Even if your forces are defeated, the long-term survival of the Federation is doubtful at best.”
“Your analysts have never fought a war, Commodore. It's not something you can work out on paper or with simulations.” Crawford paused, then added, “However, I would be more than happy to listen to a realistic plan, Commander, once you are wearing the correct uniform.”
“I'm wearing that uniform now, Admiral,” Curtis said. “I didn't come here to defect, and I didn't come here to sign up to join a paper navy slowly rusting away in orbit.” Kowalski's face darkened, he noted, but Mendoza nodded in agreement, hanging on his words. “Allow me to lay out the current situation. The Federation is one substantial defeat away from losing the war. If we can bring the Federation Fleet to battle, and cause sufficient damage, then the path to Earth is wide open. This war can be over in a matter of weeks. Indeed, it has to be. Applied correctly, the industrial complexes in Earth orbit are superior to anything else in human space. We can't let them bring that advantage to bear.”
Leaning back in his chair, Crawford replied, “Then your plan is to throw everything into a single engagement. To risk the outcome of the entire war, of fifty years of preparation, on one firefight.” Shaking his head, he continued, “That, Commander, seems reckless in the extreme.”
“Every battle is a gamble, Admiral. I'd have thought a veteran such as yourself would know that. And no matter how much you try and stack the deck, it usually still comes down to the turn of a card.”
“Perhaps.” He paused, then said, “We might consider launching an operation. If one could be launched under our command. I would take the field myself, with you and Commodore McKinnon as my deputies. Then, once the battle is over, we can restore...”
Placing his hands on his hips, Curtis replied, “You really aren't listening, Admiral. We're not fighting to restore the power of the Oligarchs, to replace one collection of tyrants with another. This isn't a chance for a collection of centenarians to recover their estates on Earth.” Looking at Mendoza, he continued, “This is a chance for the Commonwealth to rejoin the rest of humanity, for its outposts and settlements to join a new nation that will restore freedom, liberty and democracy to the galaxy for the first time in centuries. That's what we're fighting for.”
Walking over to Crawford, he continued, “What have you actually done in exile, Admiral? Fifty years of dreaming about missed opportunities and past glories. None of them getting you any closer to your real goal. If you'd moved twenty years ago, during the Uprising, the Federation would be a page in the history books today. You can go home. Back to Earth. As citizens in a free, fair republic, not as hated conquerors.”
Shaking his head, Crawford replied, “We have a right to reclaim what is ours.”
Turning to Mendoza, he asked, “How old are you, Commander? Thirty-five?”
“Thirty-four.”
“You've never seen Earth. You have no estates to reclaim, no lost fortunes to recover. So what the hell are you fighting for? So that a collection of aging potentates to restore their empire?” He took a deep breath, and said, “For the first time in fifty years, you have another choice. I know that many of you have been waiting for this day. Waiting for a chance to make a difference. That time has come, and I call upon you, upon all of you, to join with us. To bring down the Federation, and be greeted as heroes, not tyrants. As liberators, not conquerors.”
“Sir,” Mendoza said, “I know that most of the junior...”
“Noble words, Commander,” Crawford interrupted, “but I can tell you know that the Council will never agree.” Glaring at McKinnon, he added, “Against my better judgment, the Commodore has offered you safe passage back to your ship, and I will honor that. Perhaps, once you have been defeated in battle, you'll return with a more realistic attitude.”
“Come with us, Admiral, and we'll win. Win it all. In ten weeks, the Federation flag will fall for the last time, and you're willing to throw all that away because the universe moved on and left you behind. Commodore, what do you think?”
“Perhaps…,” she said.
“Enough of this!” Crawford said, slamming his hand on the table. “This is over, Commander, and be very grateful that I don't place you under arrest.” The door behind Curtis opened, and the two guards stepped in, their faces wavering, glancing between Curtis and Crawford.
A smile spread across Curtis' face, and he turned to the nearest guard, and asked, “Your call, Corporal. Where do you stand in all of this?”
“That doesn't matter!” Crawford said.
“Maybe it should,” the guard said, standing to attention. “Orders, sir?”
“Throw these two off the station. Then we'll have a talk about your attitude,” Crawford barked. “Well?”
Shaking his head, the guard said, “I don't think I take orders from you, Admiral.” Turning to Curtis, he said, “Did you mean what you said?”
“Every word.”
“You heard that?” Crawford asked.
“My fault,” Saxon replied, a smile on her face, pulling out the lining of her uniform jacket. “Federation Intelligence has some nice toys, and some of them have even filtered through to ColSec. We've had the ability to crack into Commonwealth systems for some time. Our entire conversation was played over the internal speakers of this station and every ship in the Fleet.”
“How did you smuggle such equipment through security? I'll have someone 's head for this!”
“They didn't,” Kowalski said, pulling a pair of boxes out of his pocket. “I did.” Turning to Crawford, he continued, “We've got the best pilots in the galaxy. It's past time we gave them a chance to see what they can do.”
The door burst open, and a young man raced in, saying, “Commodore, we're getting a signal from Ajax. They want instructions for departure from the system. And Agamemnon has gone to alert stations, and is moving into formation with Polaris. What are your orders, ma'am?”
Crawford slumped in his chair, and said, “Guard...”
“It's over, Admiral,” Curtis replied, softly. Glancing at Kowalski, who nodded in response, he continued, “We didn't come here to convince the Commonwealth to join the war. Just First Cruiser Squadron.” Stepping forward, he said, “Commodore, I would be more than honored if you would command your formation in the rebel fleet.”
With a deep breath, Crawford looked down at the carpet, then up at Curtis, and asked, “How did you know?”
“You should have paid more attention to your subordinates,” he said. “I didn't just conjure this meeting out of thin air. Lieutenant Voronova made sure that our plans and goals have become public knowledge, at least as far as Khiva Station goes.” He paused, then added, “I'd have listened to a realistic offer, Admiral. You thought you had the winning hand. You didn't.”
He looked up, hatred in his eyes, and replied, “There will come another day, Commander, when you regret what you have done here.”
“Perhaps. But not today.” Turning to McKinnon, he said, “You haven't answered my question.”
“I'm still in command?” she asked.
“Your crews like you. They trust you. And right now, they need you.”
She looked at the defeated Crawford, and replied, “Very well. We'll be ready to move out of the system in one hour, Commander. Three cruisers, nine squadrons. I trust that will make all the difference.”
“Let's hope so,” Curtis replied, a smile on his face. He held out his hand, and said, “Welcome to the war, Commodore.”
Chapter 16
Mike leaned forward in his command chair, watching as the enemy squadrons scattered at Canopus' approach. He'd opted to arrive at Icarus Point in a full offensive posture, putting all of his fighters into the air as soon as they arrived, and the Federation commander had instantly broken away, pulling his forces well clear of the potential battle. Already, Castro was moving clear, heading towards Canopus into battle formation, her fighters meshing neatly with Commander Duval's forces. Sliding on a headset, he tapped a control on the arm of his chair.
“This is Commander Michael Curtis of the Free Starcruiser Canopus. Castro and her crew have opted to join the rebellion. They are to be permitted to do so. I have no interest in this system today. In order to avoid unnecessary loss of life, I am declaring an exclusion zone of thirty thousand miles from our two ships. Any vessel entering that area without permission from myself will be destroyed without warning.” Glancing up at the sensor display, he added, “You have sixty seconds to comply. This is not a negotiation or a discussion. These are my orders. Canopus out.”
“They're running for the hills, sir,” Schmidt said with a smile. “Most of them are heading a hell of a lot further than thirty thousand miles. One flights burning so hard that they'll need a tanker to bring them home again.”
“Cowards,” Kenyon said.
Shaking his head, Mike replied, “Don't dismiss them so easily, Lieutenant. They don't have a chance, and their commander is smart enough to know it. He's decided that he's not going to waste the lives of his men in a battle that he knows he can't win, and has probably thrown away his own to do it.” With a frown, he continued, “Do you really think the Fleet will let him get away with this unscathed? The Central Committee will demand a scapegoat, and he just volunteered.”
“Commander Ortiz is hailing, sir,” Petrova said, looking meaningfully at Mike. “Do you want to speak to him?”
Shaking his head, he said, “Not over an open channel, not when we don't know who might be listening in. Have him come over in a shuttlecraft. I'll see him in the briefing room.” Rising to his feet, he added, “Lieutenant Schmidt, you have the conn. Call me immediately if anything changes. We'll be leaving the system in eighty-two minutes, on schedule. All hands are to make final real-space preparations for battle.”
“Commander,” Hammond said, leaning over the communications station. “We're getting a few requests to join the fleet from the fighters. How do you want to handle it?”
“We're overloaded now,” he mused. “And I don't want to give anyone a chance for a kamikaze run. On the other hand, I don't intend to leave someone who has declared their allegiance behind, either. Inform anyone who wants to join the rebellion that they are to proceed to the fringes of the restricted area and eject from their fighters. Liaise with Commander Duval on the selection of a suitable rendezvous spot, and have a shuttle escorted too and from the pickup point.”
“Aye, sir,” Hammond said. She looked up at the board, and added, “Shuttle heading out from the surface as well, sir. Looks like a command vehicle. Same rules?”
Shaking his head, he said, “No, have them come right in, dead slow, under escort the whole way. My guess is that the local commander has decided that he'd rather survive the battle, and I suppose I can't blame him.” Turning to Petrova, he added, “I want him placed under interrogation when he arrives. Given that I suspect he's changed sides for practical reasons rather than ideological, I don't intend to trust whoever it is too far.”
“Records suggest a Lieutenant Don Ramone, sir. Fighter specialist.”
Frowning, Mike replied, “Don? I know him. Flew together for a couple of years. That might make a difference. I'll speak to him with Ortiz from the briefing room.” Gesturing at the screen, he added, “It'll be at least twenty minutes before he can get to us. Any sign that the other fighters are trying to stop him?”
“I don't see how they could,” Schmidt replied. “Not with them scattered like that. Could have been deliberate. To give him an easy way out.”
“That's Don, right enough. He'd have made Commander years ago if he wasn't the most insubordinate bastard in five systems.” Stepping into the elevator with Petrova, he added, “Lieutenant, you have the conn.”
“Aye, sir,” she replied, as the doors slid shut. “I have the conn.”
“Are you up to this?” Petrova asked.
Mike nodded, and replied, “I laid a few old ghosts yesterday. You might have been right. Maybe I needed to go over it with someone.” Shaking his head, he added, “It still hurts like hell, but it isn't Bill's fault. He did everything he could to help. More than anyone could have asked.”
Clasping her hand on his arm, she replied, “You aren't alone. Don't forget that.”
The doors slid open, and the two of them walked into the conference room, taking their customary seats at the head of the table. Only a moment later, a tall, portly man with thinning hair walked into the room, a younger, hawk-faced man behind him. His face broke into a beaming smile when he saw Mike, and he ran across the table, wrapping him in a bear hug before he could stand.
“Damn, it's good to see you, buddy,” Ortiz said. “It's been far too long. As soon as I found out you were in on this party, I knew which side I had to be on.” He gestured at the other man, and said, “Randy Wood, my Tactical Officer. I left my Exec back on Castro, just in case something went wrong, though you came sailing into the system like a god-damned avenging angel.” Looking at Petrova, he asked, “I admire your taste in junior officers, Mike.”
“Lieutenant Anastasia Petrova, my Political Officer.”
His face dropped, and he replied, “You kept your Political Officer?”
“I'd have died during my defection if it wasn't for her. She has my full confidence.” Gesturing for his friend to take a seat, he added, “You'd be surprised how many rebel sympathizers have been hiding in the strangest places.”
“You shouldn't be,” Wood said, in a clipped tone. “Quis custodes et custodes. Who watches the watchmen? Where better to hide than among those commissioned to root out the rebel within.” With a nod, he said, “It's a pleasure to meet you, Commander. A lot of us watched what happened at Sinaloa Station, and I think we were all there with you in spirit.”
Nodding, Ortiz added, “There are little rebel sects popping up all over the Federation. Reading between the lines, maybe a quarter of ColSec has either changed sides or declared effective neutrality. Two cities on Caledonia raised the old Celtic League flag yesterday, and everything's gone really quiet from Proxima. I'd say most of the frontier has changed sides, though most of them are a bit reluctant to admit it.”
“What about the rest of the Fleet?” Mike asked. “We've got almost five hundred officers and enlisted tricking in one way or another, but all from the frontier bases. Most of Canopus' crew switched sides, and we got a few from the others ships in my squadron as well.”
“Same story on Castro,” Ortiz replied, “but we were a hell of a lot luckier than most. You know why she was commissioned, along with the others? Commodore McGuire was planning an attack on the Commonwealth. Grab a few frontier systems, create some lame justification for pinning an Admiral's star on his shoulder. We were his little secret space fleet, the pride of the Political Directorate. God knows the Fleet bureaucracy weren't going to help the bastard.”
“I'd have thought they'd have put their own people on board, then,” Mike said, turning to Petrova. “How'd you draw one of them?”
“Castro was the class ship, first one launched, and she's been a positive beast to tame. Three months to work out all the problems. We've been out on the frontier, getting everything fixed out of sight. Might not have led to the level of fear McGuire was hoping for if his flagship was falling to bits during testing.” His face fell, and he added, “That's how we escaped the loyalty purge, anyway.”
“Purge?”
“Four weeks ago, right after Sinaloa fell. The Directorate went in and picked up anyone they even remotely had concerns about, then dumped the whole mess onto Triton. More than three thousand officers and men, most of them pretty damned senior.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Dozens. Marroni, Elkins, Moran, Koch, Nielsen.”
“Five Commanders?”
Nodding, Wood said, “And more than three dozen Lieutenants, most of them starship personnel. Two entire squadrons, for God's sake.”
“They've shot themselves in the foot. The fleet's a shambles. Word is that Old Man Yoshida is only hanging on by his fingernails right now. One more mistake, and he's out the airlock. Possibly for real. More than a few people have disappeared, and I don't think all of them can have gone underground. Of course, that's just making things worse, people figuring that they'd jump before they get thrown into detention.” With a gleam in his eyes, he rubbed his hands together, and said, “I got that we're planning to leave the system any moment now. Where are we going?”
“Hyperborea.”
Ortiz's smile cracked, and he replied, “For real? That's not some sort of bluff? I figured you'd decoyed them there, opened up another target for attack.” He looked back at Wood, then said, “You know that Admiral Yoshida has assembled a full fleet there. At least half a dozen capital ships. The best people we've got left are waiting for us.”
Nodding, Mike replied, “That's precisely the point, Bill. We've got to beat them sooner or later, and at least this way we get to choose the time and the place of the battle. Rather than hang around Sinaloa Station for the next year, waiting for them to decide to attack us.” Reaching for the controls, he brought up a strategic view of the Hyperborean system, and continued, “We come in here, a two-ship flotilla, and launch our fighters right away. Our job is to be one of the two pincers, holding them in place for the larger formation that's coming under my father's command.”
“You've got more ships?” Ortiz asked. “I only knew about Polaris and Canopus.”
“We do, but I'm afraid you don't get to know the details. Not until we get there. Suffice that we're going to be surprising the hell out of the defense forces, and if we have any luck at all, we'll wipe out the cream of the Federation Fleet in a single battle. This war could be as good as won by the time we turn in tonight.”
“Of course it will,” Ortiz replied. “You've got me on your flank. They've only been waiting for me to turn up before waving the white flag.” His face dropped, becoming more serious, and he said, “This one's for you, Mike. I made you a promise that I'd be there when you needed me. I'm not going to let you down. And neither will my crew. All the way, right?”
“All the way, buddy.”
The desk chimed, and Schmidt's voice filled the room, saying, “I have Acting Commander Ramone, wanting to speak to Commander Curtis and Commander Ortiz.”
“Don?” Ortiz asked. “What's he doing out here?”
“He's in command of the local fighter forces,” Mike replied, “Yeah, he's the one who held you up.”
Stabbing the desk, Ortiz yelled, “You cold-blooded backstabbing bastard, what the hell do you think you were doing? I'd have bombed you if my planetary assault weapons were working!”
“Yeah, but I knew they weren't,” a weary voice replied. “Mike, that you up there as well?”
“It is. I think I can guess what your game was, but for the record...”
“I wanted to defect, but I had to, well, create an opportunity. The local blackjacks were already out in force.” He paused, then added, “Mike, I've got my wife and son with me. Smuggled off Earth, right before the roundups. And the families of half a dozen of my pilots, as well. We'll fight with you in exchange for protection. I'll give you the names.”
“You know him well?” Petrova asked.
“My wingman for a year and a half,” Mike said.
“We've got to help him,” Ortiz said, looking gloomily at Petrova. “That kid he's talking about is my godson. Let me take them on Castro. From what I saw of your hangar deck, I've got more room for a half-squadron than you do, and every fighter we can put into the fight probably won't be as many as we need as it is, right?”
“Very well,” Mike replied. “I'll let you organize it. Talk to Commander Duval, get him to clear your people through the defense perimeter. But I want a full security screening of their fighters, Bill. Trust only runs so far at the moment, and one missile at the wrong place...”
“They can jettison their ordnance before landing. That's one thing we're not short of,” Ortiz replied. “So, once more into the breach, then? Just like old times.”
“Except this time it's not a score in a simulation or a training exercise,” Mike said. “No honor and glory in this, Bill. It's just something we've got to do. That's all.”
“I know,” he said. “We're with you. Hell, with Mike Curtis and Bill Ortiz turning up to the battle, they don't stand a chance. Polaris is just the icing on the cake, right!”
“Right,” Mike said, forcing a smile. He glanced at his watch, then said, “You'd better get back to your ship. Departure in seventy minutes. Battle stations in seven and a half hours, and emergence fifteen minutes later.”
“Got it,” he said. “Good luck, buddy.”
“Good hunting,” Mike replied, as his friend rose, walking out of the room.
Petrova looked after him, a thin smile on her face, and said, “He's a bit...”
“I know, but he's good in a fight, and I trust him. Without hesitation. He's earned it the hard way. He'll be there until the end, no matter how the battle turns out. Even if it goes down to the last ship, the last man.”
“We're going to win, Mike,” she said. “Don't ask me how, but we're going to win.”
“I wish I had your faith, Anna.” He looked up at the display, then added, “You're right. We'll win. Somehow.”
Chapter 17
As though somehow they had managed to get the word of the trouble brewing in the darkness, the residents of Ericsson City had opted to stay home tonight, hiding away in the squat residential domes for safety, while Cordova and Petrov picked their way through the narrow streets. Kani was elsewhere, on business of his own, making his way to the spaceport, while Cordova's goal was the towering broadcast station ahead, a four-level tower with a hundred-meter antenna placed haphazardly on top. In the days of the Oligarchs, it had been a radio telescope array, the pet hobby of a wealthy Governor. Today, she had other plans for it. A few pale faces looked down from the windows above as the two of them walked the streets, and she could imagine them hastening to contact ColSec, guiding enemies towards them. She looked across at Petrov, who shook his head.
“There's a full security alert,” he replied. “And paradoxically, that helps us for the moment. Most of the blackjacks are out at the labor camps. Town's usually pretty quiet, so the local militia got drawn down a piece at a time. I might have had something to do with that.”
“How long have you been planning this?” she asked, quietly.
“Years,” he replied. “Since not long after I arrived. Not this, specifically, perhaps, but I could see that the Federation's days were numbered, one way or another. I'd figured at one time that Hyperborea might have to go its own way, and it's one of the few colonies that might be able to make a real go of it. If you can provide something better, though, I'm all for it.” He turned a corner, moving down a side street, and gestured at a manhole cover by the side of the road. “That's our way in. I can get us all the way to the security perimeter, down at the elevator. After that, we're going to have to be a little more aggressive. The Governor has his own people in here, picked men from Earth, outside of the normal ColSec administration. Political Directorate, mostly.”
Nodding, she replied, “I'm ready,” and walked to the manhole, pulling it up by the handle to expose a shaft below, dropping into the gloom. The smell that reeked from the hole was indescribable, and she looked up at a red-faced Petrov, gagging for breath. He apologetically passed her a face-mask, strapping one of his own over his mouth.
“Sorry. Links in with the sewers, and we had a little flooding last week. It's not as bad as it smells, trust me.” He swung down the shaft, descending the ladder, and added, “Come on. Ten minutes to our deadline. We need to have some idea what's going on in orbit at the very least.”
She nodded, reluctantly following him down, hand over hand into the abyss below, only a few slime-covered glow-panels to provide an eerie green light. She could hear a faint chattering in the background, the noise of the familiar rats that were a menace on every world humanity had colonized, then a loud squeal as one of their predators found its prey. A perpetual battle raging down here in the dark, every bit as deadly as the one they were waging up on the surface.
Dropping to the ground, she followed Petrov along the tunnel, a thin trickle of black-gray liquid running down the middle that she was sure to keep well clear of, the smell leeching even though the tough plastic face-mask. Along the ceiling, bundles of aged fibreoptic cables hung, relics from the first settlement of the planet, a vital part of the local infrastructure that didn't appear to have been touched in a century. Graffiti scrawled by long-dead engineers littered the walls, and the signs of generations of neglect were everywhere, cracked panels, flickering lights, shattered cable brackets left on the floor where they lay.
Following her gaze, Petrov said, “Same story here as everywhere else. We make enough of a contribution to the Federation economy that they could afford to keep this place in pristine condition, but it all gets trawled back to Earth. We only get just enough funding to keep the colony working. Except for the luxury resorts, of course. They're kept up properly for the spoiled bureaucrat brats we get out here. Wouldn't want them to have to drink a martini without ice, would we?”
“I'd imagine that isn't much of a problem down here,” she replied.
Shaking his head, he replied, “Everything's old, and kept working only by luck, spit and tape. Though that's nothing new. Most of the Colonies are about the same.”
“At least you can breathe the air,” Cordova replied. “I can't say that about some of the worlds I've visited.” Gesturing at the end of the tunnel, a shining ladder covered in slick slime, she added, “Tell me that's the way out of here.”
“It is,” he replied. “Hopefully the smell won't stick to our clothes.” He gestured at the top of the ladder, and added, “That leads to the bottom of the elevator shaft. As soon as we enter the building itself, we're in the perimeter. Sirens sound, guns blazing. You get the idea?”
“Not much of a stealth operation, then,” she said with a smile.
Glancing at his watch, he replied, “In about six minutes from now, they'll have bigger things to worry about than a few rogue broadcasters.” He stepped onto the ladder, climbing quickly towards the shaft, as a strange howl filled the air from behind them. Cordova turned, looking into the darkness to the rear. He glanced down at her, and said, “I think one of the tigers might have got caught down here. Happens from time to time. Probably as well if we keep moving.”
“ColSec lets them roam around in the tunnels under the city?”
“As long as they aren't wandering the streets, sure.” He resumed his ascent, and Cordova followed, hand over hand, the slime and ooze running through her fingers as she hastened into the reassuringly clean elevator shaft. Petrov paused for a moment, then looked at her, nodded, and pulled open the inspection hatch, sending sirens and alarms ringing from the walls, cameras turning to focus on them as they slid into the elevator, Petrov slamming his hand on the controls to send it up through the levels. Pulling away a panel, he entered a trio of command codes, forestalling attempts to block their rise, while Cordova pulled out a borrowed pistol, checking that the clip was securely in place before leveling it at the door.
“Thirty seconds,” Petrov said. “You thought about what you're going to say?”
“I'll think of something,” she replied. The doors slid open, and a wide-eyed man stood at the threshold, rifle in hand, caught by surprise with his weapon pointed at the floor. Cordova aimed her pistol at his chest, and said, “Drop it. Now.”
He nodded, tossing his weapon to the ground, and she stepped into the cramped control room, a tall, dark-skinned man looking up from his desk, papers scattered in front of him, lights flashing as his piece to camera was interrupted. Petrov moved behind the camera, and Cordova stepped over to the desk, trying to keep her pistol out of sight. Another guard looked at the two of them, dropping his rifle as he decided that the odds against him were too great, holding his hands up in surrender.
“What is the meaning of this?” the man said.
“I'm sorry,” she replied, “but I'm afraid I'm going to have to interrupt your broadcast. If it's any consolation, you're about to get the scoop of the century. May I borrow your chair for a moment?”
He looked up at her, and said, “You're with the resistance.”
“Guilty as charged,” she replied, sliding into the chair. Footsteps raced down the corridor towards the studio, but before they could arrive, security doors slammed down, Petrov working the controls with a smile before returning to the control booth. Cordova looked at the man standing next to her, confusion reigning on his face.
“Go ahead, Major!” Petrov said, aiming his pistol at a nervous director. “You're live.”
“Good evening, Hyperborea,” Cordova said. “I'm sorry to interrupt your scheduled programming, but please remain on this channel. My name is Major Gabrielle Cordova. You might have heard of me. I assure you that the rumors of my death are gravely exaggerated.” Dixie held up a datapad, and she continued, “To confirm that, I'd like to congratulate the Crashland Cabin Cougars on winning the Northern League Cup yesterday. Go Cougars!””
“Great,” Petrov said, quietly. “I can hear the Falcons fans screaming from here.”
“The Federation has labeled me a terrorist. I suppose to them I am. Nothing is more frightening than change, especially a change that will sweep the tyrants who rule the Colonies from power. I, and many others like me, are fighting for your freedom. To give you the ability to choose the path of your own destiny, and that of your children. To ensure that your blood and treasure are spent for your benefit, not for that of some bureaucrat back on Earth.”
She took a deep breath, then continued, “Fifty years ago, our ancestors fought off the oligarchs, the rulers of the Commonwealth. You were promised a glorious future of freedom, of liberty. You've waited a long time to collect on that promise, and the time is now. All across human space, the colonies are rising. Rising to call for that freedom, that liberty. For the birthrights stolen from them.” Dixie flicked a finger across the screen, and she continued, “Only weeks ago, the Rebel Fleet liberated Sinaloa Station, elements of the Federation Fleet opting to follow the example of many of their comrades and switch to the side of freedom and justice.”
Her eyes seemed to sparkle as she continued, “The time has come for action. The time has come for you to take back what was yours, to overthrow the tyrants imposed on you by distant Earth and take charge of your own planet once again.” She looked up at the clock, and continued, “In a few moments, forces of the rebellion will be arriving in orbit, ready to wipe the scourge of tyranny from this world. They're here to give you the chance to fight for your freedom, to cast down your oppressors for once and for all. Grasp this moment, and tomorrow morning the sun will rise on a free Hyperborea. That's what we're fighting for. That's what we're willing to die for. Good night, and God bless you all.”
The lights flickered for a moment, and Petrov said, “Just in time, Major. They killed the feed. I'm sure everyone saw, though. Here and in orbit.” He glanced at his watch, and added, “Two minutes to go before everything starts happening up there. I'll try and get a feed from the dish.” A rhythmic pounding echoed from the security doors, and he added, “They'll need laser torches to get through that. We're safe. For a while, at any rate.”
“Is that true?” the newscaster asked. “The Rebel Fleet is on its way?”
Glancing at her watch, she replied, “In a little under ninety seconds, give or take.” She looked out at the windows, and added, “Nothing let, Petrov.”
“Give them time, Major,” the smiling man replied. “Right now every rebel cell for a hundred miles is unsealing their weapons caches. They'll be on the streets in minutes, and I don't think they'll be alone.” His communicator squawked, and he pulled it out, adding, “General planetary alert. You've scared the hell out of someone, anyway.”
The director shook his head, and said, “ColSec will sweep the streets clean. They'll butcher anyone who stands in their way. Don't you realize what you have done?”
“I know exactly what we've done,” Petrov replied. “Something that we should have done years ago. And ColSec's stretched pretty damn thin down here. If the people truly want to be free, they can be. The door's rotten. They just have to kick it in.” Gesturing at the controls, he said, “Get us an orbital projection, and throw it up on the monitor feed.”
Shaking his head, he replied, “We don't have the power.”
“Of course you do,” the newscaster barked. “It's only local space. Tie in the emergency relays from the rooftop array. The solar batteries will have enough stored up there to keep the system running for a while.” Buttoning up his jacket, he added, “You can turn down the heating, too.”
“Don't you understand?” the director said. “We're all going to die.”
“That's pretty much inevitable, kid,” Petrov said. “Right now, you get to chose the time and place.” The director glanced up at the nearest guard, who shook his head, standing to attention.
“If you're waiting for me to intervene, you're going to be waiting a while. Jack Smith, sir. I think I can operate the controls for you.”
“Be my guest,” Petrov said, gesturing him over to the panel.
“Traitor,” his comrade said, standing by the door. “When this is over...”
“When this is over, I'll be home with my wife and kids, and you'll be in an internment cell,” Smith replied. “Here it comes. On Screen One.”
All eyes turned to the display as it flickered into life, showing the enemy fleet hovering in orbit, the moons drifting through space beyond. As they watched, a familiar pattern emerged on the fringes of the system, new contacts snapping into view.
“I guess the cards have been dealt,” Cordova said. “Let's see what we've got in our hand.”
Chapter 18
“Emergence successful,” Kenyon said, looking up at the screen. “So that's Hyperborea. Hardly seems worth it.”
“One of only four worlds known where humanity can live without extensive life support,” Mike replied. “I'd say that's worth it. Castro?”
“Coming in now,” Schmidt replied, throwing controls. “Sensors harvesting data for tactical update. First assessment has six ships in orbit. Four Starcruisers, two Auxiliaries. Regulus is holding at the heart of the formation, almost certainly the flagship. They're moving into intercept, preparing to launch fighters.” Turning to him, she added, “We're getting a signal, sir. Admiral Yoshida, for you.”
Nodding, Mike replied, “I was afraid of that. Put him on.”
The viewscreen flickered, the tired face of Yoshida looking back at him across the vastness of space. Behind him, a pair of black-jacketed Political Directorate enforcers stood at parade rest, technicians swarming around the cramped control center.
“I never thought I'd be talking to you under these circumstances, Mike,” Yoshida said.
“Nor I you, Admiral.” He paused, then added, “You know I'm right, sir. You know that this is the only way. The Federation is on the verge of collapse, one that will lead to a transformation that could lead to something wonderful, something that we can be proud of. Why fight it? Why not be a part of it instead, help to make it happen. The Fleet will follow you.”
“Mike,” Yoshida said, sadness filling his voice, “You can't win. I have you outgunned three, four to one. Even if Polaris arrives in time, my forces are more than a match for yours.” He leaned forward, and said, “There's still a chance for you and your crew to get out of this in one piece.”
“And book ourselves a one-way ticket to Triton? No thanks, sir.”
“We want Canopus intact. Castro's less important. Transfer your crew over to Castro, leave everything you can behind, and go. The Commonwealth, the Halo Stars, I don't care. Just go, and don't come back. That's my offer, and it's a lot better than you'll get otherwise.”
Frowning, Petrova whispered, “He doesn't think he can win. He isn't certain about it, at least. Maybe he knows something we don't.”
With a smile on her face, Hammond turned from her station, and said, “I do. We're getting reports of riots on the surface. Two labor camps have successfully rebelled, fighting in all the others.”
“I'll be damned,” Mike said, a smile on his face.
“It gets better. Most of the reports are coming through on ColSec frequencies. I'd say we're looking at a full-scale defection in progress.” Turning to Petrova, she continued, “One Mikhail Petrov is prominent in the message traffic, ma'am.”
“Papa?” she said, her eyes widening. “He's with us! With the rebellion! I should have known!”
Yoshida's face reddened, and he said, “I won't pretend that the current insurgency on the surface isn't a factor in my leniency, Commander. I suggest you take advantage of their sacrifice to save your crew while you can.” Leaning forward, he added, “You have no way of winning today. Take your chips off the table while you can.”
“I'm sorry, Admiral. I truly am. I never wanted it to come to this, but you're leaving me with no choice. My orders are to act in support with the rebel forces currently conquering Hyperborea and establishing a defensive orbital perimeter. You have one minute to withdraw. Canopus out.” Turning to Schmidt, he said, “Scramble all fighters in the fleet. They're to proceed in dispersed arrowhead formation, in defense of the fleet. I want firing solutions on the leading elements of the enemy flotilla as soon as you can get them.”
“Aye, Commander,” Schmidt said, as Canopus rocked back on itself with the launch of forty-eight fighters from her tubes, the four squadrons racing ahead of the formation, merging with the two others launched from Castro. Mike looked up at the strategic display, momentarily awed by the mass of firepower under his command, seventy-two fighters and two cruisers. More than he'd ever commanded before, save in training simulations from his sojourn in Staff College.
And yet, ranging up ahead, Admiral Yoshida had three times as much force at his disposal, six capital ships and more than a hundred and twenty fighters. He was facing the most experienced fleet commander in the Federation, a veteran of the Uprising and the ongoing not-quite-a-war with the Commonwealth. There was something strange about the formation, though. Very conservative, and pushing the auxiliary cruisers to the fore. Mike looked across at Schmidt, who nodded.
“You've seen it too, sir,” she said. “He's using them as a shield. Other than that, it's right out of a textbook. I'd have expected more from the Hero of Sutter's World.”
“Don't underestimate him,” he replied. “Though you might have a point. Get me Castro.”
A second later, the speaker barked, “Ortiz here. What's up?”
“Those two ships,” Mike said. “Trotsky and Kropotkin. What do we know about them?”
“The officers will be from the Political Directorate, likely, or their relatives. Crews are probably a collection of troublemakers and idlers, skimmed off every command from here to Proxima Centauri. I'm not surprised he's sending them in first. Hell, their officers probably volunteered to get into the fight first. Anything to gain face back home, and they're expecting this to be the battle that ends the revolution.”
“Lots of message traffic between Regulus and Trotsky,” Hammond said, looking up from her station. “They've changed the codes, so I can't read it, but it's a lot higher than even combat norms.” She looked up at Mike, and added, “Lieutenant Petrova might be right. They've broken formation, broken orders, just to get the first few shots in. The fighters will still be ahead of them, so they'll be well-screened.”
“Maybe,” Mike replied, unconvinced. He looked at the rest of the formation, slowly spreading out, and his hands danced across the controls, sending the view spinning around, increasing and decreasing the magnification to properly examine it. Frowning, he entered a series of codes, bringing up a projected Polaris. Right now, it was coming in on a vector that could be countered by two of the Starcruisers, backed up by three squadrons. All the other potential approaches were similarly blocked. Everything was perfect. Too perfect.
He looked up at Hyperborea, gleaming in the starlight, a halo of orbital stations surrounding it. Right now, they were distracted, engaging enemies on the surface. That didn't matter; Yoshida didn't need them.
“He's hiding something,” Mike said. “This isn't the Admiral Yoshida I knew. Not the man who wrote the manual on unconventional warfare. He'd never use book tactics, not against an enemy who knows them as well as he does.”
“Maybe that's the very idea,” Schmidt replied, gesturing at the monitor. “We're going to have trouble if Polaris is late, even fighting a conventional formation.”
A smile crossed Mike's face, and he said, “That's it. He's hedging his bets. He knows that reinforcements are on the way, but he doesn't know how many.”
“Neither do we,” Kenyon noted.
“True, but he doesn't know that. He'd be assuming a carefully-constructed battle plan, not that we were making all of this up as we go along.” Tapping a control, he said, “Duval, you read?”
“I read you, Actual. Go ahead.”
“Alter formation, Phil. Spearhead. Right through the fighters. Don't try and engage them, don't try and block them, just dive right through and head for those two auxiliaries.” Looking up at the monitor, he added, “When they break, make for orbital space and start playing merry hell with the facilities. Anything military is fair game.”
“Can do, sir. And on the current enemy approach vector, we won't suffer many hits on the way, but that'll leave you and Castro exposed.”
“Let me worry about that, Commander. Smash those stations. Canopus out.”
Shaking her head, Schmidt replied, “He's right, sir...”
“Look at the board, Lieutenant. If this turns into a numbers game, we lose. I need to keep the enemy forces distracted for a while. Signal Castro.” Turning back to the helm, he continued, “In sixty seconds, I want a course change. Take us towards the second moon, into the sensor shadow.”
“They'll know there isn't anything there, sir,” Kenyon protested.
“Right now, yes. But given that our turrets are going to be knocking out their monitors, that's a situation that won't last for long.”
“I have Castro, sir,” a harried Schmidt said.
“Bill,” Mike began, before Ortiz could say a word. “Make for Polaris. They should be entering the system any time now. There's something here that isn't right, and I'm going to use Canopus as the lightning rod to find out. Execute immediate course change.”
“That'll...”
“We've got to divide the enemy formation,” Mike pressed. “This way we can split it into two, maybe three pieces, and keep Yoshida guessing about what we're planning. Get moving, Bill. Canopus can take care of itself, at least for the moment. Out.” He looked up at the sensor display, nodding in approval as he saw the auxiliary cruiser lurch out of formation, moving to the side. The first flights of Duval's fighter wing were sweeping through the enemy, ripping into the heart of the formation as though it wasn't even there.
That had caught the enemy commander by surprise, but he'd rallied quickly, peeling off two squadrons to chase after Castro, leaving the others to dive for Canopus. None of them had moved back to protect the orbital facilities. Mike frowned, punching in controls, and shook his head. There were two reserve squadrons on the surface, but they'd be target practice for the forces he'd sent into Hyperborean Orbit. Either the enemy wing leader had decided that the fighters could wait, or he'd assumed Mike was playing a bluff.
Until that realization, he had been. Now, it was a different story.
“Altering course,” Kenyon said. “Maximum acceleration. We'll be on the far side of the moon in four minutes. She's pretty close.” Glancing across at a monitor, she added, “So are the fighters. Contact seventeen seconds after closest lunar approach.”
Nodding, Mike looked back at the cruisers. A hundred fighters could make a substantial mess of Canopus if they pressed the attack, but his defensive armament would yield a bloody payment for the destruction. That wasn't Yoshida's style. He was using his fighters to probe, to pin, not to attack in their own right. It was the capital ships that he was really worried about.
“Damn,” Schmidt said, as they altered course. “Ranging on Castro, sir.”
“What?” Hammond asked. “Why? They can't just ignore us, can they?”
Mike's face dropped, and he rose to his feet, saying, “Behind the moon. There's a second force behind the moon. And we're heading right for it.” He turned to Kenyon, and said, “Reduce maximum altitude as low as possible. I want to be scraping craters, Lieutenant. The lower the altitude, the more cover we'll have on the pass. Schmidt, begin defensive salvo as soon as we get close.” Gesturing at the monitor, he added, “You'll only have maybe two hundred degrees of arc to worry about, so plan your attack accordingly.” Stepping forward, he added, “How close can you get us, Lieutenant?”
“It's small, not too jagged,” Kenyon mused. “I'd like to try for two thousand feet.”
Shaking his head, he said, “Make it a thousand.”
Her eyes widened, and she replied, “There are higher peaks down there, sir.”
“And we have full topographical charts at our disposal, but I need more from you than that. We should get a nice boost from the swing-around. Enough that they won't be able to catch us from a standing start. I need a course to intercept the enemy cruiser squadron.”
Kenyon's face paled, and she turned to him, saying, “I think I can do it, sir, but it'll put us on a course that will give them every chance to pound us to pieces.”
Looking at his watch, Mike said, “In less than eighty seconds, the rest of our fleet will arrive. I need to be on a course that will allow us to do maximum damage to the enemy before they can intercept our forces. If I'm reading the trajectory plot correctly, this should allow us to do just that. Understood?”
“Aye, sir,” she replied. “Implementing course change now.”
“Are you sure about this?” Petrova asked. “We could follow our fighters, move to hit Hyperborean orbital space.”
Looking up at her, he replied, “Yoshida-san wouldn't leave his flank open like this, not unless he was completely sure of himself. I don't know what he's going hiding back there, but I do know he's counting on something dealing with Canopus.”
“Signal from Commander Duval,” Hammond said. “He's cleared the Federation fighter flotilla, and moving in towards the orbital stations. First contact in eight minutes.” She paused, sighed, and added, “You were right, sir. Detecting two ships behind the moon. One Starcruiser, one auxiliary, holding station.”
“Rest assured, Lieutenant, that I take no satisfaction from that,” he replied, sitting back in his chair. “Hold course, helm. Nice and easy.” He looked up at the countdown clock, and asked, “Any sign of warp distortion?”
“Nothing yet, sir,” Schmidt said. “They're cutting it fine, Commander.”
“They'll be here,” he replied. Quietly, he added, “I hope.”
Chapter 19
Sirens called out into the gathering gloom as Kani, wearing a borrowed flight jacket and helmet, raced down the road to the military starport, waving a forged ident card that on any other day would have caused him to be stopped and searched. Paradoxically, the security alert and the attack warning made his life a lot easier. Nobody had time to question one more pilot running to the flight line, and with his helmet in place, nobody could recognize him.
The field was total chaos, barked orders being ignored by harried technicians as they struggled to ready the defense fighters for battle. Pilots sprinted around, trying to find their place, hastened briefings roaring from the speakers. No one was paying any attention. Enemy forces were attacking. Rebel forces rising all across the planet. Only panic ruled the field now.
He sprinted for the nearest fighter, waving at one of the other pilots as though he belonged there, climbing quickly into the cockpit before anyone could stop him. He glanced around at his fellows, all reservists who probably hadn't trained together for years, scrambled at a moment's notice in the desperate hope that everything would work out at the last minute. One look at the tactical display told him why. Upwards of seventy fighters were heading into orbit, racing towards the orbital facilities. A swarm of escape pods were racing down to the surface, the panicking civilians desperately fleeing the doomed facilities.
“Angel Leader to all Angels,” a gruff voice said. “Keep this easy, keep this slow. We're not going to stop them, but we might be able to hurt them long enough for our forces to intercept them.”
A younger voice answered, “Why should we die because some Fleet bastard made a mistake? These birds are thirty years old, and we're outnumbered five to one!”
“Belay that talk, mister,” the squadron leader snapped. “Just do your job. We've got launch clearance. I'll see you in the sky. Leader out.”
Kani looked around at the controls, similar to the fighters he'd flown in the Commonwealth and of similar antique vintage, and reached for the launch thrusters, firing a series of experimental pulses to kick himself clear of the ground, then tipped the nose up and run the throttle as hard as he could. The fighter didn't have anything like the boost to clear the atmosphere by itself, but a pair of boosters had been strapped to the back. Belatedly, he checked the center of gravity, and his eyes widened at the ineptitude of the ground technicians. With a sigh, he settled his hands on the thruster controls, then lightly tapped the firing control.
The surge of acceleration slammed him back into his couch, his vision starting to blur as the fighter's course moved into a lazy spiral. His hands gripped the thrusters, struggling to hold his trajectory, and a quick glance at the sensor controls showed him that the rest of the squadron was suffering the same problems. One of them had already aborted back to the surface, not even trying to work through the nightmare the ground crew had inflicted upon them. Two more were diving low across the ground, unlikely to clear the mountains ahead, and most of the formation was scattered all over the sky, their courses wildly divergent, spinning into infinity.
“Leader to Pilots! Get your butts in gear!”
“Shut up, you bastard!” the younger voice from earlier said. “Jerry's going down, and Dexter's right behind him. I signed up to fight, not to crash into the ground before we even got into battle. When I get back down to the surface, I'm going to kill the bastard who did this to us!”
Kani settled down his course, and said, “Angle up nine-one degrees as soon as you finish your primary burn, and run your throttles at one-oh-five. That should get us into some sort of formation, on an approach path for the rebel fighters.” Reaching down to his tactical controls, he added, “Unless anyone has any objections, I'm assuming command of the squadron.”
“By what right…,” the older pilot began.
“Shut up, Mitch!” the young pilot said. “At least he's doing something useful! Jack Carter, here, mister, and I'm with you.”
“Call me Win,” Kani replied with a smile. “Anyone else who wants to live through this battle, come onto my vector. I'll arrange new tactical instructions in a minute.” He paused, then said, “I used to do this for a living. Trust me, I know what I'm doing.”
Mitch, chastened, said, “I didn't know we had any actual fighter pilots in the Reserve.”
“Technically, you don't,” he replied. “It's a long story, but I wasn't going to ignore a planetary defense alert when there were fighters sitting on the field.” Reaching down to the navigational computer, he said, “We're going to try something. Anyone here ever done a skip before?” The silence was damning, and he cursed the planetary defense controller who had sent up a collection of barely trained pilots to their deaths. “Engage course change, thirteen degrees down angle. Get it right, and you'll come in behind the rebels and give them a little surprise.”
“Confirm,” one of the pilots said. “My system...”
“The trajectory plotters on these birds are conservative as hell. Trust me, it'll work.”
He looked at the course again, nodding in satisfaction. In around three minutes, they'd realize that they were on a trajectory that would take them safely back to the surface, with no chance of pulling out. The fighters would be stuck out in the middle of nowhere, but these pilots had no business taking part in a firefight. Taking them into battle would be murder, even if he was on their side. One by one, the pilots committed to the new course, all but Carter.
“Angel Three to Win,” Carter said. “What are you up to?”
“They don't belong in a battle. Neither do you. Head home.”
“Repeat question. Why?”
Checking that the other pilots were past the point of no return, Kani flicked on his targeting controls, and said, “I'm an officer in the rebel fleet. Squadron Leader Winston Kani, wing leader of the Starcruiser Polaris.” Glancing at the sensor display, he added, “I meant what I said when I told you that I didn't think the squadron had any business taking part in a dogfight, especially against odds that high. None of you would have lasted for sixty seconds in a battle.”
There was a pause, and Carter said, “I guess I've missed my window to make it down.” He paused, then said, “I can't let you do this, Squadron Leader.”
Hurling his fighter to the side, Kani replied, “Don't do this, Pilot. I've got ten years in the cockpit and half a dozen kills to my name. I don't want you to be number seven. You've got enough speed to make low orbit. You'll live through this.” He paused, then said, “Damn it, those bastards down there sent you up here to die!”
“No,” he said. “They sent me up here to defend my world from attack.”
Kani brought up the targeting display, throwing controls to lock onto the approaching fighter. Carter knew his stuff, more than a normal shuttle jockey should, but he was faster, sharper, better trained. Still anxious to avoid battle, Kani threw his throttle back, letting Carter take the lead, but the enemy pilot matched his move, spinning in an attempt to draw bead on him. Two dots appeared on the sensor display, missiles racing into the sky.
By the book, Kani should have launched his own missiles to match the incoming warheads, played a defensive game that would have guaranteed his survival. Instead, his hand danced across his firing controls, setting up a series of pinpoint maneuvers that sent his fighter spiraling through the sky, his particle beams lancing out to detonate the missiles as they approached. The first detonated at a safe distance, a brief flash in the sky, but the second dodged his first blast, then his second, then his third, reaching closer and closer as his fighter danced desperately through the sky, trying to find his target. Warning lights flashed on the display, the computer flickering instructions to launch a defensive missile, anything to protect itself and its pilot.
With less than a second to spare, his fourth blast found its target. Kani looked for Carter, now ahead of him, using the advantage of acceleration to control the battle, trying at least to force his opponent out of the sky, to an uncertain landing back on Hyperborea. Kani still wasn't going to waste a missile, but he flicked on his targeting computer again, lining up for a precisely targeted shot. He'd only have a single change, knowing that Carter would be shooting back, but for what he had in mind, he only needed a low-power impact. He squeezed the trigger, nimbly catching the enemy fighter's sensor array.
“Carter, I know you can hear me,” he said. “You're blind. Out of the battle. It was a nice try, but you've had it.” He tapped a control, his thrusters sending him weaving to the side, and added, “I've already altered course. Time to bail out. Someone will pick you up once the fighting is over. You have my word as a Commonwealth officer.” He paused, then added, “It really was damned close. Kani out.”
He looked across at his readouts, frowning at the dire news flooding into his systems. Takeoff from Hyperborea had used far more fuel than he'd have liked, even with the booster assistance, and the brief skirmish with Carter had robbed him of even more. Throwing a control, he watched with satisfaction as a small object tumbled from Carter's fighter, the pilot finally deciding to take the better part of valor and withdraw from the battle.
Switching to long-range sensors, he quickly examined the battlespace, spotted Canopus moving towards an outer moon, a pair of enemy ships behind it attempting to shuffle into an intercept course, and another ship, an auxiliary cruiser, racing for the gravitational threshold with what appeared to be the whole enemy fleet on their tale. Fighters swarmed through the sky like angry hornets, and he finally reached for the communications controls, looking for the rebel combat frequency.
His fingers struggled with the unfamiliar equipment, trying to remember his training in obsolete systems, brief bursts of noise flashing through his cockpit as he danced from one network to another. Shaking his head, he turned back to the scanner, zooming in on the approaching rebel formation, trying to focus on the wing leader's fighter with his comm laser, straightening out his course to give himself an easier shot.
“Squadron Leader Kani to Commander Duval,” he said. “Squadron Leader Kani to Commander Duval. Phil, do you read me?”
“Win?” Duval asked. “What the hell brings you out here? I thought the plan...”
“Never mind the plan,” Kani replied. “You think I'm going to sit down on the deck while there's a firefight going on up here? I'm lower on fuel than I'd like, but I'm on something at least close to your trajectory, and I've got two missiles that say I've got an invite to your party.”
“Not that I'm not trusting, but...”
“Day password is Ortega, command password is Spindle, and mission password is Utility.”
“Voice-print match,” Duval said. “I'll take the help. Swing around to the rear of the formation and take rear guard. If anything catches us by surprise, I'll need you to rally reserves to cover us. Given Admiral Yoshira's reputation, I'd say that's damn near a certainty. What's happening down on the surface?”
“Full-scale revolt. Major Cordova's handling it.”
“How the…” he began. “Never mind. Tell me when this is over. I'm going to make one fast pass of the orbital stations on this side of the planet, then see what the situation is once we're through. I don't want to loiter for long, in case whoever is commanding those fighters decides that we're not playing some sort of elaborate bluff.”
“Roger,” he replied, altering course. “Coming onto your rear. One question. Where the hell is Polaris?”
“Two minutes late and counting. If they don't arrive soon, we're dead.”
Chapter 20
“Where the hell are they?” Mike asked, looking up at the sensor screen, at the empty sector of space where Polaris had been due to arrive with whatever force they had gathered together. Turning to the rear, he said, “Walensky, break communications silence. Contact Polaris, and find out when they mean to keep their appointment.”
Moving to his side, Petrova said, “We might have to think about pulling out of the system. The odds aren't getting better. From her current position, Castro can reach the threshold.”
“Sure, but we'd have to leave their fighters behind. Probably some of ours as well. Even if we could make contact with them without coming under attack, we'd never be able to get six squadrons on board. And what about the rebels on the surface? You saw the broadcasts. Ten thousand people are marching the streets, demanding freedom. Right now the authorities are holding back. You think the Federation won't make an example of them if we leave? They'd bomb every labor camp from orbit, just to be sure.” Shaking his head, he replied, “We're committed. We've just got to find a way to beat the odds.” Turning to the left, he asked, “Any good news for me, Lieutenant?”
Schmidt looked up from her panel, and replied, “A little. The two ships up ahead aren't going to be able to catch us quickly. Too slow to start accelerating. Meaning they're only going to have a single pass.” She glanced across, smiled, and said, “And now the leading auxiliary cruisers in the man formation are tailing off. Making for the defense platforms.”
“Good,” Mike replied, nodding in approval. “Tell Commander Duval that they're now his primary target, but that he's to shoot to disable, not to kill, and hold back as much ordnance as possible.” Looking up at the screen, he continued, “That'll almost certainly get those fighters off our tail. We're not going to be a threat to their precious facilities for a while.”
“Two minutes to the moon, sir,” Kenyon said, her attention totally focused on the helm. “Not too late to change our lowest approach, Commander. We're at eight hundred and ten meters now.”
Shaking his head, he said, “Maintain course. Just make sure we don't slam into a mountain. We've got up-to-date topographical charts of the surface. Use them.”
“Aye, sir,” she replied with an understandable sigh. Mike could sympathize. He was asking her to perform a nearly impossible task, to complete a regulation-smashing close approach with a planetary-scale body while coming under attack from enemy ships, and attempting to use the gravity swing to put them on a precisely calculated course. He'd never have been able to pull of a turn like that himself, but Kenyon was one of the best helmsmen in the Fleet. Rebel and Federation. If anyone could do it, she could.
“No contact from Polaris, sir,” the communications technician said. “I have Major Cordova for you, though, from a surface station.”
“What the hell are you using to pick up messages, Spaceman? An Ouija board?” Hammond asked. “It's got to be a Federation trick.”
“Administrator Petrov is with her, sir, and I've verified his identity,” the technician protested. “I don't think this is a deception, Commander. I'm picking up gunfire in the background.”
“Put her on,” Mike said. Tapping a control, he began, “This is Canopus Actual. To whom am I speaking.”
“Major Cordova, and if you want details on how I came back from the dead, you'll have to ask Saxon when she arrives. We've been tracking your progress on our long-range sensors, and we've got enough power to feed in telemetry data.” A low rumble came from the background, an explosion somewhere in the distance. “There's fighting all through the city. Right now we're holed up in the broadcasting station, but we're in no immediate danger. I think you're the ones taking the risks upstairs.” She paused, then added, “Everything we're hearing down here suggests that Hyperborea is ours if you can win the battle in orbit. Most of ColSec has switched sides.”
“That's good news, Major. Hold the fort down there.” Mike paused, then asked, “In case things don't work out, do you have any way of getting off the surface?”
“Not a chance, Commander. Not to worry, though. Dying didn't hurt that much the first time. Maybe I can get used to it. Good luck. Hyperborea out.”
“Sixty seconds to closest approach,” Kenyon reported. “Getting more details about the enemy ships now, sir. Looks like the Starcruiser Sirius and the Auxiliary Cruiser Hoxha. They're on the move, but much too slowly to do any good.” Glancing across at a panel, she added, “Forty-five seconds to firing, Commander.”
Nodding, Mike replied, “Keep it tight, Lieutenant. And don't wait for any orders from me. Do what you have to do to make this maneuver work.”
“Understood, sir,” she said.
“Preparing full offensive/defensive barrage,” Schmidt replied. “Odd, sir. They haven't launched any of their fighters yet. They should have four squadrons between them, and we don't have anything much that can stop them.” Looking at her readouts, she continued, “And the initial fighter screen is hanging back.”
“Yoshida-san's being cautious,” Mike mused. “He knows we have reinforcements coming, but he isn't completely sure where. This way, no matter where Polaris enters the system, he's covered. Fighters in one direction, cruisers in another, and either can form a second wave if needed.” Looking back at the sensor display, he said, “Anything?”
“Not sure,” the technician reported. “Wait one.”
“I can't, Spaceman!” he replied. “Even if it is just your best guess, give it to me.”
“There's increasing levels of instability, Commander, but it doesn't match anything I've seen before in the Federation Fleet.” Turning to him, she added, “And big, sir. Too big for a single ship. This may be additional reinforcements for Admiral Yoshida's forces.”
“Five Starcruisers and three Auxiliaries aren't enough?” Petrova replied. “Not to mention the one Polaris brought down on her first visit.” She snapped her fingers, and said, “The damage they did! Three squadrons out of the fight! I'd bet that they had to raid them from their reserves. If the battle had gone as he wanted, they might have evaded contact.” Turning to him, she said, “That means two things, sir. That he doesn't have the support back home that he'd like, and that he doesn't trust Sirius. I recommend concentrating all offensive fire on Hoxha.”
“Do it, Schmidt,” Mike replied with a nod. “And see if you can signal Sirius. Who's her commanding officer?”
“According to the records, Meg Bishop,” Schmidt said. “I used to serve with her. By-the-book, old school. Lots of time on the frontier, decent combat experience.” She looked up, and added, “I agree with Lieutenant Petrova. She'd be at the heart of the formation if Admiral Yoshida trusted her.”
“Twenty seconds to closest approach,” Kenyon said, as the crimson moon rose towards them, Canopus swooping down to its jagged, crumbled surface, skimming through the vestigial traces of atmosphere as it raced into the flyby. Rocks flashed past as she made second-by-second adjustments, guiding the ship smoothly over the landscape, swinging from side to side to dodge obstructions and evade the expected attack.
“Energy spike from the enemy ships!” Schmidt said. “Hoxha's going for our hull, Sirius for our drive units.” From overhead, the familiar pounding of the defensive turrets burst into life as they flashed through the battlespace, waves of fire ripping from Canopus to form a particle shield above them, blocking the kinetic projectiles before they could make an impact.
“Sirius is trying to cripple us, not kill us,” Petrova said. “Interesting.”
“I guess Meg's not in a bloodthirsty mood today,” Mike replied, watching as the fire patterns on the screen danced back and forth, sweeping in and out as the rival gun crews worked to strike their foes, pulses of flame rippling through space as the desperate battle raged. Then, as suddenly as the firefight had begun, it ended, Canopus soaring around the far side of the moon on the predicted intercept course with the cruiser squadron ahead. Behind them, Sirius and Hoxha raced to chase them down, but they'd left their move too late. For the present, Canopus was safe. Though given their ultimate destination, that safety would be all too brief.
“Good work, Lieutenant,” Mike said, rising to his feet. “Time to intercept?”
“Eight minutes, nine seconds, sir,” Kenyon said.
“What's the status on that interference?”
“Nothing new, sir,” Schmidt reported. “It could be a sensor ghost. There's a lot of jamming going on in the deep system, and there's been a lot of warp activity in the area lately, capital ships moving about. Sometimes it can create an ongoing ripple effect.” Turning to Mike, she said, “We can't count on that being anything we can use, Commander.”
“Agreed,” he said with a sigh, reaching for a control. “All decks, this is the Commander. In about eight minutes, we will be engaging a far superior force.” He looked up at the sensor display, watching as the enemy fighter squadrons broke into independent formations, half a hundred of them heading his way. “Four Starcruisers to our one. We've done everything we can do to reduce the odds, and we've taken them about as far as we can go.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “In my judgment, the odds of Canopus living through this attack are remote. With that in mind, all non-essential personnel are to proceed to the hangar deck and evacuate the ship at once. I repeat. All non-essential personnel are to evacuate. If you depart within five minutes, you'll be able to make it down to Hyperborea without risk of intercept.”
Looking around the bridge, he continued, “I have every expectation that our reinforcements will be here soon, and that we will do sufficient damage to the enemy forces to allow Polaris to win a victory, but I do not believe that Canopus will be here to see it. All of you have performed magnificently, beyond anything that I had any right to ask you, but this ship's journeys are over. No heroics, people. All those not on the Red List, get going with my thanks, and my blessing. That is all.” Flicking a switch, he added, “That includes Amber and Green rated bridge personnel, people. Lieutenant Hammond, you will proceed to hangar deck and assume command of the survivors. Liaise with Commander Duval to watch your back in case of enemy attack.”
She turned to the door, paused, then replied, “I don't like to abandon ship, sir.”
“You've got a job to do, Lieutenant, and you can't do that here. Good luck.”
She waited for a moment, nodded, then said, “Aye, sir. Goodbye, Commander,” and walked into the elevator with half a dozen technicians, the doors sliding shut as they began their rapid journey down to the hangar deck. He looked up at Petrova and smiled, gesturing at the door.
“I suppose ordering you to leave would be a waste of time.”
“A complete waste of time,” she said. “I'm glad you didn't bother.” Looking at the screen, she said, “We've broken up their strike force, sliced it into pieces. If we just had a couple more cruisers...”
“I know,” he replied. “I know. At the very least, we're going to do enough damage to the enemy flotilla that they'll spend the next few months in dry dock. That might give Polaris a chance to even the odds a little, make some real progress.”
“Shuttles departing, sir,” Schmidt said, looking up from her controls. “I presume I'm going for a full-offensive strike pattern on our attack.”
“Absolutely, Lieutenant,” he replied. “Send those bastards straight to Hell.” He leaned forward in his chair, and said, “You think our people will make it down in one piece?”
“I suppose the enemy fighters could swing around again, but Duval's people are in a good position to block them if they do, and I have a feeling they're going to concentrate all of their firepower on us. As it stands, we'll have four squadrons hitting us at the same time as we intercept those cruisers.” Turning to him, she said, “It really was a damn nice try, sir.”
Nodding, he looked around the bridge again, Petrova moving to stand by his side, and began, “Ladies and gentlemen, in case I don't get a chance to say this sooner, it has been...”
“Wait one!” Schmidt said, spinning back to her console. “Energy spike, out at the threshold, close to Castro. Incoming ships. One. Two. Four. Four capital ships, sir, and Commonwealth signatures.” Her eyes widened, and she said, “It's Polaris! And they brought friends!”
A smile curved across Mike's face, and he said, “That changes the story a little, Lieutenant.”
With a grin, she said, “Always did prefer books with a happy ending, Commander.”
Chapter 21
“All decks are cleared for action, Commander,” Hudson said, looking across from her console. “First Cruiser Squadron has reported in, executing the battle plan as instructed.”
Looking at the chaos on Hyperborean space, Curtis said, “Launch all fighters, to target that cruiser squadron. Maybe we can find a way to even the odds a little.” Turning to Rojek, he added, “What's your assessment, Felix?”
“Slice and dice, skipper. Looks like Canopus and Castro have really done a number on their formation. I'm not picking up much in the way of debris, so I don't think we've missed much of the action, but they've opened them up into three different firefights.” Frowning, he added, “We want to concentrate on the cruisers, I think. That big formation. The second one shouldn't be much trouble unless the main force defeats us, and I'd recommend keeping our fighters concentrated, rather than dispersing them like they have.”
“All fighters launched, Commander,” Hudson reported. “I'm picking up an armada of shuttles from Canopus heading towards the surface. Looks like they're abandoning ship.”
“I don't blame them,” Saxon said, looking ruefully at the screen. “One ship against four wouldn't have been much of a battle. Your son must have stripped down to core personnel for the final firefight.” Shaking her head, she added, “Our fighters aren't going to get there in time, sir. Not even if they burn all their engines at overload. We'll be four minutes after that.”
Curtis sighed. Despite all their best efforts, they'd been eight and a half minutes late entering warp at Khiva, and it was impossible to make up a single second until they emerged. He'd hoped and prayed that he would arrive in time, and it looked now as though all of those hopes had been in vain. Reaching for his controls, he looked back at the communications team
“Contact Castro. No point risking them in the line of battle right now. Have them move to support the fighters, closer in towards Hyperborea, and ride shotgun on those shuttles on the way to the deck. After that, they're to proceed at their commander's discretion, with my suggestion that finding some nice juicy targets to blot out of existence would be a good idea.”
“On it, sir,” the technician replied.
“Can you get me Canopus?”
“Trying, Commander, but there's a lot of interference between us and them,” Rojek said. “It's going to have to be a message laser, and they keep blocking our beam.” He frowned, then tapped a control, adding, “That should do it. I'll bounce it off a probe. If they try and intercept that, they'll have to go way off course to do it. Give me thirty seconds for it to get far enough out.”
Nodding, Curtis scanned the sky, issuing quick orders to the rest of the formation. Four ships, twelve squadrons, up against four ships and six. The battle had changed in a heartbeat, a theoretical rout transformed into an incipient victory. The triumph that he had been hoping for, a glorious battle that would rally rebel groups across the Federation to his banner. Except that it was beginning to appear that this victory would be purchased at the cost of the life of his son.
“I have Admiral Yoshida, sir. No scrambler,” the technician said.
Cracking a smile, Curtis said, “Put the old bastard on.”
A second later, Yoshida's face appeared on the screen, and he immediately began, “You have temporary superiority, Commander, but I still retain superior force in this system, and as soon as my fleet rallies, I'll have you beaten. Withdraw, and I will accept the surrender of Canopus rather than destroying it.”
“Not a chance, Admiral,” Curtis replied. “We've got you beat and you know it. For the sake of your crew, I call upon you to conditionally surrender. I will permit you and your people to return to Earth in the auxiliary cruisers.” Looking across at the monitors, transmissions flooding in from the surface, he added, “The people of Hyperborea appear to have decided in our favor already. Can't you respect that decision?”
“My orders are to destroy Polaris and Canopus, Commander, and I will not disobey them.” He looked off-screen, then said, “My reserve formation is moving back into position. You can't win against that much firepower, and you know it.”
“Sir,” Rojek said. “The two auxiliary cruisers are altering course again. Moving to intercept the shuttles from Canopus.” He looked up at a readout, and added, “They'll be in firing range in five minutes. I'm sorry, Commander, I didn't think they'd break away from intercepting us.”
Leaning forward in his chair, Curtis said, “Killing unarmed shuttles, Admiral? I suppose we should have expected that. It seems that attacking those who can't fight back is Federation strategy these days. Rest assured that I will do everything I can to defend them, and that I will see that those responsible are brought to trial. Including yourself, Admiral.”
Yoshida turned away from the pickup, barked orders, then looked back at Curtis, his face doleful, replying, “That is not my order, Commander.”
“Get off the god-damned fence, Yoshida!” Curtis yelled. “These are the people you are serving. Butchers and tyrants. This fleet is supposedly under your command. You are responsible, whether you like it or not. And I intend to hold you as such. Polaris out.” Sitting back in his chair, he turned to Rojek, and asked, “Is there anything we can do to help them?”
Shaking his head, he replied, “Not a thing, Teddy. Nothing we have is in position to stop them. There are a few squadrons from Canopus heading towards them, and as near as I can tell, they'll intercept those ships just about at the same time as the shuttles will enter firing range. There's nothing else we can do.” He looked down, sighed, and added, “Sirius has altered course as well, heading for the shuttles. I'd expected better of Meg Bishop.”
“Assuming she's still calling the shots over there,” Saxon said. “Commodore McGuire, probably. Anyone want to bet that Yoshida put him in command of the auxiliary forces to keep him out of the way?” Gesturing at the screen, she added, “That'd probably explain why they're dancing all over the sky right now.”
Curtis turned back to Rojek, and asked, “Anything from Canopus?”
“Not yet.”
“Well hurry up, damn it!”
Turning to him, he replied, “Those probes can only move so fast, Commander, and the enemy hackers are already doing their best to suborn it.”
Curtis looked back at the viewscreen, watching as his formation slowly slid into position, just as he had planned, hours ago. There was no doubt in his mind that the battle was going to be won, not now. He had Yoshida cold. But the cost, the cost was going to be far too damned high. His fingers rattled the armrest of his command chair, and Saxon glared down at him.
“Either get your head in the game or turn command over to Hudson,” she hissed. “I know it's your son out there, but there's nothing you can do for him right now. Hell, I don't know what you think you're going to do if you do manage to talk to him. He's done everything he could, and he's set the stage for our victory, and he knew going in that he was taking a risk.”
“Enemy cruiser squadron moving into diamond formation,” Rojek reported. “Playing a conservative game.” He smiled, and he added, “Our fighters have hit two orbital stations, and half a dozen surveillance satellites. All nice clean kills. That ought to help our people on the surface a bit.”
“I'm not worried about that battle right now,” Curtis replied. “The rebels down there can take care of themselves for the moment. We either win up here or we lose it all. End of story. Norton, is there anything you can do to increase our speed?”
“Not without burning out half the distributor network, Commander, and even then it would be touch and go at best. If anything, the Commonwealth cruisers are a little behind us. We're slowly pulling ahead of the formation.”
“We should reduce speed,” Saxon suggested. At his expression, she added, “We need to maximize our defensive firepower, and we're in danger of making the same mistake that Yoshida did. We can still lose this battle, Commander. It isn't over yet. Far from it.”
Reluctantly, he nodded, and said, “Match our acceleration to the other ships in our formation, Lieutenant, but don't slip any further back than you must.”
“Sir,” Rojek said, “I have Canopus Actual on the line for you. Putting him on now.”
The image of his son appeared on the screen, Mike saying, “You took your time, Commander. I was beginning to think you'd lost your invitation.”
“I'm getting a little slow in my old age, Commander,” he replied. “I brought some friends. Hope you don't mind that I didn't have a chance to RSVP for them.”
With a shrug, Mike replied, “The more the merrier. Especially now.”
Nodding, Curtis said, “If the tactical plot is correct...”
“Then in about five minutes,” Mike interrupted, “Canopus is going to be in the middle of one hell of a firestorm.”
“That about how it looks, yeah,” he replied, glancing self-consciously around. “We'll do everything we can to give your people cover. And we're going to do everything possible to draw the enemy fire away from you. There's fighter support heading your way.”
“I saw. Thanks.” He looked to the side, and said, “We'll make sure to get them nice and ready for you. Knock a few chunks out of their defensive systems. And don't worry. Canopus is the toughest ship in the fleet...”
“Second toughest.”
“You're biased. She's been through a hell of a lot in the past, and she can take the fire. And so can her crew. We'll come out of the other end of the dive. Battered and bruised maybe, but she'll hold together. Depend on it.”
“I will.” Glancing up at the clock, he said, “Son, I...”
“I know.” Mike glanced off-camera, and added, “Things are beginning to happen over here. We'll contact you when we can. Good luck.”
“And to you. Polaris out.”
Only the low rumble of the engines and the faint buzz of the defense cannons powering up broke the silence on the bridge, all eyes desperately looking away from the man at its heart. He had to retain control, had to hold on no matter the pain he was feeling. If for no other reason than that he was responsible for the lives of thousands of men and women in the fleet, ten times that number on the surface of Hyperborea, and uncounted billions scattered throughout the galaxy.
This was the battle that would decide the fate of the war. The one they'd be writing about for generations to come, whether they won or lost today. As his son's image flickered from the screen, replaced by the tactical display, he desperately sought some way, any way that he could get Polaris into the battle in time to save Canopus.
“There really isn't any choice,” Saxon whispered.
“I'm supposed to be some sort of damned tactical genius, aren't I? That's what Cordova wanted. So why can't I think of something now? We've pulled off enough miracles. I'm only asking for one more.” Looking at the screen, he said, “There must be something. Anything we can do to intervene.”
“Maybe this is the price we're going to have to pay. You knew this wasn't going to be a bloodless coup. A lot of people have died already, and a lot more are going to die if we're going to make this work.” Placing her hand on his shoulder, she said, “He made his choice, and he did it willingly. And we're going to have to live with the consequences of those actions. You are going to have to live with them. And you can, whether you like it or not. And you must, because too many people are counting on you.” She squeezed his shoulder again, and said, “Game face, Commander. This is what we've been working for. Time to deliver.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he said, forcing a smile. He turned to Rojek, and said, “Fire at will, Lieutenant. Send those bastards to hell.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Rojek replied.
Curtis looked up at the tactical display again, counting the seconds until contact. Saxon was right, and deep inside, he knew it. That didn't make it any easier. Not when he was about to have a front-row seat for the death of his son.
“Wait a minute,” Saxon said. “Where the hell is Sirius going?”
Chapter 22
Cordova looked out of the window, watching as crowds raced down the streets, hastily scrawled banners held high as the mob surged onward, no evidence of local security present. She glanced across at Petrov, his eyes locked on the sensor display, watching as Canopus raced towards the enemy cruiser squadron. She knew that his daughter was on board, couldn't imagine what must be running through his mind.
A low whine echoed from the door, the sound of the laser cutter ripping through the hardened alloys, the forces of the governor struggling to get into the room. It almost seemed redundant. There was little enough that they could do to influence events now, either on the ground or in orbit. She walked back to the director's chair, glancing at the door.
“You think we might want to consider surrendering?” she asked.
“They'll kill us,” the director said.
“Doubtful,” she replied. “Far more likely that they'll take us as hostages instead, at this stage. We're too useful alive.”
Looking up at the monitor, Petrov said, “That door will hold for a while yet.” Suddenly, the whine died, replaced by the staccato blast of machine gun fire. Wearily, Petrov rose to his feet, and said, “I think we can open the door now.”
“Are you crazy?” Cordova replied, as he made his way across the room, releasing the hatch to reveal the grinning face of Harland, a trio of dead security guards behind him, flanked by a pair of young men with white armbands, wielding hunting rifles and triumphant smiles. “What the hell?”
“Blood packs,” Harland replied.
“We needed to make it look convincing for the cameras,” Petrov replied. “As well as make sure we dealt with the loyalists in our ranks. All the people we couldn't trust died that day.” He looked down at the ground, and added, “I'm sorry about Logan. We didn't consider that she'd break for it. I was going to try and hit her in the leg, a non-lethal wound, but one of the Governor's men got there first. If it's any comfort, he died about sixty seconds later.”
Turning to him, she said, “Why didn't you tell us?”
“Because I couldn't! There were things you didn't need to know, and I figured there was a better than even chance that you'd get captured trying to make it into town. I couldn't give you anything like perfect coverage. What the hell was I supposed to do, give you a full tactical briefing in the indent barracks? For all I knew, you were a traitor.” He looked her in the eyes, and said, “Besides, from what Liz has told me, you've got no grounds to complain about someone failing to give you complete information.”
“Can we finish this some other time?” Harland replied.
“What's going on out there?” Petrov asked.
“We control the spaceport, hydroponics, the monorail station and the water treatment center.” He smiled, and said, “Most of them surrendered. The station before we even got there.”
“What about the power station?” Cordova asked.
“That's the bad news,” Harland said. “The Governor took all the troops she could trust and holed up there when the coup started. She's threatening to sabotage the systems if we don't give in. I tried offering her safe passage off-world, but she refused. I guess she figures that the Federation won't let someone who has failed this spectacularly live.”
“We've backed her into a corner,” Cordova replied. “What emergency systems do you have?”
“Next to none,” Petrov said, bitterness filling his voice. “We used to have a backup, but it was mothballed a few years ago to save money. Since then we've been totally dependent on the old nuclear reactor. There isn't enough independent power generation to keep even a tenth of the population warm tonight.” He paused, and said, “If she's set up some sort of charge...”
“She can't blow up the reactor. She'll kill herself,” Harland said.
“A few explosives in the right places would cripple it for good, and spread contaminated material over half the city into the bargain. Don't think she can't or won't do it. If she thought she was going to make it out of this alive, she'd have taken your deal,” Cordova replied. “How do we get in?”
“The underground tunnels,” Petrov said, looking at a nodding Harland. “The same network we used to get in here. They connect a lot of the key buildings in town.” He frowned, then said, “They'll have it guarded by now. It won't be anything like as easy as it was before.”
The broadcaster looked up at the screen, and said, “Would it not be better to wait until the situation has been resolved in orbit? It strikes me that there is an excellent chance that all of the fighting on the surface will shortly be moot, should the rebels win.”
“We can't take the chance that they won't decide to go down in a blaze of glory,” Cordova said. “One loyalist maniac, and thirty thousand people freeze to death tonight. Jake, is the building secure?”
“All levels clear,” the rebel replied. “Everyone here is safe.”
She walked out of the studio, heading for the elevator, and said, “Then we'd better get moving.” Petrov looked up at the monitor one last time, nodded, and moved to follow, Harland only a few seconds behind them. The other two followed, crowding the elevator as it began its journey down to the lowest level.
“Got a pistol I can borrow?” she asked, waving her other one in the air. “This one's a dummy.”
“You took this station with a dummy firearm?” the director said in disbelief.
“Mine was real,” Petrov replied. “If that makes you feel any better.”
Harland nodded, pulling one of his pocket, warning, “No spare clips. Just eight shots. And we're not exactly overloaded with ammunition ourselves. Guns, sure, but they kept pretty tight control on ordnance. We took the armory, but they'd already shipped out most of the contents. God alone knows where. Could be somewhere on the planet, one of the orbital stations...”
“We don't have time for a search,” Cordova replied. “What sort of numbers are we dealing with? Defenses?”
“Ten to fifteen,” he said. “Hard to tell exactly. Improvised defenses only, but you can bet that they'll fight for every inch of territory.”
One of his comrades asked, “Why are we doing this alone? Give me five minutes, and I could get a couple of hundred people to storm the place. No way they'd be able to stop us.”
Cordova glared at him, and replied, “Use your head. Either they'd detonate their charges as soon as that mob turned a corner, or they'd open up with machine guns. And even if your army forced its way inside, God only knows what sort of damage they'd do to the equipment. This has to be a small, stealth operation, or it isn't going to work.”
“Agreed,” Petrov said. “I know that building quite well. It's pretty damn defensible.” He grimaced, and added, “It was where the Oligarchs made their last stand, during the Revolution. Pretty damned ironic, huh.”
The elevator stuttered to a stop, and Cordova pulled up the inspection hatch, nimbly sliding onto the ladder below, descending hand over hand into the stygian gloom. After only a moment, she dropped down to the floor, narrowly missing the foul water trickling down the middle of the passage, and looked up at Harland.
“Which way?”
“Straight ahead for the moment. Then first left, first right, second left. Not that complicated. Shouldn't be any security to worry about until we get a hell of a lot closer.”
She nodded, jogging down the side of the passage, not waiting for the others to follow, taking Harland's route. She quickly checked the pistol, making sure the clip was in place, and quickened her pace towards the reactor. From up above, drifting in through air vents, she could hear chants and cries, the noise of a people celebrating their freedom from oppression for the first time in decades. The fighting was almost over up on the surface, most of ColSec switching sides in the early moments of the revolt, the rest deciding to take the better part of valor.
All across the Federation, it might be the same story in a matter of days, maybe hours. The only thing keeping the rebels from rising was fear of failure, fear of the consequences of a Federation victory. Taking Sinaloa Station had been a major step forward in convincing them that they could win, and snatching Hyperborea from the jaws of a task force would be an even greater one. Everything depended on them, their march down this tunnel tonight, a tiny battle on an obscure planet that could change the fate of the galaxy.
She took the indicated turning, then froze as she saw something up ahead, a steaming brown pile that wasn't there the last time she passed this way, a foul smell emanating from the dung. She glanced back at Harland, who stepped carefully forward, looking from left to right.
“Tell me that isn't what I think it is,” she said.
Grimacing, he turned to Petrov, and said, “I thought they caught all those beasts.”
“All but one, and that one was roaming around here earlier,” he replied. “Last I heard...” His eyes widened, and he suddenly looked around, his eyes widening.
“What?” Cordova asked.
“They'd hold them in the pens. Which are near the power plant. I wouldn't put it past our bitch of a Governor to have released them down here.” Hefting his rifle, he said, “Damn it, Jake, there were eight of them this time.”
“Are you telling me that there are eight saber-toothed tigers running around in these tunnels,” Cordova said, taking a step towards him. She looked around, and said, “If they get up into the streets...”
“I don't see how they could,” Petrov said.
“Really?” Harland replied. “My imagination must be a hell of a lot better than yours, Micky. If the Governor's willing to let them loose down here, then she'll he more than happy to find a way to release the security gates. We've got to do something about them.”
“No,” Cordova said, shaking her head. “That's exactly what she wants. How far are we from the power plant down here?”
“Hundred meters.”
“And the access point,” she pressed. “Does it lead directly into the plant?”
“Into the basement,” Harland replied, nodding. “Used for storage, mostly. That's probably how the Governor got in. It'll be defended, though.”
“That might not matter,” she said, a smile spreading across her face. “I think I've got a way of killing two birds with one stone. Or eight tigers, anyway.”
“I'm scared to ask what you've got in mind,” Harland said.
“Jake, I need you to head towards the entrance. Don't get close enough for the guards to see you, and make sure that you have an escape route. Micky, you'll be next in line. Stay here. When the time comes, you'll know what to do. Just make sure that you can run faster than the tigers.”
“Wait,” Harland said, grabbing her arm. “Those beasts are the most ruthless predators on this planet. They aren't just the same creatures that lived on Earth all those years ago. The Oligarchs managed to breed them for even greater ferocity, a challenge for the rich idiots who used to hunt them. If you're going to mess with them...”
“What choice have we got?” she asked. “If we don't deal with them, then they'll break out into the streets, and hundreds of people might die before they get brought down. This way we can handle the Governor and the tigers at the same time. Have you got a knife?”
“I do,” one of the rebels said, passing her a combat blade. “What do you want it for?”
Slicing the tip of her finger to reveal a bead of blood, she said, “I'm going fishing.”
Chapter 23
The mood on Canopus' bridge was somber, all eyes periodically darting from console to viewscreen, watching as the ship inexorably raced towards its doom, towards the four cruisers ahead with sufficient firepower to wipe them from the universe. Behind them, the auxiliary ships converged, ready to finish the work their stronger brethren had begun. Mike sat back on his chair, trying not to show the fear he felt, knowing that he had to remain strong for the sake of his crew.
They still had a job to do, even now. Admiral Yoshida's force outmatched that of his father by just enough to make the difference, and the two men were of equal tactical skill. It would be a battle that would be studied in textbooks for generations to come. Mike could prevent that from happening. Careful shots, precisely-calculated damage on the enemy ships ahead, would provide his father with the edge he needed to win the day despite everything.
Lieutenant Schmidt, now alone at tactical, her assistants fleeing to the theoretical safety of Hyperborea, carefully set up the attack pattern, sacrificing their defensive fire to place the ship's powerful kinetic warheads precisely on target, a last gift he could provide for his father in this desperate hour. He looked up at the sensor display, spotting the Federation fighters as they curved towards their shuttles, and his heart sank as he realized that he had saved them from one death to doom them to another. He still couldn't quite conceive that officers wearing the same uniform that he had worn would commit such atrocities.
Theoretically, those pilots had been through the same training as those on Canopus' bridge, had sworn the same oath, followed the same rules and regulations. In practice, it was a very different world, and he was beginning to realize how far his fellows had fallen while he had been nursing his wounds on the frontier. Most of his comrades had similarly been exiled, either through the influence of a rival with greater influence or out of disgust with the creeping favoritism that had rippled through the ranks.
In many ways, it was embarrassing that it had taken him so long to decide that the Fleet he had sworn to serve, the Federation he had sworn to protect, no longer truly existed, but had passed into history on a tide of greed and corruption. Thousands of others felt the same way, had switched sides to join the rebellion. And perhaps, thousands more would follow suit, as a result of this battle.
“Contact in two minutes, ten seconds,” Kenyon said, her hands fixed on the helm. “Enemy formation is holding course, slow and steady. We're running right down the gut.”
“Don't expect them to stay on that course,” Mike warned. “They'll do everything they can to throw us off during the approach. Most of those commanders are arrogant as hell, but Yoshida-san isn't the sort of man to take unnecessary risks.” He gestured at the screen, and added, “Better watch out for Sirius, as well. She's closing fast.” Frowning, he added, “Pretty damned fast. If Meg isn't careful, she'll burn out her engines.”
“Maybe she's trying to get into formation for the attack on Polaris,” Petrova moved. “I suppose it doesn't matter much any more.”
Stabbing a control, Mike said, “Commander to crew. By now, all non-essential personnel are off the ship. That leaves about seventy of us to do the work of four hundred. If it is of any consolation in our last moments, we're going to do enough damage to those enemy ships ahead that our comrades will win the day. I have never been prouder to serve alongside any crew in the Fleet as I am at this moment. I can't promise anything other than that our blood will be well spent. Good luck. Bridge out.”
“I have firing solutions on Regulus and Bellatrix,” Schmidt said. “I'm concentrating on their defensive systems. I think I can punch a few holes in their network, gouge out some weak spots for Polaris. The trick will be staying alive for long enough to press our attack home.” She looked up at her display, and added, “Sirius will be on us forty seconds after we enter the battlespace. Looks like they're getting ready for a backstab.”
“After forty seconds,” Kenyon replied, “There might not be enough of this ship left for that to matter.”
“Still time for you to get out, Lieutenant,” Mike replied.
“Not a chance, sir. Nobody gets to fly my girl but me. Especially for the last dance of the night.”
Frowning, Schmidt said, “Sir, I'm getting a comm laser from Sirius. To you, by name. They've set it up so that it would be impossible for anyone else to detect it.”
“You don't think…,” Petrova said, as the image of a gray-haired, aristocratic woman appeared on the screen, flanked by a pair of armed technicians. Curls of smoke drifted across the picture, the sounds of a fire extinguisher being deployed in the background.
“Commander Curtis,” Bishop began, “ten minutes ago I was engaged in the destruction of rebel forces in this system, putting down an insurrection that I believed would destroy the Federation forever. Then I received orders from Commodore McGuire, ordering me to shoot down unarmed shuttles, and to initiate surface bombardment on Hyperborea.”
“My God,” Kenyon said.
“My senior staff and I have had a little discussion, Commander, and we're now of the opinion that we have been fighting for the wrong side. I'm hoping that it is not yet too late for me to correct that error. Sirius is moving to support Canopus. We're going through the fire with you, and we're pushing our engines as far as we can to get there in time.” Leaning forward on her chair, she added, “Not everyone in the Fleet has forgotten the oaths we swore. Maybe we'll get a chance to prove that today.”
“I'd say you already have, Commander,” Mike replied, turning to the side. “Lieutenant Schmidt, tactical assessment, please.”
“We'll be on our own for forty-one seconds, sir, before we can rely on Sirius for defensive support.” She looked up at the monitor, and added, “What about your fighters, Commander Bishop?”
“All stripped by Admiral Yoshida,” she replied. “I am ashamed to admit that some of them are engaging your fighters now, though I have endeavored to recall all I could.”
“Then I believe we have two choices, sir. We could attempt to switch to full defensive fire, though even with two ships blocking four, I rate our chances of passing through without suffering significant damage as minimal. Alternatively, we can continue on our present path, and attempt to do increased damage to the enemy ships. Canopus will suffer the brunt of the hits, but we do have a slightly better chance of getting through than we would alone, and naturally, Polaris and our Commonwealth reinforcements will have an easier time in the next phase of the battle.”
Mike didn't need a second to make his decision, and replied, “Then we proceed as planned, Lieutenant.” Looking up at Bishop, he continued, “We'll make sure to leave lots of nice, juicy targets for you on the other side, Commander.”
“My gunnery crews will appreciate that. Good hunting. Out.”
Turning to Petrova, he ordered, “Get all personnel to the interior of the ship. Never mind exterior damage control. Anyone who doesn't absolutely have to be in the outer sections should withdraw at once. If there's a chance we might actually live through this, then I want to give our people the best possible chance.”
“You realize, sir,” Schmidt said, “that the turret crews will have to remain on station.”
He nodded, sighed, and replied, “I know, Lieutenant, I know. Kenyon, I don't have to tell you to do everything to can to shield vulnerable areas of the ship...”
“Evasion course already plotted, sir, but there's only so much I can do without risking a loss of target loss. It's going to be a wild ride, Commander.” Looking up at the screen, she added, “Twenty seconds to firing range.”
“Good luck, everyone,” he said, quietly, strapping his seat restraint into place. The battle began calmly, as space battles generally do, only a few pin-point contacts on the sensor display to announce that the fighting had begun. Outside, kinetic warheads rained into space, tactical officers on four ships probing carefully at Canopus' defenses, seeking out weak spots to exploit. Normally, Schmidt would be fighting back, move for move, trying to match their attacks by bolstering defensive fire at specific points, but this time she was choosing not to play the same game, but instead to focus on replying with bombardment of her own, raining hell-fire on the enemy ships. She knew that she only had a few seconds to get her shots in, a limited window before the defensive fire of the enemy formation would come to bear, her opponents on four bridges realizing what she was doing and moving to counter her attack. Every shot had to be perfectly timed, perfectly judged, and she knew that the odds were that they would be her last.
Microscopic tissues of fire erupted from the enemy ships, her shots slamming into exhaust ports, antenna arrays, defensive turrets, sensor pickups. Nothing critical, nothing that the enemy would expect or even truly fear, but a catalog of calamities that added up to significant reductions to their combat capacity, worsening all the time as Schmidt pressed her attack home.
It couldn't last, and the joy of those first glorious seconds rapidly ebbed as the first wave of enemy kinetic projectiles slammed through the weakened defensive screens, gouging holes in Canopus' hull. They had no pretense of finesse, their simple goal to do as much damage as possible to the rebel ship, to smash it into as many pieces as possible as rapidly as they could.
As fountains of atmosphere raced into space from hull breaches spreading along the side of the ship, Canopus dived from side to side, Kenyon desperately attempting to maintain a straight heading, to keep the ship on the optimum flight path to take them through the nightmare ahead as rapidly as possible. To lose control would be to invite instant death, but every impact wiped out another critical system, made her job a fraction harder with every impact.
The hull yowled with the force of sustained impacts, armored alloy screaming in protest at the damage being inflicted upon it, sirens wailing across the bridge faster than the sole remaining technician at the engineering station could silence them, floods of red lights sweeping across the status monitor in constant anguished protest at the wrath being unleashed upon the ship.
Still, Canopus reached on, second after second, sweeping closer and closer to the enemy squadron, the occasional flicker of flame from an enemy hull testament to another triumph for Schmidt against impossible odds, the area being damaged now far less important than the fact that Canopus continued to strike back against her enemies. The sensor display faded as the exterior pickups died, one after another, wiped out by the rain of rock being unleashed by the enemy ships, but Sirius still dived after them, now almost close enough for her defensive fire to protect Canopus.
Admiral Yoshida, on Regulus, had a decision to make. To focus on Canopus, to complete the destruction of the lumbering hulk, or to open fire on Sirius, spread the destruction around, giving Mike and his crew a bare chance of survival. He chose neither, his first real mistake of the battle, splitting the fire evenly between the two ships. Sirius flashed in towards Canopus, shrouded by the green halo from a hundred particle cannons opening up, taking some of the impacts for her sister ships, moving to block at least some of the fire.
Ten seconds to go. The enemy ships were behind them now, but were opening up with a final wave of devastation, as though they had chosen to save their worst shots for last. The few exterior pickups showed a nightmare on the outer hull, black gouges and air-ruptured decks venting atmosphere into space. Mike looked up at the sensor display, his heart filling with dread. Yoshida had saved everything up for one final salvo, ready to finish Canopus off in a single spasm of destruction.
“All hands,” he said, “brace for impact!”
At one instant, the time-on-target fire slammed into the hull. Urgent wails echoed throughout the bridge, and he heard the dreaded clarion cry of the decompression alarm. He began to unstrap his restraints, screaming for his crew to evacuate, then heard an angry crack from above him, looking up just in time to see the support strut on the ceiling buckle and fall.
And then, all was merciful darkness.
Chapter 24
“Good God!” Kani said, looking at Canopus. “Rear Guard Leader to Wing Leader.”
“I saw it,” a mournful Duval replied. “Looks like our base ship has had it, people. I'll contact Sirius, see if they'll have room for us on their decks.”
A young pilot, unknown to Kani, yelled, “Let's get the bastards! Vector...”
“Belay that,” Duval said. “We've got a job to do, and those are our people up ahead on those shuttles. We protect them at all costs. Got that? All costs.” A light winked on and Kani knew that they were on a private frequency. “Win, I've got a job for you.”
“Go ahead, Leader,” he replied.
“You're low on fuel, and Castro's fighters aren't much better off. That's going to leave you hurting in a dogfight.” He paused, then added, “You know what I'm about to ask.”
“You want me to take Castro's squadron-and-a-half and engage those auxiliary cruisers ahead. Hit them before they can reach the shuttles.” He looked up at the tactical display, and added, “Going up against fixed defenses is a difficult enough task at the best of times, Phil, and with only limited fuel for the approach...”
“I know,” Duval said. “I know what I'm asking, Win, but I need someone to lead those pilots in. Most of them don't have much combat experience, and they're going to need the best combat commander available if they're going to make it through.” Win could almost hear the smile spreading across his friend's face as he added, “And I'm afraid I'm busy right now.”
“Wouldn't matter anyway,” Kani quipped back. “I'll do it, Phil. Just give those fighters something to think about for thirty seconds or so, and I'll set up for an attack run.” He glanced across at his status monitor, and asked, “What the hell is happening over on Hoxha? She's tossing off escape pods, and as far as I can tell, she hasn't suffered much more than a scratch. Canopus' salvo didn't do that much.”
“Orders from Sirius,” Duval replied. “I think Meg Bishop kept it nice and simple. Surrender or die. Words that even the most fanatical member of the Directorate could understand. Don't worry about her. Focus on Trotsky and Kropotkin. They're all you have to worry about now.”
“Will do. Good luck, buddy.” Throwing a control, he said, “Reader Guard Leader to Castro Formation. We're going to attack the capital ships. Form on me in double-arrowhead formation, Commander Ramone as the second leading fighter. At combat range, split in two and engage. Go for offensive systems, watch out for their point-defense turrets, and make every shot count. We're all the stands between their mass drives and our people on those shuttles.”
“We'll never break through the interceptor screen,” a voice on the verge of panic replied.
“Relax, pilot. Our friends from Canopus are going to handle those for us. You just worry about setting up your attack run. I want two new stars in the sky when we're finished. Kani out.”
He threw a control, bringing up the strategic view, looking over the battlespace while his computer ranged his fighter into position, adjusting his trajectory to send him into formation. Canopus was drifting, spinning end over end, leaving a trail of debris behind it, the occasional flicker of an internal explosion testament to the damage it had suffered. It was a miracle that the ship was still in one piece, but somehow he didn't expect it to hold together for much longer. One more hit in the right place would be enough. Sirius, flying behind it, showed signs of the battle, but Canopus had screened her sister ship from the worst of the damage.
Up ahead, diving toward Admiral Yoshida's formation, Polaris and the three Commonwealth cruisers raced through space. His heart was filled with a mixture of joy and trepidation at the sight of the ships, knowing that he was fighting on the same side as his comrades once more, but also knowing that there would be consequences for his delayed return to his people. None of which would matter if they lost the battle.
Fighters swarmed around the battlespace like bees from a shattered hive, any pretense of tactical formation long since lost as the fighting collapsed into chaos, individual squadrons and flights taking their own initiative to act as the Federation chain-of-command started to fracture. Some were moving out of the battle altogether, perhaps out of cowardice, or perhaps a simple desire to stay out of the fighting, to delay having to make a decision about which side to join until the final possible minute.
He looked up at the two ships, the auxiliary cruisers ahead, bearing down on the shuttles fleeing the doomed Canopus. Castro was closing fast, racing towards them with crimson fire raging from her engines, but she couldn't get there in time. Yoshida had judged the battle well, had thrown plenty of distractions in the way of the rebel fleet, as though he was expecting greater numbers than he'd faced.
“Ramone, this is Kani,” he said. “You take your formation to Kropotkin. I'll take out Trotsky. Make it one nice, quick pass. As long as we do enough damage, Castro can finish them off for us.”
“Copy that, Leader,” Ramone replied, guiding his nine fighters to the right, ranging towards his target. Up ahead, their two opponents raced forward, boosting their engines as hard as they could, straining to gain speed. A blue-green halo erupted from the particle defense cannons, a weapons system designed to knock kinetic projectiles out of the sky, but just as effective against fighters and their missiles. Back on the Commonwealth ships, there were three squadrons of dedicated bombers that would make short work of smashing through the defenses. With the fighters they were flying, the job was going to be just that much tougher.
Every defensive system, no matter how well-designed, had weak spots, and the hastily-converted auxiliary cruisers were no exception. His hands danced across the sensor controls, probing for spots where there fire was weakest, trying not to telegraph his intentions to the gunners on Trotsky. They could, at least to a degree, adjust their firing pattern to compensate for his movements, so he kept his fighter dancing around, altering his trajectory by miles at a time in order to keep them guessing, keep them refocusing their beams.
Then there was the question of guiding his missiles to their target, but that would require even greater finesse. He reached across to his targeting controls, narrowing the focus of his particle beams as tightly as he could, ready to burn a hole in the enemy defenses. It would take split-second timing, perfect attitude control, and one mistake would see him destroyed before he could possibly react. Behind him, the rest of his fighters fanned out, picking their own path through, the tactical computers of the squadron meshing together to avoid duplication of attack pattern, an additional tool that could keep the enemy guessing.
Theoretically, they could run the entire attack with the computers, avoid human intervention completely, but the enemy had computers as well, of the same design as theirs, and left to themselves, they couldn't help but come up with the same answers. Move, counter-move, a cosmic game of chess waged across the battlespace, with human beings to provide the random element that provided the best chance of victory.
Twenty seconds to target. He looked at the shuttles, burning their engines as hot as they dared, racing towards Hyperborea and safety. Periodic updates from the surface fed across his heads-up display, one victory after another as the planet fell to the rebels, threw off the yoke of Federation rule. They were winning the battle on the ground. Now they only had to win the battle in orbit.
As he dived towards Trotsky, he released his grip on the stay-fire controls, allowing the computer freedom to use the firepower of his fighter as it willed. He'd planned the attack, plotted the strike, but only the computer could execute it in time. He looked up at the flaming curtain hovering in space before him, the deepening colors of the defense perimeter, waves of energy surging around as the enemy gunners struggled to predict the detail of their attack.
It would all be over in a matter of seconds, each of the fighters racing to place its missiles where they could do the most good. Over to the right, Ramone was already launching an attack on Kropotkin, eighteen tiny points of light racing towards the cruiser, tissues of flame bursting into space where they slammed through the defense perimeter to slam into the hull, pin-points of damage that crippled the ship's offensive systems. One down, one to go.
The nose of his fighter dipped down towards Trotsky, his under-slung particle cannons ripping out towards the energy barrier, puncturing a hole large enough for his missiles to race through. All around the enemy ship, the rest of his fighters followed, one of them miscalculating his approach at the last second, Trotsky's beams catching him on the engine manifold and tearing him apart. Another saw his missiles destroyed as a quick-witted gunner swung his beam around, the shrapnel raining down on the fighter, sending him spiraling out of control, mercifully clear of the battlespace.
He pulled away, throwing his throttles full-on, trying to get clear of Trotsky before their retaliatory strike could have an effect, kinetic projectiles hurled through the air all around him, the gunners using their last moments to take final revenge. He sideswiped to avoid a swarm, then heard an anguished whine from his hull, instinctively dropping his mask into place, oxygen flooding into his system. Damage reports flickered across his heads-up display, and he cursed in frustration. A shot right into his engine, neatly ripping the rear of his fighter away. There was a slow pressure leak, but he'd have an hour before he'd have to worry about that. One way or another, the battle would be over long before them.
Using the last of his thruster control, he pivoted the fighter to face Trotsky, watching as the missiles completed their trajectory, slamming into precisely-calculated coordinates on the side of the enemy ship. He allowed himself a smile, knowing that both auxiliary cruisers were no longer a threat, but his smile turned into a frown as his sensors picked up a fighter heading his way at high speed, one rogue interceptor breaking away from the main formation and diving towards him, bearing the flashes of 'Trotsky' on the side.
A blinding glare of light illuminated the sky, and he saw Kropotkin explode, ripped in twain by a salvo of shots from Castro, the friendly ship at last getting into the fight. The battle was almost won, even if he might not live to see it. He watched as the fighter flashed towards him, weapons hot, his sensors setting up a targeting solution. Kani didn't have the power to lift a finger to shop him, could only sit back and watch the approach.
He had seconds left to live. Reaching over to a little-used control, he tapped a button to send soft music through the ship, an accompaniment to his imminent demise. His would-be murderer was an artist, flashing in with practiced ease, a quartet of stripes down his side to advertise his four kills. His death would make the pilot an ace, even if the kill was, in Kani's opinion, rather cheap.
Briefly, he contemplated ejecting, taking his chance out beyond his ship, but debris swarms from the destroyed Kropotkin and the kinetic rounds pumped into the sky by Trotsky made his chances of survival minimal. Better to go down with his ship.
The enemy fighter cruised into firing range, swung around towards him for a clean kill, then kicked its engines to maximum, racing past without launching his missiles. A second later, he saw why, as Trotsky threw its escape pods into the void, a message screaming to the rebel fleet that she and her pilots had surrendered, in order to escape the death that Castro was about to unleash on them.
Kani smiled, looked at his power readings, and focused his sensors on Polaris. Now the big event was about to begin, and he'd have the best seat in the house to watch.
Chapter 25
“Anything from Canopus at all?” Curtis asked, turning to the communications console.
“Nothing conclusive, Commander,” the technician replied. “Some chatter, distress messages, and there are a few shuttles heading away from the ship, but that's all.”
Turning to Saxon, he said, “I want rescue shuttles ready to go as soon as we get past the enemy formation. Have Sirius move in to provide whatever support they can.”
“That won't be much,” she replied, looking up at the monitors. “She's struggling with her own damage control right now. Nowhere near as bad as Canopus, but she can't maneuver with any speed, and she's already sending casualties down to Hyperborea.” Glancing down at a datapad, she added, “Last word reported that the Administration Building had been taken, but that the Governor is still holding out in the power station.”
“One minute to firing range,” Rojek replied. “Enemy ships are moving into formation against us, standard diamond pattern. I have the sensor logs from Sirius. We're going to have some nice windows to punch holes through. Recommend immediate fighter launch.”
“Make it happen, Lieutenant,” Curtis said. “The mission is simple. Blow those bastards all the way to Hell.” Turning to the rear station, he continued, “Send one last message to Admiral Yoshida. I will accept an unconditional surrender at this point. Nothing less than that.”
Nodding, the technician punched in commands, but looked back with a frown, saying, “No response, Commander. Just the usual acknowledgment.”
“Once the Rubicon is crossed,” Saxon said, “there usually isn't any going back.”
“Norton,” Curtis ordered, “keep us in tight with the rest of the formation. I want as near to a perfectly-meshed defensive pattern as possible.” Turning to Hudson, he added, “Keep an eye on our fighters. We're going to need them to fill in any holes. Bombers can proceed at will. I want there to be nothing left after this other than expanding cloud of debris.” Looking around the room, he continued, “I know that these are our people, that they wear the same uniform that we do, but they have made a choice to continue in the service of an immoral, illegal regime dedicated to the oppression of the citizens it is sworn to protect. They made their choice. We made ours. But if it makes you feel any better in the middle of the night when the ghosts come to visit, the decision to engage is mine.”
Moving to his side, Saxon said, “We've got transmission feeds relaying the battle all over the Federation. Maybe a billion people are watching this right now. So mind your language.”
Looking up with a smile, he replied, “Thank you, Major.”
“Thirty seconds to combat range,” Norton said, her hands resting lightly on the controls, contenting herself with pin-point course adjustments to guide Polaris to its target, keeping in tightly to the Commonwealth ships drifting in behind them. Curtis looked at the three stately cruisers, relics of a long-ago war brought back into service for one last battle, gleaming as though only just out of spacedock. That he was no fighting on the same side as his erstwhile enemies seemed strange, but the crews of those ships had the same goals as his. To go home, and to live in peace and freedom. Neither of which their own government could guarantee. Disaffection in the Commonwealth ranks had been rife for decades, growing worse by the year. All it had taken to swing them over to the rebellion was to offer a realistic alternative to their current course.
“Target analysis complete,” Rojek reported. “Ready to fire.”
“Ten seconds, sir,” Norton said, the familiar glare of the defensive systems rising from the enemy ships, now with noticeable gaps where Canopus and Sirius had punched holes, wreaking damage on the formation that could never be repaired in the time. Yoshida had tried to cover all the bases, but he had not, could not have considered that a Commonwealth cruiser squadron would arrive.
“Fire at will,” he said, calmly, and sat back on his chair to watch the action. This was space combat at its most raw, least elegant, a collection of ships throwing everything they could at each other. The time for tactical and strategic finesse was over. The battle was about to be joined. From above, he heard the familiar pounding of Polaris' mass drivers hurling projectiles into the fray, his screen suddenly filled with tens of thousands of kinetic warheads being thrown into space all around them, smashing themselves into pieces in the enemy defensive net, each one getting a fraction closer to its target.
This wasn't the picked, carefully selected fire that Canopus had displayed earlier. This was a raw demonstration of firepower at its most raw, the full strength of his ship's strength brought savagely to bear on his opponents, commanded by a man he had once called friend. The Commonwealth ships muscled into the fray, their older rail-guns spitting venomous death on Polaris' flank, pushing back the defensive shield a meter at a time, slowly overwhelming the enemy's only line of protection.
Yoshida's squadron fired back, unleashing their own wave of death on Curtis' formation, but now the fighters they had husbanded came to bear, interceptors swarming in front of the ships to plug in gaps, under the capable command of Kowalski and Voronova, guiding their vessels precisely where they needed to be, cool competence coming into play.
That was the element the Federation Fleet was missing. Decades of neglect had taken their toll, and the payment was being extracted in bloody kind today. Curtis watched implacably as the ships under his command pressed home their attack, now the bombers swinging in from the flanks, picking the ships at the rear for their strike, fifty missiles fired as one through carefully gouged holes in the defensive fire, exploiting the weak spots that Canopus had sacrificed its life to create.
The first impact was on Regulus itself, aft, close to one of the fighter launch tubes. The second and third followed in quick succession, a hail of fire slamming into the side of the ship, sending it lurching out of control, a delayed mirror of Canopus, scant minutes ago. As though sensing blood, the bombers altered their attack pattern, swinging around to engage the flagship of the squadron, a hundred impacts in a single second as the defensive grid was fatally disrupted.
In less than a second, the remaining ships had firmed up their defenses, slid into new positions to guard themselves against the ever-increasing fire from the rebel fleet, but they'd been forced to exclude Regulus as the price of their temporary salvation. The battered Starcruiser took the full impact of the rebel salvo, railguns hammering into the side, Polaris' mass driver cannons punching holes into the armor by the dozen. Escape pods made the futile attempt to seek safety, none of them living through the combined barrage of all seven ships. Finally, Regulus' superstructure could take no more, the ship snapping in twain, her spine broken.
Three ships left, now leaderless. Curtis pressed on the attack, the remaining defensive fire now unequal to the task being set for it. Their battle complete, the bombers retreated to safety, the interceptors curling back to help staunch gaps as they emerged. For a brief second, one of the enemy ships found a mark, a dozen shots neatly sliding through the particle beam shield to score impacts on Achilles, but Norton moved Polaris into position to cover them, her turrets wiping out a second salvo before it could reach its goal.
That brief moment was the nearest the Federation cruisers could get to victory. As they moved still closer to the rebel formation, the nerve of the Bellatrix's commander broke, and he pulled away, veering off at maximum acceleration, breaking the defensive pattern and allowing the rebel ships to send salvo after salvo into the two remaining ships. As Bellatrix fled to the safety of the gravitational threshold, a handful of her fighters making desperate attempts to reach her in time, her sister ships buckled and broke under a tidal wave of kinetic warheads, thousands of impacts ripping into their hulls before the tactical officers unleashing them could hold them back.
Two quick flashes ended the story. Curtis looked up at the strategic display, his eyes wide as he saw the now-clear battlespace. All the Federation ships over than Bellatrix had surrendered, and while the Commonwealth squadron arced around towards them, trying to catch them, one look at the trajectory plot was sufficient to convince him that they'd never be stopped in time.
Saxon looked down at him, and said, “Let them go.”
Nodding, he replied, “To report what has happened here. They won't be able to sweep this under the carpet.” Shaking his head, he looked at the images of horror on display, and added, “The cream of the Federation Fleet, gone in an instant. It doesn't seem real.”
“It is real,” she replied. “You've done this. All of it.” Gesturing at the screen, she replied, “The power of the Federation is broken, Commander. It's in ruins, drifting in Hyperborean Orbit. By morning there will be rebel groups rising all over the galaxy. All over the Federation. Maybe even on Earth itself.” Shaking her head, she said, “I can only imagine what the Central Committee is doing right now.” Turning to him, she added, “Don't you get it, Commander? We've won?”
Gesturing at the screen, he said, “Not yet, I haven't.” Tapping a control, he said, “This is Commander Edward Curtis, calling any Federation forces that have not yet surrendered. Those able to leave the system are at liberty to do so without molestation. Tell your superiors what happened here today. Tell them that we defeated the finest fleet commander you have, and that we'll be willing to do it again, and again, and again, until we free our people from the slavery you have imposed. All other ships, jettison all weaponry and proceed to Hyperborean orbit until one of our vessels can reach you. Those unable to make it will be rescued at the earliest opportunity. That is all.” He moved to the elevator, and Saxon placed a hand on his arm to restrain him.
“Where the hell do you think you are going?” she asked.
“Lieutenant Hudson,” he said, “You have the conn. Continue to coordinate with Commodore McKinnon and Commander Ortiz.”
“Sir…,” Hudson protested.
Gesturing at the shattered wreck of Canopus on the viewscreen, he said, “My son is over there on that ship. Possibly injured, possibly dead. I have no intention of sitting here on the bridge while that happens, not when I can do anything about it. I'm taking one of the rescue shuttles over to Canopus myself. And I have no intention of wasting time with an argument.” Cracking a smile, he added, “You could write to the Inspector-General, I suppose, but dereliction of duty will be at the bottom of a very long list of charges, I would think.”
“Commander,” Hudson said, moving to the elevator. “Given the circumstances, you cannot consider putting yourself in jeopardy. We've just won a victory, but the war is far from over, and you're our fleet commander, an Admiral in all but name, and...”
“Lieutenant,” Curtis said, “if I am indispensable, then we are in a truly sorry state indeed. If we're to make a democracy work, truly work, then no one man can be in the sort of position that you describe, or we are doomed to fail from the beginning.” He moved past her, and added, “Though rest assured that I have no intention of dying in the near future.”
“In that case,” Saxon said, pushing through the doors as they closed, “I'm going with you.” The elevator jerked into life, and she added, “I didn't think you'd listen to sense. So I'll just have to go along for the ride.”
“I don't object to the company,” he replied.
“One thing,” she said. “You were wrong. Right now, you are the indispensable man, and you're quite right when you realize how dangerous a situation that is. We can't afford to lose you. Not yet. We might beat the Federation, but unless you want chaos and anarchy in its wake, you need to live through the war.”
“Then my top priority is to make sure that I am no longer indispensable.”
“My sentiments precisely. Nothing personal.”
Chapter 26
Cordova raced through the sewers, pistol in hand, following the sound of the howls up ahead. She strained to recall what little she knew about the saber-toothed tigers that had been recreated here, on Hyperborea, with specific reference to their top speed. If her plan worked, she'd have to move faster than she ever had before. On the ground, she saw new piles of their dung, malodorous evidence of recent activity, and waved carefully around them as she pushed on.
Then, she saw something. Something in the dark. Amber eyes gleaming, the sound of a tongue being licked against lips, a predator eagerly anticipating its next meal. She took a tentative step forward, and saw the outline of the creature up ahead, shapes moving in the shadows. They'd seen her. And at any instant, they would strike.
She turned away, fleeing back the way she had come, her feet slipping on the slimy stones as she sprinted towards the power station, hearing the sounds of creatures in pursuit, angry howls as their prey attempted to escape. These beasts were familiar with the taste of human flesh, savored and relished it, and if she had her way, she'd be providing them with a bountiful meal in a few moments. As she turned a corner, her flashlight clipped the wall, the light going out with an anticlimactic click. Now she was in near-total darkness, her imagination filling in the gaps in her perception as she sprinted on, attempting to remember the path.
One wrong turn would be her last. Her friends were up there, somewhere, ready to take over from her if she could only reach them. Every breath became an agony, every step a new torture, as she struggled to hold her distance from her shadowy pursuers, forcing herself to ever-greater speed. She could almost feel the fangs gripping into her ankle, the claws ripping into her flesh, and her thoughts urged her to increase her pace. Her muscles were on fire as she turned a corner, finally spotting a flashlight up ahead, one of her comrades waving the beam around to beckon her on.
Now the changeover. She abruptly raced to the left, running down a side passage, as Harland leapt out into the corridor, waving his arms around like a maniac in a bid to attract the attention of the pack before running on, down towards the power station, as Cordova used the last of her strength to sprint to safety. For a terrible heartbeat, she thought that it hadn't worked, that the tigers had opted to continue after her, but finally, they turned away, running towards the fleeing Harland.
She collapsed to the floor, her energy spent, back sliding down the grimy wall as she panted for breath, no longer caring about anything other than that her brief nightmare was over. For what seemed an endless eternity, she waited in the shadows, struggling to regain her strength, before finally struggling to her feet and walking down the corridor after Harland, pistol in hand. An ear-shattering scream from up ahead froze her in place, and it took a strength she hadn't realized she possessed to push onward.
No bodies, not yet. That was a good sign. She saw a figure slumped in the corner, and walked over to it to see Harland, looking up with eager eyes. She reached out with a hand, and the rebel eagerly accepted the assistance to rise to his feet, nervously looking down the corridor in the direction of the pack.
“I handed over to Petrov without a hitch,” he replied. “I think he'd got some emergency rations from somewhere. Pemmican. That seemed to work pretty well. You heard that scream?”
“Petrov?” she asked.
“No idea. What to go and find out?”
“Not especially, but I suppose we don't have a choice,” she replied. Harland nodded, leveled his flashlight along the passage, and slowly walked towards the power station, Cordova anxiously by his side. There was no sign of life, no noise at all. The other rebels had moved to safety before the attack began, would be threading their way back through the passages towards them. Unless something had gone wrong, and the pack had found another direction, perhaps one that would lead to the slaughter of innocents instead of the lackeys of the Governor.
A figure walked towards them, limping on one leg, and Harland raised his flashlight into the man's face, spotting a weary Petrov, blood-stains on his jacket, raising his hands in surrender.
“Peace,” he said, his voice weary. “Peace.”
“What happened?” Harland asked, stepping forward. “What happened, Micky?”
Looking up at Cordova with horror in his eyes, he said, “It worked, Major. Oh, God, it worked.” His voice empty, dead, he replied, “I took over from Jake, raced towards the barricade. There were two guards on sentry, and they both opened up as I advanced. Then they saw them, but by the time they'd realized what was happening, I'd managed to jump the barricade and roll out of the way. They never had a chance.” He gestured at his clothes, and said, “This isn't mine.”
“Then they headed into the power station?”
Nodding, Petrov said, “I guess so. One of them managed to get away. Lead them up the stairs. I figure they're up there right now.” Glaring at Cordova, he added, “This isn't what I signed up for, Major. Liz was right about you. Once this war is over...”
Stepping forward, her eyes aflame, she replied, “They would have killed tens of thousands of people. Most of them old men, women, children. Don't expect me to shed a single tear for their loss. Not one damned tear.”
“What about our loss?” Petrov asked. “Is this how we win? We unleash savage beasts to slay and murder? Is that what we are?” Gesturing at the stairs, he added, “That's what they did, Major, and we were quick enough to steal their idea. What other ideas are you planning to steal before this war is over.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “I'll take down someone in a fair fight. I'll stab them in the back if that's what it takes to win, because wars are messy, ugly, savage things, but this is a step too far.”
“You want to quit?” Cordova said. “I think you've left it a little late...”
“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “But I'll be watching you, Major.”
“There's blood on your hands, Petrov. Just as much as there is on mine.” Gesturing at the stairs, she added, “We'd better get out of here. They can't do any damage in the power station, and the Governor should have sealed it off effectively enough that they can't get out of there in a hurry.” Walking forward, she threw the switch to enable the blast doors, sending them slamming shut with a loud report that echoed down the corridor. “Jake, can you...”
Nodding, he said, “Once the dust settles outside, I'll rustle up a few hunters and go room-by-room. We can probably round them up quickly enough. They're not that smart. Not in our terrain, anyway. In the forest...” Looking up at the defeated Petrov, he said, “Come on, Micky. The others will already be on their way up to the street. They probably need us up there.”
“What for?” he asked. “Haven't we done enough today?”
Cordova took the lead, moving over to a ladder on the wall, slowly and wearily dragging herself up. She looked down at Petrov, the rebel staring at the sealed blast doors, his flashlight loose in his fist, as Harland walked over to him, putting his hand on the man's shoulder. After a minute, he looked up at Cordova with barely disguised hatred, following her onto the ladder.
Her body still ached from the race, and she struggled hand over hand until she reached a grime-smeared hatch, the release mechanism stiff from decades of neglect. With an effort, she tugged the handle around, the lock finally yielding to her exertions. As soon as she cracked the hatch, she heard the sound of cheering on the streets, old songs being sung by the crowds above. Glancing down at Petrov, she dragged herself up, rising in a back alley, a pair of lovers embracing in what they thought was privacy as the crowds swarmed down the street beyond.
“Hey,” the woman said, “I know you. You're the one who led the revolt?”
“No,” Cordova replied, shaking her head. “I fought, but this man was the real leader. He's the one you owe your freedom to.” She pointed at Petrov as his weary figure scrambled to the surface, and said, “He's the one who brought down the Governor, organized the rebellion on this planet.”
Looking up, he said, “I...”
“Hey!” the man said, running out onto the street. “He's here! Administrator Petrov!”
A crowd surged into the alley, Cordova nimbly stepping out of the way as they thrust Petrov onto their shoulders, carrying him to receive the adoration of the mass of humanity beyond. Cordova reached into the shaft, helping Harland onto the street, watching as the mob raced away. Harland reached into his pocket, tugged out his communicator, and scrolled through the floods of messages updating on the screen.
“Lots of traffic from the outlying settlements,” he said. “Looks like they gave up without much of a fight. I guess being outnumbered a hundred to one made them decide not to try anything crazy. The internment camps are secured, as well. Didn't take much.” Shaking his head, he said, “The whole planet was a house of cards.”
“I suspect having ColSec on our side helped,” Cordova replied. “What about the Fleet? What happened in orbit? If they didn't win the battle up there, then all of this was for nothing.”
Harland's mouth dropped, and he said, “Brace yourself. We won.”
“What?”
“All orbital forces have surrendered. Aside from a handful that seem to be fleeing the system.” He looked up at Cordova, placed his hands on her arms, and started to dance wildly around. “We won! It's really over! Polaris wiped out the enemy squadron, and the fighters mopped up the rest.” Looking frantically around, he said, “We'd better get back to the broadcasting station. They ought to have power now, and we need to tell everyone...what am I thinking. We can do that from here.” He tapped controls on the device in his hand, working to integrate the communicator into the planetary network, while Cordova looked up at the sky, the stars gleaming brightly in the night. Some of them were rebel ships, moving into sentry position over a liberated planet.
Hours before, she'd promised that the sun would rise on a free Hyperborea. Almost to her surprise, she was able to deliver. The world was free, by the efforts of her own people and those up in orbit. The crowds cheering in the street were enjoying their first true taste of freedom for centuries, a spark that had almost been extinguished by countless years of oppression, released at last.
“Here you go,” Harland said.
“Hey...”
“You did the broadcast that started all of this. Only seems fair that you do the one that finishes it.” Fishing a datapad out of his pocket, he added, “I'll see what else I can find out.”
Clearing her throat, Cordova said, “This is Major Cordova. I can announce that rebel forces under the leadership of Commander Edward Curtis have successfully defeated the Federation Fleet in orbit. All government forces in the capital have surrendered. The war, at least here, is over. Tomorrow you will begin the hard work of building the world you want to live in. Tonight, you can rejoice that the tyranny that has enslaved this world since the days of the first colonists has finally been defeated. You won this victory. Enjoy it. Savor it. And remember this day forever. Good night.”
“Not bad,” Harland said, skimming over his datapad. His face fell as he read through a report, and said, “Oh, God.”
“What is it?”
Looking out at the crowd, he asked, “You know where Petrov is?”
“No idea. I hope...”
Taking a deep breath, Harland replied, “It's Canopus. Judging by the images I'm getting from the orbital satellites, I'd say the odds are pretty good that his daughter just died in action.”
Chapter 27
Mike's eyes fluttered open, pain burning through his head. A hand was shaking him, and he looked across to see Petrova jostling his shoulder, trying to wake him, the last remnants of a medical kit in her hand. He tried to rise, and agony swept through his system, stilled by a pinprick in his arm. He looked around the bridge, and his heart sank. Hammond was dead, prone on the deck, her glassy eyes staring at the shattered, twisted ceiling. Kenyon was sprawled over the helm controls, the ceiling strut which had brushed over his head full on her back. She'd said that she wanted nobody else to fly her ship. Fate had granted her wish.
“Damage report?” he said, and Schmidt lurched over to him, shaking her head.
“The last readings I had suggested total systems failure, Commander. The superstructure was shattered by the final salvo, and we've lost all sensor and communication systems. Emergency power is on, but I don't know how long it'll hold.” With a sigh, she said, “She's a dead ship, Commander. I'd say we're looking at a matter of minutes until total structural collapse.”
“Then what are you waiting around here for?” he asked. “Just you two?”
“Everyone else…,” Petrova said. “We were lucky, I guess.”
Nodding, Mike replied, “Get out of here.”
“We were...”
“Lieutenant,” he said. “I'm dead. I don't think I can move, and even if I could, I'd only slow you down. You're going to be needed in the battles to come. Some of the escape pods on the underdeck might still be intact. Get to one of them and leave. That's an order.”
Shaking her head again, Schmidt replied, “Not a chance, sir. Anna, you take his right arm, I'll take his left.” Glaring at Mike, she continued, “I don't want to hear a single damned word of protest, Commander. Consider that an order, if you want. Given that if any doctor was around, he'd declare you unfit for command in a heartbeat.”
“I don't want the two of you to die for nothing,” he said.
“We aren't,” Petrova said. “We're risking death for you.”
The two women dragged him from the chair, pulling him over to the emergency hatch on the floor, already popped open by the force of the final salvo. Mike took one last look around his bridge, only a handful of the displays still working, flickering their final reports as sirens wailed in the background. A tear ran down the side of his face as he struggled to the hatch, Schmidt sliding down first to the deck below, only the flickering emergency lights providing illumination.
Mike was next, his broken leg aflame as he caught it on the wall on his way down, Schmidt managing to break his fall, dragging him out of the way as Petrova followed. The corridor looked worse than the bridge, tattered debris everywhere, cracks running across the ceiling where hull plates had ruptured, and the distinctive odor of ozone in the air, the all-too-familiar sign of a life support system on its last legs.
Turning a corner, he saw a pair of legs sticking out from under a pair of broken maintenance cabinets, and Schmidt raced forward, shaking her head as she quickly examined the dead crewman. Returning to Mike's side, she guided him gently over the debris, trying not to look at the man they'd left behind.
“How many got away?” he asked.
“We lost internal communications in the final impact, but I think I saw some escape pods heading away,” Petrova replied. “Hell, we don't even know if there's still a battle going on outside. For all we know, there are Federation boarding parties on the way right now.”
“I don't think so,” Mike replied. “They'd have come around for another pass. There's been more than enough time for them to blow us out of space, and they'd have done it, even if it was just as a public relations stunt.” They turned a corner, and his face fell as he saw the row of sealed hatches on the wall, four of them, all silent testament to the departed escape pods.
“At least someone got away,” Schmidt said with a sigh. She turned to the other corridor, a pressure hatch sealed shut, and added, “No way. Even if we had a spacesuit, there's too much debris to wade through.”
A faint crackle came from Mike's pocket, and he fumbled down for his communicator, flipping the channel open and saying, “Canopus Actual. Go ahead.”
“I'm coming to get you, son,” his father replied. “I'm sitting in a shuttle, about one minute from docking. I think I've got your signal traced down, and I'll be coming in to Airlock Nine-Nine. If I'm getting this right, that's one deck down from your current position. Can you make it?”
“We'll be there,” he replied. A roar of static erupted over the channel, and he said, “Interference. I'm surprised the first message got through.” He paused, grimacing as his foot touched the deck, and said, “I'll say again what I said before. You two should get going.”
“To hell with that,” Petrova replied, and they half-carried, half-dragged him down the corridor for ten painful steps before the lights flickered out, and with them, the artificial gravity which was weighing them down. Mike felt a queasy feeling in his stomach as he floated clear of the deck, drifting towards the ceiling.
Experimentally, Mike pushed off a wall, discovering in the process that he had broken two fingers on his left hand, but at least he could guide himself towards their goal, floating through the cloud of debris rising from the floor. The hull creaked, and he heard a loud report from somewhere to their rear, another breach. The ship couldn't hold together for much longer, and the loss of gravity was the final nail in the coffin that Canopus was rapidly becoming.
“Good God, look at that,” Schmidt said, gesturing at a gap in the floor, jagged metal ripped clean through where a conduit had exploded. The crack ran all the way to the wall, and Mike looked at Schmidt, the two of them knowing that they were close to the outer hull. Loud creaks echoed from all around them, the sounds of imminent structural failure.
“Come on,” Petrova said, pushing Mike through the gap before diving after him, Schmidt following an instant later. Caught on a stray cable, Mike tumbled around, and had a perfect view of the wall finally giving way, the pressures from the other failed sections finally too great. A low hiss turned into a howl as atmosphere began to leech away, a force starting to drag him back towards the breach as Petrova pushed him onward, one final burst of energy that carried them beyond the sole remaining pressure door in the corridor.
It should have triggered automatically. It didn't.
Cursing, Schmidt dived for the panel, the force of escaping air threatening to drag her away as she entered the override sequence, the hatch mercifully slamming shut just as Petrova was about to lose her grip, sending her and Mike floating off into space. She gestured up at the ceiling, already starting to buckle.
“We won't be so lucky the next time.”
The three of them pushed off down the corridor, an airlock sliding open in front of them, Major Saxon waving for them to hurry as the sound of hull failure echoed all around, desperate cracks and rumbles, the pressure falling from pinhole leaks the detectors no longer had the ability to register. There was no thought for precedence of rank; Mike was the first one through, snatched out of the air by Saxon and tossed roughly in the direction of a crash couch, almost immediately followed by Petrova.
Schmidt loitered for an instant, taking a final look at the corridor before diving in, the airlock slamming shut behind them. Without delay, the shuttle detached, the force of the emergency bolts ripping the ship free taking some of the deck plating with it, and as the engines roared, pushing them away from the side of the ship, Mike got the first good look at the remnants of his first command.
Canopus was broken, the aft section already beginning to crack, thousands of hull breaches venting air into space. The corridor they had recently vacated was exposed to space, the integrity of the armor lasting just long enough to allow them to get away. After a moment, the engines died, and his father stepped out of the airlock, gesturing for Saxon to take control.
“Well?” Mike asked, grimacing through the pain. “Did we win?”
“We won,” he replied. “And God, did we win big. They came here with eight ships. Nine if you count the one we took down on our first visit. They left with one, and only a handful of fighters onboard.” He paused, then said, “Admiral Yoshida is dead. Regulus was completely destroyed. I know he was a close friend.” Frowning, he continued, “I just remember him as an ambitious Lieutenant who used to beat me at poker.”
“He was my mentor,” Mike said. “More than that.”
“He did what I couldn't,” his father replied. “I know some of the story. I figure we're finally going to have time for you to tell me the rest, soon enough.” Carefully resting a hand on Mike's shoulder, he continued, “You realize the magnitude of what happened here today. Sirius is damaged, but Meg Bishop thinks she'll be able to get her in fighting trim in a week. She's already heading back to Sinaloa Station for repairs. We started this fight with odds of eleven to two. We're up to six to five, and with a few auxiliary cruisers as well. The Directorate committed their whole auxiliary force to the fight. Mike, we've got the advantage now. A strategic advantage, in terms of both quantity and quality.”
“It doesn't seem real,” he replied. “Though I suppose that might be the drugs talking. What about my crew?”
Looking down at the deck, his father said, “Duval and Kani made sure that they didn't knock out a single shuttle from the first wave of evacuees. All of them made it to Newton Station, and are safe and well. As for your fighters, you lost twelve planes, five pilots. All killed, no wounded, but that's pretty normal for fighter combat.”
“And the rest?”
With a deep sigh, he continued, “We have confirmation of eighteen, Mike. I'm truly sorry. There might be more out there, but not many of the escape pods managed to clear the debris field. I've got search and rescue shuttles picking up the other survivors, and we got four others from Sensor Control, but that's about it.”
Nodding, Mike replied, “I'd like to see them as soon as possible.”
“You're going to have to get yourself pretty thoroughly checked out first, Commander,” Petrova said. “At a minimum, you've broken several bones.”
“Mike,” his father said, “It was worth it. What your crew did was magnificent. They're already talking about it halfway across the Federation. We had footage of the battle piped on StelCom, thanks to a few friends in ColSec.” Shaking his head, he added, “Words I never thought I'd say. Hyperborea is ours, and there are insurrections on four colony worlds already. It hasn't been an hour. You can bet that every colony will be in full revolt in a matter of days.”
“Then they're beaten,” Mike replied, nodding in satisfaction. He looked up at his father, and said, “We haven't finished yet, have we?”
“They'll let every colony, every outpost go, but as long as they hold Earth and Titan, they can stand us off indefinitely. Build new ships, a new Fleet, one bigger than anything we can prepare in the time. This war isn't over. Not until we make it all the way to Earth itself. Not until we can dictate terms from Earth Orbit, and until the Federation is broken forever.” Looking down at his son, he added, “Get some rest, Mike. I'm going to need you soon.”
“My ship...”
“We just got a few new ones. For one thing, I'm going to need a flotilla commander.” Turning to Petrova, he said, “You're his minder, right?”
“So it would appear.”
“Get him fit for duty as fast as possible. Without doing anything stupid.”
“That's a little...ambitious, Commander.”
With a shrug, he replied, “We just took down the biggest fleet the Federation ever mustered, Lieutenant. After that, it should be child's play.” Looking down at his red-faced son, he said, “Though perhaps I see what you mean.”
Epilogue
The crowd outside were still cheering as Curtis sat at the desk in the office of the late Governor of Hyperborea, fiddling with the tie on his hastily-improvised dress uniform, dredged out of the archives by Rojek in a desperate bid to look impressive. At the insistence of McKinnon, Saxon and Ortiz, he wore a single star on each shoulder, the insignia of the rank they all agreed he had earned in the recently-fought battle.
“In five seconds, Admiral,” the technician said, making final adjustments to the camera. If they'd got this right, he'd soon be live on forty-five worlds, including Earth itself, an appreciable fraction of the planetary power grid devoted to pulsing this message out to the stars. They'd all seen the battle, and despite the frantic propaganda being released by the Federation, they all knew that the rebel fleet had triumphed. As impossible as it seemed, his plan had worked, and the Federation's fleet was reduced to a fraction of its former strength.
“In Two. One. You're on, Admiral.”
Forcing a smile to his face, Curtis said, “Good morning. My name is Admiral Edward Curtis, and I have the honor to be the commanding officer of the forces that engaged and destroyed a Federation task force in Hyperborean orbit today. For the first time, Hyperborea is free and independent, her people rising as one to drive out their oppressors. Never again will they fall under foreign tyranny. Never again will they he used as playthings in the political games of distant masters. And never again will they live under the shadow of destruction. They are free.”
Looking down at the desk for a second, he continued, “News has already reached us, here on Hyperborea, that other worlds are fighting to free themselves. That Caledonia, the longest-settled extrasolar planet, has seen uprisings in every city. That Cosmograd, a bastion of the Federation Fleet, has declared for the rebellion. To those in the process of overthrowing the tyrants that have oppressed them for decades, I pledge that the fleet under my command stands with you.”
“Many good men and women have died. They died for you. For all of you. Died that the dreams of freedom you have been forced to bury for so long can at last be given their fullest expression. Died to give you the keys to the prison in which you have been held captive. Died to build a better tomorrow for our children.”
Looking back up at the camera, he continued, “We will continue this war until the end. We will continue to fight on until the last moment, until we have defeated the Federation at its beating heart. To the Central Committee and the remnants of the Federation Fleet, I issue a warning. You will not be safe on Earth. You can't hide away from the rest of the galaxy and hope that all of this will go away. We're coming. We're coming for you. And this time, we will not be stopped.”
The light winked out, and Saxon walked around the camera, a frown on her face, saying, “Was that wise? Telling them that we were coming?”
“They have to know it's the final act of the war. We can dance around the outer worlds for weeks, months, but the last battle will be waged in Earth Orbit. They know that just as well as I do.” “I don't hold out much hope that you'll bring them to the bargaining table,” Saxon replied.
“No, but I do hope that some of the rats might start fleeing the sinking ship. Every mid-level administrator or staff officer who decides to flee to the Halo Worlds throws them into that much more chaos. And for us, chaos breeds victory.” He sat back in his chair, and said, “Nice and comfortable. You think I could get away with taking it up to Polaris?”
“Probably not,” she replied, walking over to the window, looking out at the stars beyond. “It'll be dawn soon. In a few hours.”
“I doubt anyone out there got any sleep tonight.”
Turning to him, she asked, “Which one is Earth?”
Frowning, he rose from his chair, walked over to the window, and pointed at a tiny spot of light, one almost lost in a sea of stars, and replied, “That one. Right there. First thing any spacer ever checks when he reaches a new system. Even if he's never even been there.”
Nodding, she said, wistfully, “It's been a long time since I've been there.”
“Me too,” he replied. “But we're going back. And we're going in style.”
Thank you for reading 'Terrible Swift Sword'. For information on future releases, please join the author's Science-Fiction Mailing List at http://eepurl.com/A9MdX for updates. If you enjoyed this book, please review it on the site where you purchased it.
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The saga returns in 'He Never Died', available soon…
If you can't wait, why not try one of the author's other books, such as Strike Commander: Starfighter, an excerpt of which is included on the next page...
Chapter 1
The clock ticked down the final hours to the end of the Interplanetary War. Lounging with an air of feigned nonchalance in the squadron ready room, the pilots of the 25th Squadron of the Martian Defense Force watched the screen, a dark-suited newscaster bringing them the latest news from the Armistice talks.
Major Jack Conway, squadron commander and a six-year veteran, tried to ignore it, despite the rapt attention of his pilots. Out here at Proxima, there was a five-day time lag on communications. The peace treaty could have been signed by now, but until he had the word from the Combined Chiefs of Staff they were still at war. He glanced down at his datapad, flicking through the latest tactical reports. Everyone on both sides was watching and waiting, all across the system. Going through the motions.
At the rear of the room, the door slid open, and his wife, Captain Kathryn Mallory, the squadron's Operations Officer, stepped in with a grim scowl on her face. The pilots looked at each other, knowing what was about to come, and dreading it. Who wanted to die on the last day of the war?
“Well, Kat?” he asked, rising to his feet, taking a final swig of his coffee.
She nodded, and said, “Orders from Brigadier Gordon.” Looking around the room, she added, “Squadron is to scramble in fifteen minutes. Strike op.”
“Come on,” Captain Poole, one of his flight leaders, replied. “Not today. Not now.”
“Orders are orders, Sarah,” Conway replied, turning to her. “Everyone get down to the launch bay and get yourselves kitted up. We've got a job to do.” Quick footsteps raced into the room, and his usual wingman, Lieutenant Dirk Xylander jogged in, his arm in a sling. “Don't get any ideas, pal. You aren't going.”
Glancing down at his arm, he replied, “I can manage.”
“Like hell you can,” Conway said. “The medicos say you rest that wing of yours for a few days, and that's what you're going to do. Not my fault you were so damn careless.”
“Then take one of the two-seaters, and let me fly right-seat,” he said. “Damn it, Jack, I don't want to miss this.”
“I do,” Ken Alvarez, the other flight leader, said.
Clapping his hand on his shoulder, Conway said, “Dirk, you're not missing much. What's the mission, Kat?”
Tapping a button on her datapad, she pulled up a holographic display of the local system, moons and planets flashing into the air, and said, “Tanker running out of Aldrin, on a resupply run to Charlie-Lima-Zulu. Unmanned, no escort expected, only light defenses.”
“Then what's the damn point?” Poole asked.
Turning to her, Conway said, “You know the drill. Just like the last half-dozen times we've done this. The brass back home want to make sure that the UN knows we're ready to continue the fight, and that we're not going to give anything away at the bargaining table.” He looked around the room, and said, “Twelve years, boys and girls. Twelve years we've been fighting those bastards, and we're almost at the end of the road. We're not going to stop now, not when we're so close.”
“At least let the kids stay behind,” Poole said, gesturing to a pair of nervous pilots at the rear of the room. Third Lieutenants both, new to the squadron, both of them untested by combat. Conway nodded, stepping over to them, but they glanced at each other as he approached, shaking his head.
“Sir, we'd like to go,” one of them said.
“You don't have to do this.”
“Operations orders require the whole squadron,” Mallory said.
“To hell with that,” he replied, turning to her. “I could do this mission with half the squadron if I had to, and we're already a man down.”
The older of the two, O'Brien, he vaguely recalled, said, “Sir, we don't want to be sitting back and watching while the squadron goes out to fight.” She looked up at him, a forced smile on her face, young enough that she should be worrying about college, not planning on flying out to war.
“That, and you want to miss out on a little action before the end of the war,” Poole said, shaking her head in disgust. “You damn rooks are all the same.”
“Weren't you, three years ago?” Conway asked, raising an eyebrow. “You feel the same way, Vasquez?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “I do.”
“Then who am I to stop you,” he said. “Report to the flight deck.” They smiled, and he added, “Don't get any crazy ideas out there, though. You stick to me like glue, keep your eyes open, and stay in reserve unless you have to fight. With a little luck, this will all be over in an hour and we can get back in time for lunch. I expect to see you both at the table. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.
“Good.” Turning around, he said, “Ken, get everyone loaded up. I'll be down in a minute.”
“Aye, sir.”
The squadron filed out of the room, leaving Conway alone with his wife. He walked over to the monitor, the man still droning about the progress of the peace talks, an endless stream of meaningless verbiage designed to distract the viewer from the absence of actual news.
“Six weeks,” he said, shaking his head. “They've been working on the final agreement for six damn weeks. What's taking them so long?”
“Peace takes time,” she replied, draping her hand on his shoulder. “Neither side wants to concede anything. Even if all the hard talking is over.”
“What do I care about a few scattered rocks at Wolf 359, or some mining outpost on Mercury? I want this war done, Kat. I want to go home, and I want to see our daughter again.”
“Don't you think I want that as well?”
He looked at her, a smile on his face, and said, “I want that for both of us. God knows we've earned some leave time.”
“I'm staying in the Fleet,” she replied, growing stern.
“We both are,” he said. “That doesn't mean I don't want two or three months for us. Some time we can actually spend together as a family. After all of this, I think we deserve that much.” He shook his head, and added, “You watch those communicators like a hawk, Kat. If we get the news, I'll be back before you can say abort.”
“Don't worry, I will.” She moved away, paused, and turned. “Be careful out there, Jack. I don't want to lose you, not now. Not when we're so close to the end.”
“I'm coming back,” he replied. “Depend on that.” As he stepped to the door, he added, “Keep an eye on Dirk, will you? Find him something to do in Operations during the strike. I don't want him moping around the ready room by himself.”
“I'm still picking up your strays, am I?” she said with a smile.
“You knew what you were getting into when you married me,” he said, moving close. He held her in his arms for a long moment, gazing into her eyes, and added, “Don't worry. I'm coming back.”
“I know. I'll try and have some good news waiting for you.”
After a final kiss, the two of them parted, Conway jogging down the corridor towards the hangar deck, weaving through the crowds of technicians milling around the station. As he slid through the double doors, the squadron was lined up at the far end of the room, in front of a table with twelve glasses and a pitcher. At the head was a tall, balding dark-skinned man, beaming a smile at him, wearing a flight suit. His old flight instructor, Moses Sullivan, the holy terror of the Academy. And a very old friend.
“Someone told me you needed an extra pilot.”
“Mo, you made it at last!”
He shrugged, and said, “Thought I'd get a little action before the end. I got out of that damn training job and pulled a few strings.”
Looking around, Conway said, “You can take Dirk's place on my wing.”
“Someone needs to keep you out of trouble,” a husky voice said. He turned to see the imposing figure of Ginger Cruz, deck chief, walking towards him, a bottle of vodka in hand. The smile on her face was disconcerting, but everyone was in the same mood today. Moving to the glasses, she poured a precise single measure in each of them. “All systems go, sir.”
“Thanks, Chief,” he said.
“Don't scratch…,” she began.
“The paintwork,” the pilots replied, all but the rookies, in practiced chorus.
Stepping over to the table, Conway took the first glass, swirled the liquid around, and waited for the others to collect theirs. He turned to face the fighters, and raised his drink in salute, praying that he would be making this toast for the last time.
“Good hunting,” he said, turning back to the table and pouring his glass into the jug. One after another, the rest of the pilots did the same, until only Vasquez was left, frowning at his drink, a baffled expression on his face.
“Pour it in, lad,” Sullivan said. “You'll have it when you get back.”
Shaking his head, he did as directed, and Conway smiled. He'd felt the same puzzlement on his first flight, when his squadron leader had led the pilots in the toast. Twelve single shots poured into the jug, to be shared out equally on the return, among the survivors. Far too often, he'd ended up with a double at the end of the mission. One last gift of the dead to their comrades.
“Saddle up,” he said, walking over to his fighter, the rest of the squadron fanning out to their respective craft. Dropping the lower hatch, he climbed inside, patting the outer hull for luck as always, and snuggled into his couch. Cruz had done her usual fine job with the pre-flight checks, every system ready for launch, the mission orders and navigational plots already loaded into the system.
“Squadron Leader to Guidance,” he said, sliding on his headset. “Requesting launch clearance.”
“Roger,” the calm voice of Lieutenant Meredith Dixon, the squadron's Mission Operations Officer, replied. “Clearance on request.”
His wife's voice cut in, saying, “Good luck, 25th, and be careful. We'll have a party waiting for you when you get home.”
“Save the first dance for me,” he replied. “Initiating launch sequence.”
As one, the fighters dropped through the deck, the elevator airlocks opening up, sliding them out into the cold darkness of space beyond. He quickly flicked switches, working his controls, making sure all systems were ready for the battle, concentrating harder than normal on his checklist. Too many distractions today. He glanced across at the squadron status board, and frowned.
“Come on, people, let's get moving. I know you've got other things on your mind, but blot them out. I don't need you distracted by a lot of politicians.”
“Roger,” Poole said. “Keep it together, Red Flight.”
Conway's fighter dropped free, floating in space outside the station while its brethren followed, thrusters pulsing to move them into the correct formation. As one, the engines roared, kicking them onto their interception trajectory, and after a quick glance to make sure the navigation systems were working properly, he settled back to look over the tactical display, planning the strike.
The curse of all space warfare was that there was no such thing as stealth. Twelve fighters roaring towards their target was impossible to conceal, and the enemy would have an easy twenty minutes to prepare a defense. Misdirection had to replace stealth, a strategic sleight-of-hand that kept the enemy guessing about potential targets.
In this case, the tanker was a good choice. Cruising in between stations, as far as it ever would be from the UN defense perimeter. Normally, there would be an escort, but the other two squadrons had been running decoy missions earlier, feinting attacks to draw the defending fighters away. They'd find out soon whether or not it had worked.
As he watched, a cluster of dots appeared on the screen, ranging out of Aldrin Station on an intercept course. His fingers danced across the navigation controls as he plotted their course, working out their window of opportunity for a strike. Somewhere at the back of his mind, a voice was clamoring for him to take the chance to call an abort. No one would question it, not today. Not with the war as good as won.
When the console finished its work, calculating that the fighters would be unable to intercept until the tanker had already been destroyed, his squadron on his way home, he felt a pang of disappointment. More than a hundred times before, he'd led his people out on missions like this one, and superficially, it was the same. At the back of his mind, he knew it was different. Everyone was thinking ahead to the future, to what they would do after the War. Most of them would be out of the Fleet in a matter of weeks, able to pick their lives back up where they had been forced to leave off.
“Sullivan to Conway.”
“Conway here,” he said. “What's up?”
“Oh, I thought you'd want to talk for a moment. We're on laser-tightbeam, so no one else can hear us.” He paused, and added, “You need a distraction, Jack. I can always tell.”
“Mind-reader,” he replied. “This is as simple a mission as I've ever seen. Run in, drop our birds, burn for home.”
“We all know...”
“There's no such thing as a textbook mission,” Conway interrupted. “Which means we'll be careful, but there's no point dwelling on what might go wrong either. We'll handle it, or we'll run for home.”
“I'm glad you remember some that crap I tried to teach you.”
“Some of it had to stick.”
Sullivan chuckled, then added, “I hate this part. Just coasting through space, letting the computers do their thing. Three minutes of terror and an hour of boredom.”
“Old Major Marcel used to bring a book with him. Said it calmed him down.” He paused, then said, “I miss that old bastard.”
“I know,” he replied. “We've lost too many friends along the way. Now come on, let's change the topic. How's that kid of yours?”
“Fine. Still with Kat's folks, back at Syrtis. We're going to put in for shore-side postings for our next tour, have a chance to spend some time together for a few years.”
“And after that?”
“Mike Gordon thinks I should be able to get into a training command without any trouble. Not as exciting as this, but I can handle a bit of nice relaxing boredom. And I'll still get to fly fighters, as well as go home every night.” He smiled, then added, “Kat's the ambitious one, not me. She's got her eye on a ship command, maybe a battlecruiser. Give her a few years, she'll do it, as well.”
“I'm still surprised you're both staying in the Fleet.”
“Someone's got to watch the moat,” he replied. “I've been doing this too long, Mo. It's all I know. Kat feels the same way. What about you?”
“I'm a twenty-year man, Jack, you know that. I reckon they'll have to drag my corpse out of the cockpit. Or out from behind the desk, if I get unlucky.”
A chime sounded in Conway's cockpit, and he said, “Four minutes to contact. Better get the troops ready. And thanks, Mo. I needed that.”
“My pleasure.”
Switching channels, he said, “Leader to Squadron. Target in two hundred and thirty seconds. I want a salvo fire from all fighters, one missile each, at extreme range. Close in for a second shot if needed, but once that tanker goes up, don't wait for the word, just run for home. We've got enemy fighters incoming, so we can't wait around too long. Ken, you take point. Mo, you're in the rear.”
“I get all the fun, boss,” Alvarez said.
Glancing at his sensor display, Conway added, “O'Brien, stay behind me. You and Vasquez move into arrowhead formation. Keep a close watch for enemy fighters.”
“Aye, sir,” she replied. “But we'll get plenty of warning...”
“We hope,” he snapped. “You want to be an old pilot, not a bold pilot. Keep the risks to a minimum.”
He watched as the squadron moved into the attack formation, a distorted wing sweeping through space, the two rookies sliding into his wake. Most of them had flown with him for months, years. They all knew what they were doing, their instincts sharpened by hundreds of flight hours. Most of them should have been relieved long ago, sent back home to recover, but they'd never had enough pilots to allow themselves that luxury. At least they'd be able to get some rest soon, once the politicians had finished their work.
Thirty seconds to firing range, and he fired up his missile guidance system, locking on for an attack, targeting the tanker's engines. Even if it wasn't destroyed, sending it tumbling out of control would be as big a problem for the enemy.
Then, with seconds to go, a dozen new lights appeared on the screen, a compartment underneath the tanker opening up and disgorging enemy fighters, a squadron to match his own.
There was no time to run, no time to evade, no time for anything. No matter what they did, they'd be in the firing line for the next two hundred seconds, an eternity in fighter combat.
“Leader to Squadron. Bandits dead ahead. Break and attack. Tally Ho!”
Twelve missiles lanced forward as one, racing towards the approaching fighters, one brief advantage at their disposal. A quick glance at the sensor display confirmed what he had suspected. This had been a trap from the beginning, an ambush. Now they had to fight their way out of it. Two of the enemy fighters died in that first attack, a brief smile flashing across his face, but the board lit up with a host of new trajectory tracks as they launched their counter-strike, more leaping up from the fake tanker to join the fray.
“Countermeasures!” Poole yelled. “Watch your countermeasures!”
“Lambert, you've got three on you!” Alvarez said. “Take evasive action, now!”
“Watch it, O'Brien, there's a pair on your tail!” Vasquez yelled, dancing with panic. “Drift across, I'll try and get them!”
“Damn it, Scott, you've got one locked on!”
The channels were full of chatter as the fight devolved into a series of brawls. Warning lights flashed on, missile tracks locking onto his tail, but he coolly ignored them as he fired his second warhead, catching a two-second lock on an enemy interceptor that passed in front of him. Kicking his engines to full, he dived for the tanker, smiling with satisfaction as he saw Poole, Sullivan and Vasquez try the same trick. He looked around for O'Brien, about to order her to follow, and cold realization hit him.
One of his fighters had vanished from the sensor display. The record showed two missiles slamming into her midsection eight seconds ago, no chance to evade or dodge. Less than ten seconds, and he was already down one pilot. As he pressed his attack, swinging low towards the tanker, unleashing every countermeasures program he had at the pursuing missiles, he watched two more of his people die in front of him, Teddy Lee ramming into a warhead, and Poole losing the race for the tanker. For two years the three of them had flown together, and they died on the last day of the war.
“Keep loose,” he said, ducking over the tanker as the two missiles on his tail slammed into it, unable to pull out in time. As bad as it was for his squadron, the enemy were faring worse, down to seven fighters. He saw Alvarez ahead of him, a missile on his tail, closing fast, and quickly locked on with his remaining warhead, sending it racing towards the deadly target.
“Help's on the way, Ken,” he said. “Keep clear for ten seconds.”
“Dive, Jack!” Sullivan yelled, and he turned to see a fighter swinging in behind him. He slammed on his thruster controls, slowing down just enough to spoil the targeting solution, a missile sliding ahead and harmlessly tumbling into space.
“I can't get ahead!” Alvarez yelled. “Jack, I can't shake him!”
“Three more seconds,” Conway said, but it was no good. His friend ran out of time, and died in a flash of flame. The screen was rapidly clearing, only eight fighters remaining on the board, four on each side. Along with debris that could only have come from escape pods, smashed into rubble. Deliberate kills, one final atrocity for the road. A dark knot of hate flowed inside, and he turned towards the crippled tanker, out-gassing from numerous hull breaches, locking on for a collision course.
Behind him, Sullivan, somehow still alive, led Vasquez and Lambert in a final strike pass, their last missiles racing away. Conway caught them with his targeting system, guiding them in to their target with grim precision. The tanker finally cracked into fragments as the superstructure crumpled, and shrapnel rained down all around them.
“Break for home,” he said. “We're on the outward curve. Move it.”
They'd finished their pass, and finally were running back for home, leaving the few scattered enemy fighters in their wake. He let Vasquez and Lambert take the lead, shaking his head at the survival of the rookie when so many other experienced pilots had died. That kid had earned his drink, after all.
“They're still coming!” Lambert yelled, as two of the enemy fighters turned, burning their engines at maximum. The warbook showed them as being out of missiles, unarmed, and it only took him a second to realize what they were doing. A pair of dots flashed onto the display as the enemy pilots ejected, turning their fighters into missiles in their own right.
“Full thrust!” he yelled. “Maximum boost, now!”
“I can't shake him!” Vasquez yelled. Conway fired his engines, surging forward, trying to get between the unmanned pilot and the survivors of his squadron, but there was nothing he could do. The two empty fighters found their targets, leaving only Sullivan and Conway, serenely drifting through space towards home.
“To hell with this,” he said, rattling the controls on his navigation computer. The second squadron was closing rapidly, and he could still lock on for an intercept.
“Jack,” Sullivan said. “Don't do it.”
“Those bastards...”
“The squadron's dead, and killing yourself won't bring them back,” his friend said. A blue light washed over his controls, his system taken over from outside. “I'm not letting you commit suicide when you have a baby waiting at home.”
“Mo, I swear...”
Sullivan cut the channel, and after a moment attempting to break the lock his friend had established on the controls, Conway slumped back in his couch, defeated. The faces of his friends flashed in front of his head, happy and cheerful the morning before, talking about what they would be doing after the war. All the plans were ended, all the hopes and dreams turned to dust.
The computer brought the two of them back on board, while he sat at the controls, staring forward. Sliding up through the decks, he could see somber faces waiting for him, his wife standing next to Xylander, fresh tears on his face, stoic calm on hers. Mechanically, he opened the lower hatch, and dropped down to the deck, stepping forward.
Waiting on the table was the jug of vodka, only two glasses left, Chief Cruz looking at them as though she might bring the rest of the pilots back to life through sheer force of will.
“Jack, I'm so sorry,” Mallory said.
“So am I,” he replied, trying to hold on.
“We had the message we were waiting for,” Xylander said, darkly. “The war's over.”
“Thank God for that,” Sullivan said, climbing down from his fighter. “Maybe now...”
“There's more,” Conway said, looking at his wife. “Tell me.”
She closed her eyes, looked down at the deck, and said, “There was a malfunction in the relay at the egress point. The Armistice took effect in this system two hours ago.”
“Before we even launched,” Sullivan muttered.
Holding his arm, she continued, “You couldn't have known, none of us could. There's no question of blame, just...”
Shrugging her off, he walked over to the table, picked up the jug of vodka, and smashed it to the deck. He looked down at the shattered glass on the floor, then looked up at his wife.
“Nothing. Ten of my friends died, and it was all for nothing.”
“Jack...,” she began, but he walked out of the hangar deck, and didn't look back.
* * * * * * *
If you want to learn what happens next, Starfighter is available for purchase at the following link: http://mybook.to/StrikeCom1