Chapter 1
The cruiser wasn't much, but she was the gem of the Neorome fleet. The flagship of the navy, if such a ragtag collection of second-hand ships could be called a navy. And Tom Thrush, a lowly sublieutenant in the United Worlds Navy until his ignominious expulsion less than a month before, was her captain.
He grinned to himself as he looked around the bridge of the Kingfisher, amused by the machinations of fate. He'd reached the rank of Acting Captain on a UW frigate. Now, Captain was his official rank, with the added courtesy title of Commodore, since a fleet of armed freighters and a corvette were under his command. It all sounded quite grand, if you didn’t look too closely at the details.
He wore no uniform. None of the crew did. The Free Neorome Navy, hastily formed some six weeks before, didn't have uniforms yet. It didn't have much of anything yet. By the standards of the United Worlds it was a joke, a disgrace.
But this was the Green Zone. Neorome was a colony world, and colonists spent their lives making do with very little. They got by. Given half a chance, they got by brilliantly. Now, with a damaged cruiser and a corvette captured from the invading Dawn Alliance fleet, an obsolete corvette donated by the United Worlds, and a mob of armed freighters, they were about to launch their first assault on the Dawn Alliance.
More or less. A United Worlds task force might have focused on a purely military objective. This was a colonist force, though, with goals that were more immediately pragmatic.
“Helm, bring us about. Fifty degrees to port and thirty degrees up, please.”
The young man at the helm station put a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing nervously, then tapped an icon. “Right. Um. Fifty degrees to port.” The ship swung ever so gently to starboard, the helmsman cursed, and the ship swung back to port. The nose swung well past fifty degrees, stopped, then crept back. It came to rest more or less where Tom wanted it.
“And thirty degrees up,” Tom said.
“Right. Up. One moment, Captain.” The helmsman raised a hand, then hesitated. A woman stood beside him, a trainee learning the helm controls. She pointed to an icon and he tapped it. The nose of the cruiser rose. “Thirty degrees,” the man said triumphantly.
“Well done,” Tom said, trying to keep the irony from his voice. “You're getting better.”
A red flush rose on the back of the man's neck. He didn't turn his head.
“Comms,” Tom said. He actually knew the name of the woman at the communications console, but he was cultivating the habit of giving orders by station rather than name. He hadn't learned enough names yet, and fresh crew kept joining the ship as new recruits signed up. “Signal the fleet. We'll be opening a portal shortly.”
“Aye aye,” she said, a rare acknowledgement from a crew used to the tiny, informal bridges of Free Planets ships.
Tom had a display next to his chair showing the rest of his little fleet. However, he said, “Tactical. What are the other ships doing?”
Jean Carpenter, his tactical officer, was the most experienced spacer on the bridge. She had twenty-plus years of experience raiding United Worlds shipping and fleeing from UW frigates like the one Tom had served on, before the invasion of the Dawn Alliance made them allies. The sheer magnitude of her experience made her inflexible. She, more than anyone Tom had worked with so far, was having a terrible time adjusting to being part of a cruiser's crew.
“Ummm…” She leaned forward, then straightened up. “Every ship is moving, Captain. Let me see. The big one – sorry, the corvette – is looping down beneath us. The Dewy Honeysuckle is circling around to starboard. The Waves at Sunset is following her. The Autumn Sunshine is directly aft and above us. She's dropping straight down.”
The ships would queue up in a tight column, and when the cruiser opened a portal into seventh-dimensional space they would follow her through. Each ship could open its own portal, but if they shared, there was only one portal for enemy ships to spot. It was also good practice. The fleet needed to learn to work together.
“Let me know when everyone's lined up,” he said. “What's our weapons situation?”
Carpenter turned to look at him, making a face. “Not great,” she said. “We have five duds in the missile bay. That’s it.” The missiles, seized with the ship, had resisted reprogramming, so the Neorome engineers had fried their electronic brains. The missiles could be fired, but they would neither steer nor explode. They had a miniscule theoretical value as a distraction to enemy gunners, and that was it.
“There's still no ammo for the guns,” Carpenter went on. “But we have six laser batteries, all of them fully manned.”
Tom nodded. He'd known the details already, but he wanted to test Carpenter's knowledge, and he wanted to be sure he knew if anything changed. Neorome's government in exile was a fractured, chaotic thing. Lines of communication were muddled at best. It wouldn’t surprise him if someone loaded a few thousand rounds of ammo aboard the Kingfisher and forgot to tell her captain.
“That's fine,” he said, making sure the entire bridge could hear. “We don't need guns for this mission. Our role is to show up and look scary. We don't have to shoot anyone.”
Of course, plans had a way of crumbling without warning, and the fleet was about to tackle a Dawn Alliance convoy protected by a carrier and a couple of corvettes. The enemy was supposed to run when they saw the cruiser, but they might not follow the plan. However, he wanted the crew picturing success, not catastrophe.
“Looks like all the ducklings are lined up behind mama,” Carpenter said.
Tom checked his own display. The corvette and three armed freighters were in a somewhat ragged row behind the cruiser, the nose of each ship almost touching the tail of the ship ahead. In fact, they were closer than Tom liked for ships with no experience in tight formations.
Well, flying through a portal is as good a way as any to spread them out. “Helm. Open the portal.”
A rectangle of white light blazed in front of the bridge windows, then grew as the cruiser advanced. They broke through into seventh-dimensional space, then moved up, making room for the rest of the fleet.
An energy storm raged in the distance, billowing clouds of burgundy that almost matched the painted accents around the bridge of the cruiser. The area around the portal was clear, however. “Scanning,” said Carpenter before Tom could give the order. “I get no transponders. Let me see. No ships on short-range scans.”
Tom opened his mouth.
“I'll keep scanning,” she said, and he closed his mouth and nodded.
When the last ship was through and the portal closed, the Waves at Sunset took the lead. She was the smallest ship, and the hardest to detect. The Kingfisher and the rest of the fleet followed, hundreds of kilometers behind, as the Waves skirted the bulk of the storm and worked her way toward their distant rendezvous. The little fleet spread out, which was prudent, since the Kingfisher’s helmsman was prone to sudden swerves and unpredictable changes of direction.
All in all, Tom thought, this would make an excellent training mission. It was training the crew badly needed, too. Unfortunately this was no exercise. He would have dearly loved another couple of months to whip his people into shape, but there were things the fledgling navy needed, things that couldn't wait. So he was flying into danger, possibly into combat, with empty magazines and an untrained crew.
It'll be fine, he told himself. It's a good plan. It'll go off without a hitch. Nothing will go-
“Contact,” Carpenter barked.
Tom looked at his tac screen. A ship had emerged from a pocket of pale yellow storm energy far to starboard and down. He struggled to make the unfamiliar screen zoom in and give him more details. Then three more ships appeared and he decided the details didn't matter. “Take us into the storm. Signal the fleet. Tell them to get as deep as they dare.”
Yvette Notley, the lieutenant at the comms station, murmured into a microphone as the helmsman swiped urgent fingers across his console. The sky in front of the Kingfisher turned burgundy as the ship turned toward the storm. The clouds swelled and darkened, then seemed to dissolve into wisps of mist as the ship reached the boundary of the storm. The gentle, dissipated nature of the energy storm reassured Tom. The Kingfisher was designed to ignore seventh-dimensional weather, but the little freighters were more delicate. A fierce storm would put them in real danger. This storm, however, would be strong enough to obscure them but not strong enough to do harm.
The icons on Tom’s tac screen turned to static. He said, “Stop us here.” When the ship was stationary he said, “Tactical. What did you see?”
Carpenter turned to face him. “Five ships total. One was probably a heavy cruiser. The rest were farther back. I couldn't get as much detail, and I focused on the first one. But they weren't much smaller. They were on a vector of about thirty by fifteen, but they changed course and came toward us just before we lost them in the storm.”
“You got all that?” said Tom. “I'm impressed.” He was, too.
She shrugged, turning pink. “I'm not used to this rig.” She indicated the tactical console. “But I have lots of experience with interpreting scanner data on the fly.”
It was a good reminder that his crew weren't all rookies. They had no navy experience, but most of them had spent years – or even decades – on armed ships.
“What now, Sir?” she said.
“Now we see how good the rest of the fleet is at constrained navigation.” The routine for situations like this was for the lead ship, in this case the Kingfisher, to remain still while the rest of the fleet gathered on her position. Tom wasn't optimistic. He figured he'd wait ten minutes for the enemy ships to move on, then return to open space and wait for the others to find him.
The armed freighters, however, surprised him. Despite the limited scanners they carried, and despite the storm energy scrambling every instrument, the rest of the fleet came creeping out of the storm, one by one. In well under ten minutes the entire fleet was together and following the Kingfisher as she skulked along, just inside the edge of the storm.
“What now, Captain?” Carpenter asked. “We weren't expecting another DA fleet.”
In other circumstances Tom might have turned back. However, this little fleet was not the entire force committed to the mission. “We'll carry on,” he said. “The others will be in place by now. They're expecting us. Besides, it doesn't look like those ships we saw were heading toward their convoy. I doubt we'll see them again.”
And if we do, we'll have a hell of a time fighting them off. He ignored the thought. We'll do fine. If we bump into them we'll just run away. All it takes is one good storm and we'll give them the slip.
As contingency plans went it wasn't entirely comforting, but this was war, and war was always fraught with uncertainty. He checked his chronometer. It was eleven minutes since they'd lost contact with the Dawn Alliance ships. Plenty of time for the enemy to move on. “Take us out of the storm, and let's take a look around. Helm, be ready to take us back in if we spot trouble.”
There was no sign of the enemy fleet. Tom released a pent-up breath as discreetly as he could and said, “Helm. Resume our previous course. Take us to the rendezvous at your best speed.”
The Neorome coyote pack was out there, along with a fat Dawn Alliance convoy. It would be rude to keep them waiting.
When they reached the site of the ambush, the storm they'd planned to use for cover was rapidly falling apart. A dark red-brown in color, the storm had burned hot and fierce, and such storms couldn’t last. There was no sign of the Dawn Alliance convoy, and no way to know if it was still coming.
There was also no sign of the other half of the Neorome attack force. However, a thick, stable wedge of pale blue storm energy roiled away in the sky a hundred kilometers away. The plan said the assault ships would be in that mass of blue cloud. Tom could only shrug to himself and assume it was so.
He led his little fleet into the heart of the disintegrating ocher storm. Not enough energy remained to threaten the little armed freighters. He wasn't sure enough remained to hide him. He could only move to the deepest part of the storm and hope for the best.
An hour later he watched the last of the storm break up around him and knew the ambush would be a failure. Part of him was relieved. Right from the start the plan had struck him as iffy at best. With a seasoned crew and full magazines he would have agreed that the ambush was worth a try. With the materials he had to work with he was just as glad to return to base without facing the enemy.
“This clump has just about had it,” Carpenter said. “There's a chunk of storm just aft that's still pretty thick.” She bent over her display as the helmsman glanced at Tom.
Tom shook his head. “No, I think we better-”
“Contact!” Carpenter turned, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She returned her gaze to the tactical display. “They're coming from the right direction. I think it's the convoy.”
“Maintain position,” Tom said. Not much remained of the storm they were using for cover, but firing nav thrusters would only make them easier to see. “Stand by transponder.”
Five agonizing minutes crawled past as the unidentified ships moved closer and closer. Carpenter called out descriptions as soon as her scanners resolved them. “Definitely a cruiser. Probably a carrier. The next two are cargo ships. I can't tell if one of them is a tanker or not. But they're not warships. Three more ships behind them. No, five.” Then her head whipped up. “We're getting an active scan from the cruiser.”
That meant the enemy had finally spotted the Neorome fleet. They weren't as close as Tom had hoped, but he figured they might be close enough. If Alice was on the ball …. “Transponder,” he said.
“Transponder is on,” announced Notley.
“Helm. Take us forward. Slow and steady.”
The ship moved out of the dregs of the storm. Tom checked his tactical display and watched as the icons representing the rest of his fleet each acquired a little rectangle of identifying text. That meant their transponders were on, identifying them incorrectly as United Worlds warships.
No self-respecting Dawn Alliance escort ship would be bothered by a handful of converted freighters. Even the cruiser would barely give them pause. After all, they had the Kingfisher outnumbered. A United Worlds battle fleet, however, was another matter.
The plan called for the Kingfisher and the corvette to advance out of the storm. The smaller ships would stay back, obscured by churning energy clouds, their faked transponders identifying them as cruisers and carriers. With the storm disintegrating around them Tom expected that part of the plan to fail.
The convoy, though, reacted as if every captain had read the Neorome battle plan and decided to cooperate fully. The warships advanced, not quickly, placing themselves between the vulnerable cargo vessels and the approaching threat. Meanwhile the cargo ships retreated.
Into the soft blue wall of the storm behind them.
“Hold your position,” Tom said.
The Kingfisher surged forward, then braked sharply while the helmsman swore. “Sorry, Captain,” he said when the ship was once again stationary relative to the surrounding storms.
“We'll let them close to within five hundred K,” Tom said. To the helmsman he added, “Make sure you're ready to spin us around and get us out of here.”
The man nodded and looked at his console. Then he stiffened and said, “What about those ships behind us?”
Tom looked from him to Carpenter, who looked up from her own console, her face grim. “That other fleet is back,” she said. “They're behind us. We're trapped.”
Chapter 2
“Sweet Baby Jesus,” Alice Rose said. “It's working.” She sat in the tiny bridge of the Winter Morning, her left eye squeezed shut, her right eye peering through the eyepiece of a fist-sized black box connected by a ribbon of cable to the console in front of her.
Indigo storm energy surged and frothed against the bridge windows. The ship's scanners showed nothing but static, which was just how Alice liked it. If she couldn't see out, odds were no one else could see in.
She was not, however, blind. A kilometer from the nose of the ship, in clear space, a little sensor pod floated on the end of a tether. The pod, far too small to detect unless you were practically on top of it, had a clear view of the surrounding space. A fiber-optic cable sent data back to the ship as pulses of light. “They're coming right at us.”
“Really?” said Bridger, her second-in-command.
“Well, not quite.” She lowered the box with the eyepiece. “They should hit the storm front about three hundred K that way.” She pointed, and Bridger, with the ease of long practice, translated her pointing finger into accurate helm commands. Alice fumbled with the receiver in her hands, telling the mount on the hull of the ship to retract the cable and thus pull in the sensor pod.
“I've got replies from the rest of the pack,” said Garth Ham from the third and final seat in the little bridge. Three more ships, all of them converted freighters like the Winter Morning, hovered dangerously close in the surrounding fog of blue energy. There was a real risk of collision, but it was the only way to make communication possible inside a storm. “They're ready to move.”
A ping sounded, telling Alice the sensor pod was back in its rack on the hull. “Let's move.” She rose from her seat. “Bridger, you've got command.”
“Then I order you to sit back down,” he said wearily. “You're the captain. You should really stay on the ship.”
She wasn't entirely sure he was wrong, but that didn't mean she was going to listen. “I'll be fine. And so will you.” She shut down the rest of the familiar, tired argument by clambering past him and leaving the bridge.
A squad of marines waited in the belly of the ship. At least, that was what they called themselves. It sounded so much better than 'pirate'. The Free Neorome military had no Marine Corps. That degree of specialization was alien to the colonial mindset. A good revolutionary should be able to navigate a ship around a storm, leap through the void and board a captured ship, stalk through jungle with a laser rifle, cook a meal for a crew of twelve, perform emergency surgery, and patch a breached thruster core.
For the moment, Alice and the five tense figures before her were marines.
She buckled a thruster belt around her waist, a bulky contraption with compressed air jets that would allow her to navigate in zero G. She strapped a holster with a blast pistol around her thigh, grabbed a laser rifle from a rack along the bulkhead, and slung it across her back. “Comm check,” she said, and closed the faceplate on her helmet. The others did the same. “Test. This is Rose.”
“Copy. This is Fredricks.”
The others checked in, one at a time. Finally Bridger spoke through the radio in her helmet. “This is Bridger. You're all clear as beer.”
Alice retracted her faceplate, conserving the air in her suit. This was the worst part of the mission. There was nothing to do but wait.
A hum from the ship's nav thrusters gave her a brief adrenaline spike. It was just the ship stopping, though. Nothing would happen until-
The main engine rumbled, and Alice's heart raced. The pack was moving out of the storm front, advancing to meet the convoy. She smirked as she imagined the consternation of the cargo ship crews as they realized they'd been tricked. Still, the escorting warships were not far off, which meant she and her marines would have to move quickly.
“Cutting gravity,” said Bridger over the radio. The deck seemed to drop away under Alice's feet, and she kicked off, grabbing a handle on a bulkhead. Fans whirred, her ears popped, and the faceplate on her helmet clicked shut as the pressure in the cargo compartment dropped. Her imagination served up a buffet of nightmares, a thousand ways this mission could go sour and end in tragedy. She closed her eyes and forced herself to imagine success instead, the target ship heading back into friendly space with a prize crew on the bridge.
A tremor ran through her, a sudden wind as the last of the air rushed out of the hold. She opened her eyes. The big cargo hatch was open, nothing before her but the vacuum of space. A distant storm glowed dark orange in the distance. Much closer, a handful of ships loomed, nav thrusters glowing as they braked or struggled to turn.
She spent a moment staring, cataloguing the ships. Every hull had the burgundy highlights of the Dawn Alliance. A vast sphere with a squared-off blob of bridge superstructure on one side had to be a freighter. The long, thin ship with massive engines at the back would be designed to hold a couple of thousand cubical shipping containers. And there, between them, her target: a huge cylinder with a bridge and crew accommodations on one end and engines on the other.
A fuel tanker.
Alice focussed her gaze on the forward end of the tanker, tucked herself in tight against the bulkhead, and kicked off.
For a glorious moment every thought of war, duty, and danger vanished from her mind. She was lost in a perfect moment, hurtling head-first through the void. She suppressed the urge to cackle in glee, then smiled as someone whooped over the radio.
A quick glance back showed the rest of the marines flying along behind her in a tight formation that gradually spread out as distance magnified the tiny differences in their vectors. The Winter Morning shrank behind them. The rest of the pack was close by, a beautiful, deadly collection of ships, each one a different color and configuration. There was none of the dull uniformity of conventional navies. These were colony ships, as unique and irrepressible as the colonists themselves.
The largest ship in the pack was the Free Bird, a ship Alice had served on for years. Eight tiny figures sailed away from her hull, heading for the same fuel tanker. The plan was to overwhelm the crew, seize control quickly, and bug out before the escort ships could react.
The raiders from the Winter Sunshine arrived first, plumes of vapor appearing as they made last-moment course corrections. One by one they collided with the hull of the tanker, then hurried toward the glittering windows that marked the bridge.
Alice tucked her knees against her chest, rolled, and pointed her feet at the tanker. She fired a burst of air at the last instant, slowing herself, then let her legs bend, soaking up the impact as her boots clanged against the hull. She grunted, then straightened up, checking that her boot magnets held.
The others converged quickly on the bridge, and she released her boot magnets, grabbed the slight lip at the edge of a hull plate, and sent herself skimming toward the bridge windows. By the time she arrived Fredricks and Hayes were fitting a breaching tent over one window. Wide-eyed bridge crew stared out at them from just a couple of meters away as Alice's team attached an explosive charge to one window pane, covered it with a concussion pad, then sealed the bottom of the breaching tent around the frame.
The explosion was silent from Alice's point of view. Most of the crew had fled by the time the charge sent shards of glass spraying across the bridge. She and three other marines crowded into the soft-sided portable airlock, sealed it, and dropped through into the ship.
Kim Wong hurried to the helm station while Fredricks and another man dragged the tanker's captain out from behind a console and sealed his wrists behind his back. He was a burly silver-haired man, too pale to be a native of the Dawn Alliance. He watched the marines with wide, frightened eyes.
Alice said, “How does it look, Kim?”
“It's locked, naturally.” She didn't look up from her portable cracking console. “I'll get it, though.”
Alice unslung her rifle and shoved the barrel against the captain's nose. He spoke immediately, his voice high and frightened but almost comically nasal. “MC Five One Nine. Release control of the bridge.”
“I'm sorry,” said an electronic voice from the bridge speakers. “You initiated a level one security lockdown, and there is clear evidence that you are under coercion. I cannot comply.”
“I'm not under coercion,” the captain said unconvincingly. “Honest I'm not.”
“Sorry, Captain.”
He looked up at Alice and shrugged. “Nothing I can do.”
Well, that was no surprise. “Shove this guy out the airlock.” He squawked in alarm, and she laughed as she turned away. Her team wouldn't murder a prisoner even if they thought she was serious. She couldn't resist scaring the guy, though.
Four more raiders dropped through the breached window, unslinging weapons as they landed. “Come with me,” she said, and headed for the hatch at the back of the bridge. Bridger's voice echoed somewhere in the back of her mind, telling her that if she wouldn't stay on her own bridge she should at least stay on the bridge of the captured ship.
“Shut up, Bridger,” she muttered, and opened the hatch.
“What?” he said over the suit radio. She ignored him.
The corridor branched, and she headed left, a couple of marines at her heels. The others turned right. A metallic clatter behind her told her more marines were dropping through the breached window and hurrying into the bowels of the ship.
She found three frightened spacers huddled in a rec room. One man clutched a laser pistol, too terrified to use it as three rifles focused on his chest. Alice slung her rifle, came forward, and disarmed him while the others kept him covered. A couple more marines crowded into the little room and she stepped back, giving them room to secure the prisoners.
“Damn it,” said a voice over her suit radio. “Someone's getting feisty in Engineering Control.” A gunshot echoed in the background.
Alice would have guessed that Engineering Control would be in the aft of the ship, near the engines. She heard the gunshot directly, though, not just through the radio. The rec room had a second hatchway leading deeper into the ship, and she headed that way, her rifle ready.
Bridger would kick my ass. For that matter, I'd kick his ass if I saw him doing what I'm doing right now. There's four marines in the rec room, and I'm heading toward gunfire alone. Stupid, Alice. Stupid and foolhardy. She was filled with a reckless energy, though. For too long she'd been attending meetings and conducting frustrating, pointless drills. Now that she was finally aboard an enemy ship with a gun in her hands she was determined to act. No more waiting. No more planning. No more fussing over proper procedures. It was time to get something done.
So she crept down a long corridor crowded with pipes and conduits and fixtures that pressed in from both sides and jutted down from the ceiling. The deck plates had a thin polymer coating that somewhat muffled the sound of her metal-soled boots, but she still made far more noise than she liked. She passed closed hatches, uneasily aware that she had no idea who might be on the other side. The skin between her shoulder blades crawled as she imagined hatches sliding open behind her, DA soldiers leaning out to shoot ….
Fredricks nearly shot her when she stuck her head into the engineering control room. The compartment was a plumber's nightmare, jammed with curving pipes and bundles of cable. Fredricks, all of three meters away, was almost completely hidden by pipe. She could see the muzzle of his blast rifle, though, as he tilted it up several degrees so it no longer pointed at her face.
“Jesus, Alice, don't sneak up on me like that. That's what radios are for.”
“Freddy. What are you doing here without backup?”
“I have just as much backup as you do.”
Bridger, listening in over the radio, sighed in exasperation. Alice ignored him. “What's the situation?”
“There's sort of a nook back there.” Fredricks gestured toward a nest of pipes. “There's an asshole with a gun. I think he's alone, but there's no way to be sure.”
“I'm taking a closer look,” she said.
Fredricks nodded, resting his blast rifle on a horizontal section of pipe and taking aim at the hidden nook.
Alice worked her way forward, found the path blocked by a waist-high mess of horizontal pipes, and dropped to hands and knees. She figured that would be safer anyway. The holdout spacer wouldn't expect an attack from knee height. She scuttled under the pipes, abandoning her rifle along the way. There was no room to use it and no easy way to maintain her grip.
She reached a little nest in the pipes, an open space with fat steel tubes surrounding her on every side. A big junction was just above her head, a lumpy steel contraption where four or five pipes came together, sprinkled with bolts as thick as her thumb. It was impossible to stand up. She sat, one leg beneath her and one knee up, and curled her body forward. She could just barely peer through a forest of pipes into a sort of cubbyhole with control panels on both walls. A foot stuck out from behind a metal fixture, and a bit of leg, clad in burgundy trousers.
Alice took out her pistol, aimed carefully at the exposed foot, and said, “You there. Surrender or get shot.”
The foot twitched as the hidden figure shifted. Then a gunshot rang out, the bullet striking metal and ricocheting a couple of times. Alice flinched, then swore under her breath. “Suit yourself,” she said, and pulled the trigger.
A man cried out, and the foot jerked, then drew back out of sight. “I can still see you,” she lied. “Come on out before I put another hole in you.”
The man didn't respond. She could hear metallic scrapes and clicks, though. He was up to something.
She squinted through the maze of pipes at Fredricks. He was less than two meters away, though it would have taken her most of a minute to reach him. She could see his upper legs and his hips.
And his gunbelt, with a slug thrower in the holster.
“Freddy. Give me your gun.”
His blast rifle descended into view. He put the safety on, then took the barrel in both hands, extending the stock toward her.
“No, the other one.”
He retrieved the rifle, drew his pistol, spent a moment weighing his options, then dropped into a squat. He skidded the gun across the deck plates toward her. It covered most of the distance before bouncing from a fixture bolted to the floor and sliding to one side.
Alice gave a wary glance into the cubbyhole where the Dawn Alliance spacer hid. The man seemed preoccupied with whatever mischief he was up to, so she scooted forward, got her right side down against the deck plates, and stretched an arm out, groping blindly for the gun. Her fingers touched the barrel. She rotated the gun so it was pointed away from her, then slid it closer. A minute later she was sitting up and taking aim at a fat pipe in the depths of the man's hiding place.
“Last chance. Don’t make me get your blood all over my new tanker.” She waited, counting off three seconds. She wanted to wait longer. She wanted to talk him out, to avoid bloodshed. But the clock was ticking, and whatever he was doing, she wasn't going to like it.
She fired. The gun bucked against her palm, and her ears rang as the sound of the shot echoed around her. She smelled cordite and heard a voice, faint and tinny, as someone on the radio asked what was happening. Fredricks responded, his voice drowned out by the ringing in her ears.
Alice closed the faceplate of her helmet. A bright spot showed on the pipe where her bullet had struck. She aimed for the same spot and fired again. This time the sound of the shot was much less, muffled by her helmet and by the fact she was already deafened. She saw no reaction from the hidden spacer and fired again.
“Rose. Rose, hold on. You got him.” Fredricks's voice sounded faint and far away, but the volume rose as her ears recovered. Alice opened her faceplate and smelled gunsmoke.
“Good shooting. You nailed him.”
As the ringing in her ears faded she heard a low wail from the nook that hid the Dawn Alliance spacer. Both his legs were in view, stretched across the deck plates and twitching. She swallowed, smothering a wave of regret and revulsion. This was war, and there was no gentle way to liberate her home.
She squirmed around until she lay on her stomach, then slid the pistol across the floor in the direction of Fredricks. She drew her blast pistol instead, and wriggled forward, squeezing under bundles of pipes. When she was just outside the nook she finally had room to rise into a squat.
The man's legs, no longer twitching, were about a meter away. A handgun lay beside his knee, a slug thrower similar to Fredricks's. Alice spent a moment preparing herself, then darted forward, snatched up the pistol, and scrambled back. She set the gun well out of reach, then shifted sideways and looked at the man she'd shot.
He was young. Distressingly young, his face unnaturally pale, both hands pressed against his hip. Blood welled through his fingers, darkening the fabric of his trousers and pooling on the deck underneath him.
Alice holstered her pistol, drew a trauma pack from a thigh pocket of her suit, and scooted toward him. “I need you to move your hands.”
The man lifted his gaze from the wound and locked his eyes on hers. She expected to see fear and pain in his eyes. Instead she saw murderous rage. His hands stretched toward her, didn't quite reach, then moved down, pushing on the deck plates as he started to rise. When his injured hip moved he cried out, but he didn't slow down.
“Stop it,” she said. “I'm trying to give you first aid.”
He got his good leg under him and threw himself at her. Blood-slick hands clawed at her throat, doing little through the vac suit. She put her hands on his chest and shoved, and he fell back. “Give it up, kid. You did your best and you lost. Now let me-”
The man lunged again, diving low this time. The top of his head thumped into her stomach and she fell backward. She reached for her blast pistol and found his hand wrapped around the butt. “Fredricks!” she shouted. “Freddy, shoot him!”
“Stay down,” Fredricks said calmly. “Stay flat.”
Alice had instinctively wrapped her left arm around the back of the man's neck, pinning his head against her chest. Her right hand clung to his wrist, keeping him from drawing her pistol. She figured there was still a good chance she could get him under control.
But time was running out, and the damned fool had made his choice. She let her arms go limp, and he pulled the gun out of her holster, holding it upside-down in his fist. He straightened up, used both hands to reverse his grip – then pitched backward as Fredricks shot him in the chest.
The blast pistol landed on Alice's stomach. She holstered it, started to sit up, then paused. “Freddy? He's dead, and I'm sitting up now.”
“Roger,” he said, and the rifle clicked as he put the safety on.
Alice sat up. She smelled burned flesh, then a darker odor as the dead man's sphincters let go. And beneath that another smell, like plastic burning. She swore, stood up, and stepped over the body. Smoke oozed from a gap between pipes. “The shit rat started a fire,” she said.
“I saw an extinguisher.” Fredricks retreated, bumping his head on a pipe and swearing.
“Rose.” She didn't recognize the voice over the radio. “We need you on the bridge.”
“I'm a little busy.”
“No.” This voice belonged to Bridger. “Get to the bridge. We've got company. Armed company.”
“Is it the escort ships?”
“Them, and they brought friends. Hurry.”
Damn it. She hesitated a moment, thinking. “Bridger. Bug out. Pass the word to the rest of the pack.”
“But-” Before she could repeat the order he sighed, loud enough to trigger his suit mic. “Bugging out. See you at the rendezvous.” He muttered something she didn't quite catch. It sounded like, “I hope.”
Alice picked her way through the maze of pipes and fixtures. She slung her rifle across her back and ran for the bridge.
Kim Wong looked up as Alice reached the bridge. “Nothing yet,” she said. “It'll be soon, I think.”
Alice stared at the bridge screens, still frozen and useless. “It never takes this long.”
“It's not a civilian lock,” Wong said. “It's military. I had to fry the AI completely. I'm installing a skeleton key, but it takes time.”
Alice opened her mouth to tell Wong to hurry up, then closed it. The woman wasn't dawdling. Several marines stood in the bridge, making the small space intolerably crowded. Alice dropped into the captain's seat, just to make room. “What's the situation?”
“Here.” A young man sitting at the helm station passed her a smart pad. It showed a tactical display pieced together from a portable sensor pod on the hull outside. The screen showed the tanker as a fat green icon. The raiders and the rest of the cargo ships were gone, but several red icons cluttered the screen. She identified a carrier, a pair of cruisers, and a pair of corvettes. One icon, a cruiser, moved toward the tanker, and her heart sank. We're completely screwed.
“I figure it'll pass us within three minutes,” the young man said. He was from the Winter Sunshine. Alice didn't know his name.
Pass us? She looked again at the display. The Dawn Alliance warship moved roughly toward the tanker. Roughly, but not exactly. It was heading for the spot where the coyote pack had vanished into the storm.
Her spirits rose, only to drop a moment later as a corvette angled away from the other ships and headed toward the tanker. “Don't waste any time,” Alice said to Wong. “We need to be moving along.”
An icon flashed in the corner of the screen, and Alice tapped it. “I think we have an incoming call,” she said. She watched as the cruiser's icon faded, then disappeared. It was in the storm, tackling the hopeless task of hunting the coyote pack. The communication icon continued to flash. It had to be the corvette calling, checking the status of the tanker.
Did they see us boarding her? Did the crew send a message, or did they lock the computer first? Well, if the corvette was bothering to hail the tanker there had to be some doubt. She thought about trying to answer, doing her best to mimic a Dawn Alliance accent and spinning a line of bullshit about having repelled boarders.
Instead she instructed the data pad to send several bursts of static. With any luck the corvette would think they'd taken damage, that their communications were down. Anything to keep the warship guessing. If they disabled the tanker, or sent soldiers across, the game would be over. She wondered what the Dawn Alliance did with prisoners these days, now that they'd lost their prison camp on Gamor. Don't think about disaster. Think about success. They haven't caught you yet. Figure out how to keep it that way.
Closer and closer the corvette came. Alice switched to camera view, zoomed in, and watched the corvette grow on the screen of the data pad. The comms icon continued to flash. How much longer before the corvette captain lost patience and decided to act?
A loud beep sounded, and Alice looked up. Wong met her gaze, her expression triumphant. The screens on either side of Alice's chair lit up.
“Get us out of here,” she barked, and the man at the helm station jabbed an icon. Alice couldn't hear the thrum of the engines, not from the opposite end of such a large ship, but the bridge trembled around her.
“Heading?” the helmsman said.
“Straight into that storm.”
The tanker, loaded with a mind-boggling volume of fuel, began ever so slowly to pick up speed. The corvette, nimble and small, had no trouble keeping up. Alice watched in dismay as the little warship grew on the screen of the data pad. The storm was close. Soon it would be too dangerous to send a boarding party across. Would the corvette fire on them?
Somebody whooped, and a shape flashed across the screen, sparkling in the light of the storm. Alice zoomed out the display on the data pad and watched as the Winter Morning raced in behind the corvette, laser cannon glowing. It made a strafing run, jinking and dodging to avoid return fire, then curved sharply away and plunged back into the storm.
The corvette came to life, vanishing abruptly from the screen. Alice zoomed out the display, couldn’t see the ship, and finally abandoned the data pad. She looked at the screens on either side of her console, just in time to see an icon representing the corvette flicker and vanish as the little warship followed the Winter Morning into the storm.
“Keep going,” she said to the helmsman. “Full speed until we're in the storm. Then pick a direction at random and do a course change.” There was little risk of the corvette catching up to the Winter Morning. She had to make sure the tanker was impossible to find by the time the corvette gave up and turned back.
Three out of four bridge windows still had glass. All three windows glowed blue as the tanker plowed into the storm. She couldn’t feel anything when the ship changed direction, but her screens showed navigational thrusters firing, starting the ponderous process of turning millions of kilograms of steel and fuel.
“Give it another five minutes,” she told the helmsman. “Then head for the rendezvous.”
He nodded, and she leaned back in her chair. A dozen urgent tasks clamored for her attention. She needed to check on her people, see if anyone was injured, see if the rest of the ship was secure. She needed a damage report, and a count of prisoners. For the moment, though, she let her thoughts drift back over the events of the ambush.
Where had the extra warships come from? Was it a counter-ambush, or did the Dawn Alliance have some other reason to gather a battle fleet this close to Free Neorome's new base on New Panama?
Thrush and the rest of the fleet must have done their part, or the convoy wouldn't have blundered into her trap. But she hadn't actually seen any of his ships. Was he all right, or were the gathered Dawn Alliance ships even now tearing into his fleet?
There's nothing you can do for him right now. Focus on the job at hand. She did her best to follow her own advice, but a corner of her mind refused to cooperate. The Dawn Alliance was up to something. Something big. There was a surprise brewing, and it was a safe bet she wasn't going to like it.
Chapter 3
The Kingfisher fled, and five enemy warships pursued.
Tom Thrush sat on the bridge of the cruiser, hiding his tension as best he could and cursing his lack of weapons. The cruiser could not have stood against the pursuing fleet even with a seasoned crew and full magazines, but that didn't stop him from wishing his ship had teeth.
The rest of his little fleet ran with him, the corvette Blue Heron and four armed freighters. They ran for their lives, and with every passing moment they lost precious ground.
The freighters, Tom realized, were the problem. They simply weren't as fast as warships. Without the smaller ships he had a chance. With them, he would inevitably be overtaken. He ignored a voice of cold calculation that told him to sacrifice the freighters to save the warships. He was responsible for the entire fleet. None of his people were expendable.
His thumb pressed a button that opened a radio channel to all five of his captains. “This is Thrush. Change course by fifteen degrees starboard, five degrees up. We'll head for that bank of cloud.” The energy cloud in question wasn't thick enough to hide the fleet, not unless they managed to get hundreds of kilometers deep. That wasn't going to happen, not with the enemy ships eighty kilometers behind and closing. However, it was the only cover he could reach.
“Once we're in the storm,” he said, “here's what we're going to do. The Kingfisher will break to port at an angle of forty degrees or so. The Blue Heron will go to starboard at the same angle. We'll separate until we're a hundred kilometers apart. I want the freighters in the middle. Stay in a close formation.
“They might separate and try to catch all of us. In that case, we scatter and each ship does its best to evade its pursuers. I'm betting they'll stick together, though. They'll either come after the Heron or the Kingfisher. The freighters will be fine. In the eyes of the Dawn Alliance you guys are small fry, and you're hard to hit. They'll go for the big targets.”
He leaned back in his seat, rubbing his eyes, picturing the coming encounter. “I want the freighters to shadow whichever ship is targeted. Keep your distance, but be ready to join the fight if they overtake us. Is that clear?”
“This is Truong,” said a voice. He was the captain of the Autumn Sunshine. “I think we should spread out.”
“I want concentrated firepower,” Tom snapped. “You're useless when you're spread out. All four ships together have enough punch to make a difference.”
“But-”
“Tight formation,” Tom repeated. “That's final. Now, are there any further questions?”
No one spoke. A glow enveloped the bridge windows as the Kingfisher reached the edge of the storm. “Change course now,” Tom said, and broke the connection.
With an amber haze surrounding the ship there was no way to tell when she changed direction. Tom had to check his navigational screen to see that the Kingfisher was making a graceful curve to the left. The Heron curved to the right, the range rapidly increasing. Tom, to his frustration, had no trouble picking out the corvette on his tactical screen. The storm was too weak, too dissipated to interfere much with scanners.
Between the two warships the four little freighters plunged into the storm. And immediately dispersed, going in four different directions.
“What the hell!” Tom leaned forward, staring at his tactical screen in furious disbelief. He thumbed the radio button, then broke the connection without speaking. His captains knew their orders. If they weren't going to obey, there wasn't much point in repeating himself.
The freighters, so much smaller than the corvette, quickly faded into the storm. From time to time the closest ship would appear for a moment before vanishing again. The others remained invisible.
“So much for backup,” Tom muttered. He wanted to rage against the little ships, which could have doubled his firepower. However, he'd been a navy man too long to remain distracted by what should have been. Save your attention for finding solutions. Survive this and you'll have plenty of time to deal with Truong and the others.
The Dawn Alliance fleet, he quickly saw, was sticking together and targeting the cruiser. Without the freighters, though, there was no reason to let the hunters keep gaining. “Helm,” he said. “Aim for the heart of the storm. Full speed.”
The hum of the engines deepened as the Kingfisher increased speed. With nothing to see out the windows he turned his attention back to the tactical screen. The storm provided just enough interference that he couldn't tell the exact range of the enemy ships. All he could do was stare at the icons on the screen and wait for them to either catch up or fall behind.
For thirty endless minutes the Kingfisher fled into the storm. The clouds outside the windows darkened a bit, but not so much that the ship could hide. Tom stared at the tactical screen and fretted over his fuel consumption, which was appalling at top speed. He'd left New Panama with his tanks far from full. If the pursuit went on much longer he’d have trouble making it back to base.
Then, without warning, the icons representing the pursuing ship began to flash. A burgundy triangle appeared around each ship, and Tom scowled, baffled. There were still features of the captured Dawn Alliance technology he hadn't encountered yet, and this was one of them.
“They're braking, Captain.”
Tom looked at Carpenter, who flashed him a smile. “I think they're giving up.”
He tapped one of the burgundy triangles and a block of text appeared. The triangle, then, was to let him know about a change in course or speed. Speed, in this instance. All five ships were slowing down. He sagged in his seat, tension draining out of him. “They're breaking off.”
“It looks that way,” Carpenter agreed.
“Reduce thrust twenty percent.”
“Right,” said the helmsman, and the hum of the engines faded a bit.
“Maintain this heading for now,” Tom said. He watched as the Dawn Alliance ships dropped farther and farther behind. When they faded from the tactical screen he thumbed the radio button and said, “Change course. Head for the rendezvous.”
“Aye aye,” said a familiar voice. Jerry O'Reilly, his acting First Officer on the frigate Kestrel and his fellow prisoner on Gamor, was now a captain in the Free Neorome Navy.
None of the freighter captains responded.
His sour mood improved when he saw a fat rectangle glowing ahead of the Kingfisher on his tactical screen. Something so large could only be the tanker, which meant this risky, improbable mission was a success. The perpetually resource-starved Free Neorome Navy could at last fill the tanks of every ship, with fuel left over for months of operations.
They might even share with their troublesome but indispensable allies, the United Worlds.
He counted ships as they appeared one at a time on his screen, made visible by reduced distance. His relief that the task force seemed intact quickly turned to anger. The four armed freighters, after abandoning him during the pursuit, had beaten him to the rendezvous.
One by one he called the captains and took status reports. A United Worlds fleet would have reported to their commodore as a matter of course. It would never occur to the former pirates of the Free Neorome Navy.
He learned that one of Alice's marines had a burned shoulder from a laser rifle, but otherwise everyone had come through the raid unscathed. The tanker held a prize crew and a dozen prisoners, which meant the government in exile of Neorome would have to build a prison.
Tom didn't demand an explanation from his freighter captains. Not over an open radio channel. He wanted to confront them face to face, and preferably all at once. It would have to wait, because the Dewy Honeysuckle was missing.
The fleet waited at the rendezvous for a quarter of an hour, then turned toward New Panama. There was little point in waiting; if the Dewy Honeysuckle could reach the rendezvous, she could reach the colony. Searching for her was similarly pointless. She could be anywhere.
Simultaneously worried and annoyed, Tom did his best to push the missing ship from his mind and concentrate on writing an after-action report as the fleet wound its way through a maze of energy storms, heading home.
Chapter 4
“God damn it, that fuel should be ours!”
Tom, sitting quietly near the back of a meeting room in the Panama City community center, winced at the bombastic overcaptain as he banged his fist on the long table that filled the room. Jory Lundbreck, the UW military liaison to Free Neorome, was a beefy middle-aged man clearly used to dominating everyone around him through sheer force of personality. He glared at the expressionless faces lining the long table. “You wouldn’t even be here on New Panama if it wasn't for the United Worlds. You owe your existence to us! Turning over that tanker is the least you can do.”
Gail Harding, president of Free Neorome, arched an immaculate eyebrow. Aside from that her expression didn't change, but Tom could sense her anger. The same fury radiated from the other attendees, though they hid it well. If Lundbreck realized how thoroughly he'd offended them, he gave no sign.
“Your military has established a base on New Panama because it allows you to prosecute your war,” Harding said frostily. “You are here for reasons of your own. Don't pretend you're doing us a favor.”
“Damn it, we need that fuel!”
“The United Worlds has the most extensive industrial infrastructure in this part of the galaxy. Probably the most extensive infrastructure anywhere. You're perfectly capable of manufacturing your own fuel and bringing it here. We are not. We have no mines, no refineries. So we have employed more creative means to acquire fuel. And you expect us to give our fuel away to the single largest producer of spacecraft fuel in fifty light-years?”
“We have a large fleet to maintain,” Lundbreck sputtered. “We need that fuel.”
“We need it as well.”
“We'll share,” Lundbreck protested. “We'll keep you supplied.”
“You expect us to give you our entire fuel reserve, and then beg you for handouts to keep our ships flying?” Harding shook her head. “I don't think so, Captain.”
Lundbreck opened his mouth to protest, but Harcourt Sayles, Free Neorome's only admiral, leaned forward and interrupted. “You can squawk all you like, Lundbreck. You're not getting that fuel, and that's that.”
Lundbreck sank into an unhappy silence.
“Well,” said Sayles, his tone suddenly conciliatory. “We could send you some fuel. We could trade it for ammunition.”
Lundbreck's lip curled. “I thought you needed your precious fuel.”
“We do,” Sayles snapped. “We need it to get the ammunition you've been promising us for the last four weeks.” He made a show of consulting a large data pad. “Let me see. How many rounds have you delivered so far, in the spirit of sharing needed resources with valued allies?” He tapped, swiped, and tapped, his eyebrows rising and falling as he worked. “I'm not great with advanced mathematics, but let me see …. He lowered the pad and fixed Lundbreck with a cold stare. “It looks like the total comes to zero.”
“You'll get your ammunition, just as soon as we can spare it.” Lundbreck squirmed, ever so slightly. “But you have surplus fuel right now.”
“We'll trade our fuel for bullets,” Sayles said. “Not words.”
Lundbreck, Sayles, and Harding continued to snipe at one another, and Tom leaned back, tuning them out. He shared the bottom of the table with a senator and her secretary, there to represent the colony of New Panama. Both women stayed silent, their faces carefully neutral. New Panama was in a somewhat awkward position. The colony, like almost every colony in the Green Zone, had signed a treaty with the Dawn Alliance when the DA had launched its war. When a massive United Worlds force arrived, New Panama promptly switched allegiances.
The official government line was that New Panama had signed the treaty under duress. Neorome and Tazenda, the only colonies to refuse to sign, had both been promptly invaded by the Dawn Alliance, so there was some validity to that claim.
However, New Panama had spent decades in low-level conflicts with the United Worlds, which claimed to own the colony. Pirates based in New Panama had raided UW shipping for years. Now some of those same pirates served the Free Neorome Navy.
New Panama had opened its doors to exiles from Neorome – but not until the UW fleet had arrived and left them little choice. The Free Neorome government was utterly dependent on New Panama, but there wasn't a whole lot of trust among the allies.
“Why were you even conducting this raid?”
Tom turned his attention back to Lundbreck, who was trying to regain the upper hand.
“You should be coordinating with us,” the overcaptain said. “Not launching your own clumsy attacks.”
“If we hadn't launched our own 'clumsy attack',” Sayles said coldly, “we wouldn't have the fuel you're so keen on taking from us.”
“We're supposed to be cooperating,” Lundbreck said. “You should discuss your missions with me in advance.”
“Tell me, Captain,” Sayles said, resting his forearms on the table and glowering at Lundbreck. “Has your fleet done anything – anything at all – in the last two weeks?” He made a show of consulting his data pad once again. “Because in the last fourteen days, you've informed us of your fleet activities exactly, let me see, zero times.” He stared at the overcaptain. “What kind of cooperating is that, hmm?”
Lundbreck's lips thinned. “We have to think about security. We can't announce our operations to just anyone.”
“It's the same for us,” Sayles said. The two men lapsed into silence, gazes locked, both of them offended.
“It appears we won't be sharing all our plans with one another,” Harding said. “Not yet, at least. But we have no reason not to share intelligence. Isn't that right?”
Sayles and Lundbreck, prickly as strange cats meeting in an alley, reluctantly broke off their staring contest and looked at her.
“I believe Captain Thrush has some information about Dawn Alliance ship movements.” Harding looked at Tom. “Is that right?”
Sayles and Lundbreck turned to look at him. Sayles, who already knew what Tom had to say, gave him a tiny nod of encouragement. Lundbreck, who hadn't looked at Tom once since the meeting began, finally met his gaze. Lundbreck's upper lip twisted, ever so slightly. “Well, Captain?” The note of sarcasm in his voice as he said the word 'captain' was unmistakable. To the United Worlds Navy, Tom was a disgraced sublieutenant.
“We encountered a number of Dawn Alliance warships during the raid when we captured that fuel tanker,” Tom said. He didn't want to look at Lundbreck's sneering face, but the overcaptain was the only one who hadn't heard his news. Tom ended up staring at the air between Lundbreck and Sayles as he spoke. “One of our small raiders, the Dewy Honeysuckle, decided to shadow the enemy fleet after it broke off pursuit. That ship returned to New Panama four hours ago and made its report.”
Lundbreck leaned forward, the sneer fading from his face, replaced by curiosity. “And?”
“There is a large fleet gathering, about point two parsecs from here. There's a battleship, five cruisers, a couple of carriers, and some corvettes, plus four cargo ships and a couple of troop carriers. The raider watched them from a distance for about an hour. The fleet is moving slowly and apparently at random, just enough to make them hard to find. Our best guess is they're waiting for more ships before they move on to their final destination.”
He didn't add the obvious: New Panama had to be the fleet's target.
Lundbreck grilled him for ten minutes. Tom gave him every scrap of information he'd gleaned from the Dewy Honeysuckle, and transferred copies of the scanner footage. Lundbreck, so distracted that he forgot to be rude, thanked them absentmindedly as he transferred the files to the orbiting UW fleet. “We'll have to cut this meeting short,” he said, rising. “I'll send you a memo about no-fly zones.”
“Hold on,” Harding said.
Sayles said, “No-fly zones?” Even the New Panama senator and her secretary looked startled.
“It's a necessary measure,” Lundbreck said brusquely. With every eye in the room on him he reluctantly sat down, synched a data pad to the table, and tapped an icon. A 3D projection of the star system appeared above the table.
“We have fortifications at the leading and trailing Lagrange points,” he said, and two points of light appeared, bracketing the planet of New Panama at considerable range. “We've been laying minefields in several places.” A tap on the screen made a swathe of sparkles appear above and below the planet. “Ideally we want all incoming and outgoing traffic to flow past our fortifications. We're declaring these areas marked in red as no-fly zones.” He tapped a finger and vast areas of space between the minefields turned red. “We'll maintain a strong fleet presence in these zones. Any ship that enters these zones will be assumed hostile, and will be destroyed.”
There was a long, pregnant silence. Finally Sayles said, “You mean to funnel all our ship traffic past your two forts?”
Lundbreck nodded.
“That means the Dawn Alliance could put remote scanners in only two places and be privy to all our comings and goings.”
Lundbreck shrugged. “It's necessary to control ship traffic.”
The senator from New Panama spoke for the first time. “You're going to tell the people of New Panama that we can't come and go from our own planet except along the routes you approve?”
“Well …” Lundbreck seemed taken aback, startled that anyone would object. “You can come and go all you like. Just not through the no-fly zones.”
“You don't have enough ships to monitor such a huge area,” Sayles said. “Are you really saying that the Free Neorome Navy can't patrol the space above their own home?”
“We'll patrol the no-fly zones,” Lundbreck snapped. “And we'll destroy any ship we encounter. Is that clear?”
The others stared at him, resentment plain on every face. No one spoke.
Lundbreck stood. “Good day,” he said stiffly, and marched out.
For a minute the rest of them sat in silence. Finally the senator said, “What an arrogant prick.”
“That's the UW Navy for you,” Sayles said, then glanced at Tom. “No offense.”
Tom inclined his head.
“I guess the meeting is adjourned,” said Harding, and stood.
“Stick around a minute, would you, Thrush?” said Sayles. Tom nodded. Sayles pecked at a data pad as the others filed out. Tom leaned back in his chair, looking at the map still projected above the table.
A voice said, “You asked to see me, Sir?”
Tom looked to the doorway. Sayles made a beckoning gesture and Alice came into the room. “Have a seat, Ms. Rose.” He explained the no-fly zones to her, and nodded when she snorted in disgust.
“I have an assignment for you,” he told Alice. He fiddled with the table controls and the red area above New Panama lit up. “Take your ship and make a thorough sweep of this so-called no-fly zone. Come back and report what you see.”
Her face lit up. “I'm on it, Admiral.” She hurried out.
Tom straightened up in his chair. Would the admiral send him into the southern zone? A cruiser would be a lot less discreet.
“Thrush, I want you to head back out in the Kingfisher. You've worked with the Waves at Sunset, Autumn Sunshine, Dewy Honeysuckle, and Afternoon Thunderstorm. This time you'll do maneuvers with the Leaf Drifting on Water, the Bee Eater, and the Trout. And the Mossy Stone, if she gets back from her patrol soon enough.”
“I have a disciplinary matter I need to address,” Tom said. “I was hoping to meet with as many of the raider captains as possible. Certainly with Truong, Dell, Vishna, and White.”
“It'll have to wait,” Sayles said. “They're scattered all over God's half acre. In the meantime I need you to get your people up to speed on basic ship handling. We should be getting some ammunition soon, and I want the Kingfisher ready to fight.”
“I'll get them ready, Sir,” he promised, and stood.
“Tom.”
Tom froze, startled by the use of his first name.
“Sit down for a moment. I want to tell you about my kids.”
Tom sat, perplexed. The admiral was a good deal less formal than any senior officer in the UW Navy, but he'd never talked about his personal life before.
“If I'm a good leader, it's because of the lessons I learned being a mediocre father to three children.” Sayles smiled to himself. “Well, judging by the way they turned out, I must have been a brilliant parent. But I know I made a mistake or two.”
Tom, with no idea where this was going, gave him an uncertain nod.
“When they were little, our relationship was a constant power struggle. It was a long, long time before I was able to look back and see that almost none of those battles actually mattered. And the times when I gave in and let them make their own decisions were usually the times when they did the best. I was hardest on my oldest daughter, and now she's a tyrant with her own kids. My youngest has a much more easygoing approach. His kids are great. His sister could learn a lot from him.”
“You want me to go easy on my captains?” Tom remembered how the freighters had scattered, ignoring direct orders and leaving the Kingfisher with no backup. “I don't think I can do that.”
“I'm not going to second-guess you,” Sayles said. “When I made you a commodore it was because I trusted your judgment, and I still do.”
Tom nodded stiffly.
“But I also trust the judgment of my raider captains. They know what they're doing too.” He gazed at Tom for a moment in silence. “Anyway, consider what I've said. I'll support whatever decision you make.” He swiped a hand across the tabletop, shutting off the projected map. “Meanwhile, carry on with your maneuvers. And stay out of the no-fly zones. Unless you're sure you won't get caught.” He turned his attention to a data pad, and Tom got up and left.
“Battle stations drill,” Tom said. “All hands, this is a battle stations drill.” He let the general alarm toll half a dozen times, then silenced it. His crew tended to get flustered when the bell rang for too long, or when he simply announced battle stations. Pointing out that it was a drill seemed to calm them. Since their performance was terrible even when they knew it was a drill, he wanted to spare them any extra stress. Let them get it right a few times before you make it any harder. Build their confidence. Lord knows they need it.
The command display on his console told him everything he needed to know about the crew's response to the drill, but he queried his bridge crew one a time, letting them practice their roles. “Helm. Status.”
The current helmsman was a woman who looked far too young to have five years of experience as a pirate. She bit a knuckle while she swiped at her console with her free hand. “Let me see. Just a minute …. The engine room reports ready, and there is a crewman at Nav Thruster Three.”
The ship's six navigational thrusters had manual controls for emergencies, but they didn't require manual operation. However, posting a crew member to each thruster meant every part of the ship was covered by a spacer ready to repel boarders or do damage control. Five out of six people had failed to report in from their thrusters, which was about what Tom had expected.
“Tactical,” he said, and waited while Carpenter called each gun station, one at a time. Three out of four gun crews were in place. None of them had remembered to check in.
Tom worked his way through the rest of the stations, getting similar results. Then he leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to hide his frustration. This is ridiculous. The crew is a joke. I need to whip them into shape, and I don't know where to begin.
He couldn't train each crew member himself, one at a time. He couldn't delegate, either. There were no crew chiefs, no senior personnel who could guide the others. Most of his crew had plenty of experience on small freighters, but they couldn’t seem to make the transition to a larger ship.
Ships from all over the Green Zone had come to New Panama and offered to fight for the fledgling navy. Neorome and Tazenda were the biggest sources of disgruntled captains and crews, but every colony had people who saw what the Dawn Alliance was doing and vowed to resist.
Then there were the crews who arrived without a ship. Scores of armed freighters had been seized by the invaders, their crews turned loose with stern admonitions to behave themselves. Those spacers, furious at the loss of their ships, trickled into New Panama daily, determined to help the war effort.
Wherever possible, Tom broke up existing crews. He divided teams among the cruisier and the two corvettes. He put former crewmates in different departments. He didn't want cliques among his crew. They had to see themselves as one big team.
So far, it wasn't working worth a damn. It was as if the Free Planets revolutionaries couldn't cooperate beyond the scale of a small freighter's crew.
Tom sighed, then activated his microphone. “Drill's over. As you were.” He shut the microphone off and said, “Helm. Turn us eighty degrees to starboard and give me twenty percent thrust. Comms. Contact the rest of the fleet and tell them to form up behind us. We're going to try some rapid course changes in formation.” And the captains are going to get some practice at obeying orders promptly and without arguing. I'm going to turn this mob of free thinkers into a team if it kills me.
“Sir?” said the helmsman once she was done changing course. “Is it true we're going to do joint maneuvers with the UW fleet?”
He shook his head. “It might happen, but there's nothing specific in the schedule.” There'd been rumors for weeks about joint exercises between the two fleets, but it never happened. No one would say it outright, but it seemed the mighty UW Navy couldn’t be bothered to train with a rag-tag flying militia. They simply didn't take the Free Neorome Navy seriously.
And should they? Tom thought, looking around the bridge. We're not ready for joint maneuvers. The longer they snub us, the more embarrassment we avoid. It was an ugly thought, and he vowed, not for the first time, that he would turn this improvised navy into a real fighting force, something he could be proud of.
If I could just figure out how ….
Chapter 5
“Contact. Couple degrees up at ten o'clock.”
Alice nodded to Bridger, fighting the urge to squint in the direction indicated. The Winter Morning's scanners weren't the greatest, but a new contact would still be hundreds of kilometers away, if not a couple of thousand. She wasn't going to spot anything with her naked eyes.
“Lost it,” Bridger grumbled. “Now I know which way to look, though.”
Garth Ham, in the seat beside Bridger, moved his hands in the air, his lips moving silently as he worked out the direction. Then he peered through the bridge windows. “Just this side of that orange storm?”
Alice took a moment to orient herself. The UW Navy would have described every direction in degrees of a circle. The Free Planets had always used a more intuitive system based on the orientation of the ship. Sure, it created havoc when the ship maneuvered quickly, and two ships couldn't really compare notes unless they had the same orientation. But anything was better than trying to translate “A hundred and forty-seven by ninety-four” into something meaningful.
“No,” said Bridger, “whatever I saw was on this side of the storm.”
Alice nodded absently, then jerked her head up, staring at the storm front. It was less than fifty kilometers from the ship. They'd been hugging the clouds, using the current to boost their speed. A contact between the ship and the storm was very close indeed. “Cut engines!”
Bridger cut the engines instantly, then glanced at Alice. A ping drew his gaze back to his screen. “There it is,” he said. “Range one-fifty and closing. It's some kind of small scout ship.”
Small, but almost certainly better armed than the Winter Morning. We really need to give these ships some teeth. “Transponder?”
“None.”
Well, that was no surprise. A scout ship in contested space wasn't going to broadcast a radio signal. “What's she doing?”
Bridger, his shoulders curled forward as he stared at his screen, spoke without looking up. “She's getting closer, but she's not coming right at us. It looks like she's following the storm front, same as us. Riding the current.” He tapped a screen. “Range one-oh-five and closing. Looks like she'll come within fifty K or so, if she doesn't spot us.”
Alice glanced at Ham, who had a laser targeting screen showing on his console. “Hold your fire unless she changes course. But if she comes at us, light her up.”
Ham nodded.
She hit the intercom button on her console. “We've got an enemy scout ship at close range. Suit up and man the gun. Don't do anything stupid, though. I'm hoping to slip past her.”
A distant clatter came through the bulkheads as the rest of her crew scrambled into vac suits. One person would man the laser cannon, ready to take over from Ham if the ship's electronic controls failed. The others would stand by to repel boarders or put out fires.
“Can you tell who they are?” she said.
Bridger shook his head.
“It's a Dawn Alliance snooper,” Ham said.
Alice peered past him at his targeting screen. The mystery ship was nothing but a blob of pixels. “How do you know that?”
He glanced back at her, surprised. “Well, it's too small for a corvette or mini-corvette. She's maybe eighteen to twenty-one meters long.”
Alice could have figured that out on her own – with half an hour and a good math tool. Ham, however, had skills she lacked. She shrugged.
“The UW has some courier ships that are roughly that size, but they're all a bit longer and not quite so big around. They might have some kind of secret stealth ship design we've never seen, but you can kind of see a burgundy color here.” He waved his fingertips across the middle of the blob on his screen.
It just looked muddy to Alice, but she nodded as if she agreed.
“This is what cinches it, though.” He indicated the back of the other ship. “The Dawn Alliance military is the only group that does this two-engine configuration, with one thruster directly above the other.”
“What?” Alice shook her head. “Now you're just making things up! There's no way you can see two engines and how they're oriented. That's a blob!”
Ham's eyebrows rose. “It would taper more if it wasn't two engines in a stack. But it's not just that. It's also the way the ship moves.” He jabbed a finger at the screen. “There! Did you see that course adjustment?”
“No,” Alice admitted. She looked at Bridger.
“I would assume he's full of shit,” Bridger said. “But he always seems to be right.”
She looked back at Ham. “You're sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“I swear, if you're just making this up …” He wasn't, though. The man had an uncanny ability to interpret visual data.
“Coming up on fifty K,” Bridger said, his voice tense. If an attack was coming, it would be now. “Forty-eight K.” Without an active scan, which would have alerted the other ship instantly, the range was no more than a good guess. Still, a passive scan would tell them if the range was increasing or decreasing.
“Fifty K,” Bridger said. “Fifty-three.”
A great knot of tension loosened in Alice's shoulders. There was still a chance the other ship was trying to lull them, that it would turn at any moment and open fire. But she thought not.
“Sixty K.” Bridger looked at Alice. “I don't think they saw us.”
The two ships were on similar vectors, both of them flying across the face of the storm. A plot of their paths would have formed an X with an angle of about thirty degrees. Alice weighed her options as the distance between the vessels grew. When the other ship grew fuzzy on her screen she said, “I want you to fire the port side nose thruster. Line us up on that bogey. Brake with the port side aft thruster.”
The DA ship was to starboard, which meant the bulk of the Winter Sunshine would hide the glow of the thrusters as the ship turned. When the Winter Sunshine was pointed directly at the scout ship it would be relatively safe to fire the main engines and pursue.
Bridger turned the ship, then looked at Alice. “Take her from behind?”
She shook her head. Even with the advantage of surprise it would be a tough fight. “Let's just see what she's up to.”
For the next several hours tension warred with boredom as they stalked the Dawn Alliance snooper ship. The little scout craft, always a blurry shape at the very limit of their scanners, explored a broad column of space extending through and beyond Lundbreck's no-fly zone. Twice they briefly picked up another contact, not because they saw the ship but because it made a radio broadcast. There was at least one more scout ship in the area, and probably two.
When Alice had a pretty good idea of the pattern of the scout ship's movements she had Bridger steer into the closest storm front. With energy clouds obscuring them she told him to turn the ship around and head back to New Panama.
She rose, stretched, and listened to her back crack and pop. “You two good for a bit?”
Bridger was busy flying. Ham was putting together a 3D map of the scout ship's path. Both men nodded absently. Alice smiled fondly at the tops of their heads, then headed aft.
In the galley she found a young man named Deitrich, known universally as Dutch, standing with the front of his helmet pressed against a small window, peering outside. “You can stand down now,” she told him. “We're alone.” She squatted by a ladder leading down into the gun turret. “Did you hear that? You can come out now.”
“Great,” said a muffled voice, and fabric slid against metal as someone wriggled out of the hot seat.
“Maybe you should stay down there,” Dutch said, scowling. “We know where the UW fleet is. We should fly over and take a few shots at them.”
Fredricks's head and shoulders rose from the floor hatch, and Alice looked at him, waiting to see if he would speak up. He'd been the captain of a raider called Wasp Sting, with Dutch and a dozen others on his crew. Most of them had dispersed after a United Worlds freighter had crippled the raider with a lucky shot during a pirate raid a scant two weeks before the war started. Dutch and a couple others followed Fredricks to New Panama, where they now filled out the crew of the Winter Sunshine.
But Fredricks remained silent, so Alice said mildly, “Things change. The UW is our ally now.”
“I've heard about you,” Dutch sneered. “People say you're sucking up to the bluebottles. That you don't remember what the Free Planets are all about.” He stuck out his chin. “Well, I remember. I know who destroyed the Wasp Sting. I know who my friends are.”
He stared at her, arms folded and chest thrust out, spoiling for a fight. So she turned to Fredricks instead, keeping her tone conversational. “I don't what kind of ship you ran, Freddy, but where I come from the whole crew works together.”
Fredricks flushed, and Alice stepped around Dutch, who looked like someone had punched him in the stomach. She continued aft, where she found Liz Ng in the corridor, trying to pretend she wasn't listening. “You can stand down,” she told Liz.
“Julie!” Liz bellowed. “You can take your suit off now!”
“Okay!” came a muffled voice from the hold.
Liz leaned close and murmured, “Dutch is okay. He's just mad about the Wasp. He blames the blue- the UW, I mean. Freddy will talk to him.”
“Sure,” said Alice, and continued aft. There wasn't much ship to inspect, but she wanted to give Freddy and Dutch a moment of comparative privacy.
Tom Thrush, she reflected, would have broken up the Wasp Sting's crew if he'd had the chance. At the very least he'd have put someone from the Sting on the bridge to replace Bridger or Ham. He wanted to break old bonds and re-forge everyone in a new team.
But Alice, Bridger, and Ham worked well together. A different captain wouldn't have known to listen when Ham made preposterous leaps of deduction, declaring that a dark smear on a scanner screen was obviously a Dawn Alliance scout ship. A different captain wouldn't make allowances for the constant fear Ham carried with him.
And then there were personnel issues like Dutch and the chip on his shoulder. A tight crew came with built-in problems, but it came with built-in tools, too. Reframing Dutch's challenge so it looked like he was embarrassing his old captain had taken the fuel right out of his thrusters. If the whole crew had been strangers she didn't know how she would have handled it.
She reached a tiny catwalk that extended past the ship's solitary engine. By wriggling on her stomach she was able to reach the end of the catwalk and press her forehead to a tiny window at the very back of the ship. The engine glowed just beneath her as the storm front they'd been hugging gradually lost detail and became a wide smear of rust against the darkness of space. Her head and shoulders extended past the edge of the ship's artificial gravity field and hovered above the catwalk. She felt pleasantly light-headed, as if she'd had a couple of drinks.
Whatever accommodation Dutch and Freddy were going to reach, she figured they must have reached it by now. She doubted she'd have any more trouble with the young man. She squirmed backward, got her feet under her, and headed for the bridge.
The Panama City community center bustled with activity. Alice’s crew filled a table in one corner, and spacers from half a dozen other small ships mingled around them. Eight raider captains, more than half the captains in the navy, stood in small groups or sat at tables, waiting to meet with Tom Thrush. Alice had found a message waiting for her when she arrived to give her report to Sayles. Thrush wanted as many of the captains as possible for a brief meeting of some sort.
Tom was at one end of the room, sitting just off to one side as Admiral Sayles held a remote conference with Overcaptain Lundbreck, the United Worlds liaison. Alice could only hear Sayles's side of the conversation. It was all she could do to keep from laughing out loud as she listened.
“My dear captain, I'm simply sharing the intelligence we've gathered. It's what we agreed, is it not?” Sayles paused. “No, we never agreed to respect your no-fly zone. If I recall correctly, you made a unilateral declaration that you'd shoot down any ship you found in the zone. I don't remember any agreement at all.” The admiral shook his head silently as Lundbreck responded. “Well, if you want to shoot down our scout ships you'll have to catch them first!”
The call must have ended at that point, because Sayles stood, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Our esteemed allies aren't terribly impressed with us,” he said, pitching his voice so the gathered captains and spacers could all hear. “Steer clear of the northern no-fly zone for a bit. Not just because of the UW, either. It seems clear the Dawn Alliance is scouting an approach corridor for that fleet the Dewy Honeysuckle saw. There will be an attack soon.”
His amusement vanished and he scowled, looking ferocious but also frustrated. “Since the UW is so keen on enforcing their precious no-fly zone, they can bloody well deal with it. We'll keep out of the way. But I want you all to stay close to your ships. I won't have the fleet destroyed on the ground, or caught with their pants down in orbit. Is that clear?”
No one spoke.
“Our friends spurn our help.” His long gray hair moved around his face as he shook his head, making her think of an elderly lion. “Unfortunately we don't have the strength to stand against the Dawn Alliance fleet on our own. So we'll keep back and let the blueshirts fight them. But we'll be on hand to help, even if they don't take us seriously.”
An awkward silence fell as Sayles stood there, staring into space. He blinked and focused again on the gathered spacers. “Trying times are coming,” he said. “But I know you'll do your duty. I know you'll make me proud.” He marched through the room, people moving aside for him, and left the community hall.
A buzz of voices rose, then trailed off as Tom stood. “At first I was going to talk just to the four captains who disappointed me.” There was a sharpness to his voice that lifted goosebumps on Alice's arms, reminding her that Tom, unlike Sayles, was a man shaped and tempered by war. “You might as well all hear it, because I don't want it to happen again.”
All around the room people watched him with wary, tense faces. Rumor had it that Truong, Dell, Vishna, and White were in the doghouse after the fuel raid. The four of them stood together not far from Tom. Truong, the oldest of the group, stepped forward, putting himself between the other captains and Tom. He folded his arms and stared at Tom, wearing the patient, implacable expression of a parent about to endure a child's tantrum.
“Yesterday's raid on the supply convoy went well,” Tom said. “Many of you showed exemplary courage and skill. We achieved an important objective, and every ship and every crew member made it back. You have much to be proud of.” His gaze moved from face to face, his expression making in clear that the pleasant part of his talk was now over.
“However. During the raid, the Kingfisher, Blue Heron, Waves at Sunset, Autumn Sunshine, Dewy Honeysuckle, and Afternoon Thunderstorm were pursued by a considerable Dawn Alliance force. I gave explicit orders to four raider captains to stay in close formation between the Kingfisher and the Heron, ready to come to the assistance of whichever ship the DA pursued.” His eyebrows drew together, and Alice was suddenly grateful she wasn't one of the captains on his shit list. Tom’s gaze focused on Truong and the other three captains. “But all four of you disobeyed my orders. You scattered in a cowardly fashion and left the Kingfisher completely unsupported.”
Truong took a step forward. “You can address your accusations to me,” he said, his voice chilly. “I made the decision, and they followed my lead. We had good reasons for what we did.”
“What reasons?” Tom spat.
“We were in light storm.” Truong had his eyes on Tom, but he spoke to the entire room. He would want his fellow captains to understand. “Poor cover. Four ships close together are easier to spot. So we spread out.”
“Bullshit,” said Tom, and Truong flinched as if he'd been slapped. “You fled into the storm and left the rest of us hanging.”
“We followed you,” Truong said, his voice tight with anger. “Ready to assist. We just didn't stay in your stupid formation.”
“You disobeyed a direct order and put lives in danger.”
Truong unfolded his arms and stared down at his hands, which were clenched into fists. It took a long moment, but he managed to relax his hands and put them on his hips. He looked up, staring at a spot in the air above Tom's head. “Sometimes,” he said, “a ship gets a new captain. Someone who means well but doesn't quite know what he's doing yet. The thing with new captains is, they always feel like they have to assert themselves. So they stop listening to the crew and they start laying down the law.”
His gaze lowered until he was staring Tom in the face. “Now, a wise crew, a crew that's been around for a while, they know better than to butt heads with someone who's feeling insecure in his job. A crew like that will nod and smile and keep the ship running properly until the captain gets the hang of things and lightens up.”
For a long, frozen moment the two men stared at one another. Tom said, “You've been independent pirates and raiders for a long time.” That set off a quiet muttering; the Free Planets raiders boarded ships and stole cargoes, but they did it in the name of liberating the colonies. They thought of themselves as revolutionaries, not pirates.
Tom ignored the muttering. “You're not independent anymore. You joined a navy. You came in with your eyes wide open, and you swore an oath. By God you're going to keep your oaths, if I have to hang half of you to get the other half to smarten up.” He looked from face to face, his eyes diamond-hard and uncompromising. “Any questions?”
No one spoke.
Tom walked out.
The room broke into a buzz of conversation around Alice as she stared after Tom. He blew it, she thought. He's alienated everyone. He's trying to bully people who've always been independent, and he's playing the role of arrogant UW tyrant right to the hilt. He just destroyed all the good will he generated at Black Betty, and he won't back down, either. He thinks he's right.
She felt eyes on her, accusing gazes from people who knew she'd served with Tom, helped him, defended him. The room was suddenly unbearably stifling, and she hurried to the exit and pushed her way outside.
Panama City was a frontier town built on a ridge surrounded by broken, rocky hills covered in pine trees. She broke into a jog, passing a block of commercial buildings, then a couple of residential streets. She reached a park on the outskirts, where she flopped herself down on a bench to catch her breath. New Panama was the only colony in the Green Zone to import bears, and a sign by the bench told her where to find a can of repellent in case of a bear attack.
The land fell away before her in fractured waves, rising and falling, none of it horizontal. A couple of deer watched her from the edge of the park, then walked calmly into the surrounding trees.
Off to her left was the skeleton of a new building, a frame of steel girders waiting for walls and floors. It would be a substantial structure once it was complete, two stories with a central block and a couple of wings. It was to be the new home of the government in exile of Neorome, and the headquarters of the Free Neorome Navy. She stared gloomily at the building, wondering if the proud upstart navy she was learning to love would still exist by the time the building was complete.
Light flared in the sky beyond the framework of girders. Ships, so distant they were mere specks, plunged into the atmosphere, engines blazing as they braked. Weapons fire glittered, and a ship exploded, burning fragments pouring down like fireworks. They descended below the horizon and vanished.
Alice was on her feet, though she had no memory of rising. She turned, looking back toward the community center, as the warbling cry of an alarm filled the air.
War had finally come to New Panama. The colony was under attack.
Chapter 6
“It was a textbook assault, and unfortunately it worked beautifully.” The speaker, a frazzled-looking United Worlds overcaptain, gestured at a collection of wireframe ships that zipped around a massive projection in the air above her. “Their warships engaged our fleet while the landing force sped past and established a beachhead. Guns were the first thing they unloaded, and we had to retreat.”
In the projection fat pulses of light flew up from the grid that represented the ground. A cruiser, outlined in blue to mark it as a UW ship, took a dozen hits and plunged to the surface of New Panama. “We did some damage,” the overcaptain said wearily. “But the bottom line is, they achieved their objective. They have a ground force well dug in on the planet. Most of the battle fleet retreated intact. The transports are still on the surface. They've got shields up, and more guns than we can count.” She looked around the room, her expression bleak. “Any questions?”
Tom, sitting near the back of the meeting hall, scrolled through a data pad, reading the details of the incursion. The DA ground force was some two hundred kilometers from Tom's current position just outside Panama City. He was in the UW's new military base, a hastily assembled town of crude prefabricated buildings. It was a measure of the desperate nature of the situation that he, an outsider, had been invited to attend this council of war.
His data pad chimed, summoning him to a breakout session for naval forces. The projection above the central dais changed to a close-up of the DA ground positions. This room would be used for the army breakout session.
Tom left the building, stepping from a prefab floor down to a dirt street. The base held dozens of buildings, most of them one room each. Going to another meeting room meant trudging down the street.
The base seethed with energy. All around him people in different uniforms hustled to and fro. An army mech lumbered down the middle of the street, its titanium feet leaving depressions in the damp soil. A courier robot tried to move out of the mech's path, found itself blocked by a handful of spacers, and was nearly crushed when the mech took its next step.
Vast force field generators marked the corners of the base, ready to repel missile attacks or shells. Gun emplacements broke up the orderly lines of the buildings, air and space defenses near the middle of the base pointing upward, ground defenses around the perimeter pointing at the surrounding forest.
The overall effect was a strange blend of chaos and rigid order, like being in the heart of an old-fashioned mechanical clock. Gears and sprockets spun madly on every side, each with a different velocity, but every component moving in a precise way.
This was the military Tom had trained in, but it felt strange. A few brief weeks in the Free Neorome Navy had changed his perspective, and he wondered what someone like Alice would make of this bustling, regimented base.
He found his meeting room, waited while a sentry at the door checked something on her bracer, and stepped inside. It felt odd to enter a room full of naval officers and know himself to be a misfit, the only one out of uniform, the only one who didn’t belong. He looked at the sunburst patches the others wore on their shoulders and fought down a wistful yearning for everything he'd lost.
“Tom?”
He turned, took in the face beside him, and grinned from ear to ear. “Kenny!”
The two men pumped each other's hands, clapped each other on the shoulder, and spent thirty seconds talking over each other in an incomprehensible babble. Lieutenant Ken Tranh turned to the woman beside him and said, “This is the guy I told you about. He was in my platoon in Basic. He was the mastermind behind Operation Dead Gopher.”
The other lieutenant rolled her eyes and moved away.
“I may have told her that story one time too many,” Kenny admitted. “I'll never forget the dead gopher mission, though. Wish I could have seen it.”
“It was Oscar's idea,” Tom said. “I just tagged along.”
They were silent a moment, remembering their classmate who had dropped out.
“Oh, I saw Juno,” Kenny said. “She's on the Damascus.”
“The battleship? Nice.” Tom smiled, thoroughly delighted to see an old friend.
Kenny leaned closer and smirked. “I'm feeling pretty lucky. A humble lieutenant like me gets to rub shoulders with a commodore.”
It was an uncomfortable reminder that everything had changed, that Tom was no longer a member of the big blue family. He made an effort to keep the smile on his face. “I never said you get to rub my shoulders. My feet are kind of sore, though.” He raised an inviting eyebrow.
Kenny snorted, then glanced at the doorway and stiffened. “Time to act like grownups,” he whispered, and hurried over to a chair.
The man in the doorway had a full four stripes across his chest. Tom recognized that craggy, weathered face from some of the courseware he'd studied at Battleship School. Tom was no longer part of the UW Navy, but he couldn't help standing at attention as Admiral Farnham swept the room with cold blue eyes.
“At ease,” the admiral said, and the gathered officers relaxed slightly. “Sit down.”
There was a quick scramble for chairs. A couple of dozen UW officers – and Tom Thrush – stared up at the admiral, silent and expectant.
For the next few minutes Farnham went over the tactical situation, describing the ships available to the United Worlds and what was known about the ships available to the Dawn Alliance. “You all know about the landing last night,” he said. “We don't have all the details yet, but we know the DA landed a lot of people. At least several hundred, and maybe a couple thousand. They landed mechs and guns and materials.”
He folded his arms across his broad, powerful chest. “They did not land everything. The supply ship F315 came down hard about thirty kilometers from their beachhead. We were unable to reach the crash site, so we shelled it from above instead. There is very little they'll be able to salvage. Another freighter, designation unknown, was destroyed on the approach to the planet.
“We know they're short of fuel, thanks to the efforts of our friends in the local militia.” He looked at Tom and nodded. “A troop ship landed, so it seems they're not short of personnel. That might actually work in our favor, because people need to eat. Even if they're too poorly equipped to do any good, they'll want food. They'll use up shelter space. They'll use power. We don’t know what supplies they lost when we shot those cargo ships down, but if they've got two thousand troops on the ground, shortages are going to become critical in a hurry.”
Farnham paced back and forth in front of the rows of seated officers. “This will be a war of resupply,” he said. “We're fairly well set up here.” He gestured around him at the base. “We've got the support of the colony, as well. Probably.” He frowned. “There's a certain amount of resentment there, but with a hostile, heavily armed force digging in just a couple hundred kilometers away, the locals should be motivated to help us.”
A cynical chuckle rose from the gathered officers.
“Still, we're going to need resupply, and there's a Dawn Alliance fleet up there that's going to do all it can to starve us out. We'll be doing the same to them. The force they've got on the ground is too strong for us to eradicate, but it's not strong enough to come after us here. It's a stalemate.
“If they want to drive us off New Panama – and I promise you they do – they need to land more troops, more materiel. This is the only foothold we've got this side of Garnet. We need this planet. The army boys will do what they can, but ultimately this planet goes to whoever can get supply ships through to the surface.
“The next supply fleet from Garnet is scheduled for ten days from now. Our job between now and then is two-fold. One, keep the enemy from landing more supplies. Two, thin out their warships, ideally without losing any important ships of our own.”
Important ships? Tom thought. What exactly does he mean by that?
“Our fleet is somewhat in disarray,” Farnham said. “It's inevitable in the aftermath of battle. Which means their fleet is also in disarray. And we've got scout ships shadowing them. We know approximately where they are. We're going to move against them tonight. I want a strike force ready to move out in six hours. If you've been invited to this meeting, it means you'll be included.”
A prickle of excitement danced up Tom's arms and across his shoulders, mixed with no small amount of dread. The Free Neorome fleet was going into combat alongside the United Worlds Navy.
For the next few minutes the admiral laid out the details of an attack plan, codenamed Operation Fuego. For the most part it could have been lifted straight from a Navy textbook. The UW fleet had no battleships, but there were half a dozen heavy cruisers that could dish out some serious damage. The cruisers would focus their fire on the B14, the Dawn Alliance battleship that was the backbone of the enemy fleet. Once the battleship was destroyed the focus would shift to the enemy's heavy cruisers. The smaller UW ships would support and protect the cruisers while the cruisers did most of the work.
“Our allies in the Free Neorome Navy will play a crucial role in the battle,” Farnham said, and fixed his gaze on Tom. “Their light raiders will be our vanguard. Their role will be to move in close to the enemy formation. They will reveal any ships we haven't detected, by observing at close range and by drawing fire. They will have a chance to fire on enemy missiles as they're being launched, and to destroy enemy fighters. This should significantly reduce the enemy's missile defenses. The light raiders will also redirect a lot of fire from our cruisers.”
Tom stared at Farnham, astonishment giving way to a cold numbness. The admiral was no longer looking at him. Farnham paced in front of the officers, talking about missile deployment and fighter placement. He'd just assigned a suicide role to the colonist fleet – and then forgotten about them.
The meeting went on, turning into a lively discussion of contingency plans and fallback procedures. Tom listened with half an ear, his mind racing. Farnham wanted him to provide a dozen coyotes and send them all into close-range combat with a large Dawn Alliance fleet while the United Worlds ships fired a storm of shells from a comparatively safe distance. The ships with the least armor and the fewest guns were to be at the front, accomplishing nothing and drawing fire.
If a single raider survived, Tom would be impressed.
The meeting broke up and a few officers approached Farnham. Tom stared at the side of the admiral's head, wondering if there was any point in arguing with the man. From Farnham's point of view, he realized, the plan made perfect sense. Heavy cruisers mattered. Armed freighters didn't. And every raider that failed to survive the war would be one fewer pirate raiding UW shipping in the peace that followed.
Kenny dropped into the next seat. “Looks like it should be a pretty good scrap.” He grinned.
Tom stared at him. “Are you kidding?”
The lieutenant's eyebrows rose. “Well, I guess it'll be a little hard on your guys. But you've got a cruiser, right? So you'll be back with us. You'll be fine.”
Tom scowled, and the grin dropped away from Kenny's face. “Hey,” Kenny said. “I know it's brutal. But that's the way it's always been, right? The little ships soak up the damage to protect the big ships. Just be glad we don't have a couple of battleships. Then the cruisers would be the little ships, and we'd be the ones in the meat grinder.”
The savage mathematics of space combat had never sat comfortably with Tom when he'd been part of the UW Navy. But it had always been abstract, which made it palatable. Now, the doomed crews were people he knew. That, combined with the knowledge that the sacrifice would achieve almost nothing, turned his stomach.
“We always knew it might come to something like this,” Kenny said softly. “Officers have to make tough decisions. There aren't any battles where no one faces the risk of dying.” He touched the rank bar on his chest. “So we prioritize, and we make the best choices we can. And people die.”
Tom nodded. He couldn’t bring himself to speak.
“Anyway, your people will come through it,” Kenny said. “They're harder to kill than rats.” His grin returned. “I spent three weeks hunting pirates before the war broke out. I was a junior officer on the Dauntless, and we went up against a six-ship pirate fleet around Parkland.” He shook his head. “We might have left a scorch mark on the hull of one ship, one time. Aside from that we wasted at least ten thousand rounds of ten millimeter ammunition and had a cargo hauler boarded and pillaged practically under our noses.” He clapped Tom on the shoulder and stood. “They'll drive the Dawn Alliance fleet nuts and slip away without a scratch. You'll see.”
It was a blatant and unconvincing attempt to cheer him up, and Tom smiled to show that he appreciated the effort. Then, as the other man turned away, he said, “Kenny?”
“Yeah?”
“You said you went up against a whole fleet of raiders?”
Kenny nodded.
“Did you ever find they were easier to see if they were close together? I mean, if they were actually hull to hull, or really close, like a couple of meters, then they'd show up like one big ship, right? But what if they're spread out? Say, a kilometer apart?”
Kenny scratched his head. “You know, I never saw it myself, but I heard something like that. The old hands always said, if you could see one raider you knew there wasn't another one within five K. They never like to bunch up.” He shrugged. “If you're at a range of, say, fifty to a hundred kilometers, a Robinson unit would detect the total amount of mass within its focus area. That's about three kilometers at fifty K, and nine kilometers at a hundred. So, yeah, they'd be easier to spot if they bunched up.”
He moved away, and Tom stood. Farnham was still holding court, looking haughty and adamant as he dispensed wisdom to the officers around him. What can I achieve by arguing with him? I can alert him to the fact that I don't want to cooperate.
Tom shook his head, circled around the knot of officers, and left.
Fourteen captains sat at the long table in the main hall of the Panama City community center when Tom walked in. Most of the faces that turned to look at him wore guarded, neutral expressions. Dell frowned, while Truong shot him a single sour look and turned away. O'Reilly glanced at the captains on either side, grinned, and gave Tom a wink.
“I've just been in a meeting with our cherished comrades in blue,” Tom said. “They presented me with a battle plan that is, how shall I say it, interesting.” He chuckled without mirth. “The good news is, we get to play a pivotal role.”
Fourteen pairs of eyes bored into him. No one spoke.
“It's going to involve large numbers of raiders working together in a tight formation,” Tom said, and watched his captains glance at one another, faces filled with doubt. “Now, anyone with a lick of sense knows that small ships are easier to spot in close formations,” he said, poker-faced. “Normally I would say that anyone who orders you to cluster together is a damned fool, and you should ignore him.”
Truong's eyebrows climbed his forehead. He shook his head, giving Tom a reluctant grin.
“However, we're going to be toe to toe with the enemy. At that range they'll know exactly where we are, so a close formation won't hurt.” Tom sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “You guys are, kilogram for kilogram and gun for gun, the most effective fighting force the Green Zone has ever seen. The United Worlds Navy chased you and hunted you for decades and got nowhere. You could teach our allies a thing or two, but UW officers sometimes get hidebound and don't have the good sense to listen. They think they know best.”
Truong nodded ever so slightly, acknowledging the oblique apology.
“The United Worlds Navy doesn't value you,” Tom said. “They plan to use you up. So I'm going to tell you about the official battle plan. And then I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.”
Chapter 7
The amalgamated fleet moved through seventh dimensional space, hunting the Dawn Alliance, and the Kingfisher brought up the rear.
Tom sat on the bridge, watching the engines of the frigate ahead of him, and reflected that it wasn't a deliberate snub. Admiral Farnham didn't care enough about the Free Neorome forces to bother insulting them. His disdain was as impersonal as it was absolute.
I'm going to miss this anonymity soon enough, Tom thought sourly. There's an ocean of shit that's about to hit the fan.
The Blue Heron flew a hundred meters to starboard. Sayles had almost deployed the Egret, Free Neorome's other corvette. Keeping it grounded allowed the Kingfisher and Heron to share the most experienced crew between them. More to the point, it allowed the two ships to carry a larger portion of the miserly allotment of ammunition the UW had reluctantly allowed them to have. Each ship had less than ten thousand rounds. The Kingfisher carried three working missiles in her port missile bay. The Blue Heron carried one.
What a bloody ridiculous way to fight a war. Tom did his best to push his bitterness to the back of his mind, focusing instead on the icons on his tactical screen. Ahead of the Free Neorome contingent was the UW fleet, consisting of nine heavy cruisers, six light cruisers, three frigates, five corvettes, a heavy carrier and two light carriers. That was an impressive collection of firepower, and he looked forward to seeing it unleashed on the battleship B14 and the lesser ships that attended her.
Smaller icons flitted around the cluster of warships. Twelve raiders accompanied the fleet, most of them scouting the route ahead, the rest scattered around the larger warships as pickets. Tom scowled as he counted them, wondering how many would remain at the end of the battle.
From time to time a blue-painted scout ship would appear in the distance, make a quick transmission to the fleet, then vanish. Each time, the fleet would change course. The Dawn Alliance fleet was wandering through hyperspace, hoping to avoid detection. A handful of United Worlds scout ships shadowed them, however, reporting every course change to the approaching hunters.
Tom took a deep breath and released it slowly. It wouldn't be long now.
A wall of thin gray storm energy loomed in front of the fleet when the order came to deploy in battle formation. The warships arranged themselves in a grid, separated from each other by almost a kilometer. Each ship would be able to fire straight ahead with no danger of hitting a friendly ship, and no risk of catching a near miss aimed at a neighbor.
The raiders, meanwhile, gathered in a tight clump. They would lead the way.
The Free Bird drew his gaze. He had a soft spot for the ship, his first command for a few giddy days after the Kestrel captured her. It was not the same Free Bird that he remembered, though. The ship was sleek, before the war. Now her clean lines were broken by the ungainly shape of a twelve-millimeter gun turret welded to the top of her hull just behind the bridge. About half the coyotes had similar upgrades, mostly guns scavenged from destroyed ships.
At last the order came to advance. The raiders vanished in the wall of energy. The warships moved forward, and the bridge windows turned gray. Then the storm energy faded as they passed through, and the Dawn Alliance fleet lay before them.
A red lump of storm energy a thousand kilometers across pulsed just behind the fleet. The burgundy highlights on the distant battleship faded into the storm, so that sections seemed to be missing from the toy-like shape. The rest of the fleet showed as nothing but dark spots.
Tom switched his gaze to his tactical screen and watched the enemy ships turn and shift to meet the approaching threat. The raiders showed as a dozen distinct points of light that faded into a single blurred lump as the range increased.
Then, when the raiders had covered perhaps two thirds of the distance between fleets, they turned sharply to port and veered away.
“Commodore Andrews calling,” said Gary Holmes at the comms station. Tom nodded, Holmes tapped an icon, and the commodore's voice boomed over the bridge speakers. “Thrush! Get those raiders back on target. Now!”
“Aye aye,” Tom said. The connection closed with a soft click. Tom leaned back in his seat and did nothing else.
“The commodore is transmitting a general order to open fire,” Holmes reported.
Tom nodded. “Stand by.” Shooting at this range was a numbers game. The paltry few rounds the Kingfisher carried would be utterly wasted as part of a fleet barrage.
Light flashed on the hull of the heavy cruiser Adamant as the first of the return fire from the Dawn Alliance found a target. Tom said, “Helm. Set course thirty degrees to port and advance. Thrust level five.”
“Five, aye.” The Dawn Alliance fleet slid to the right as the Kingfisher turned, then grew by slow degrees as the ship advanced.
“The Blue Heron is with us,” Carpenter announced. Tom glanced out the side window and saw the corvette keeping pace.
“Let's catch up with the coyote pack, shall we?” Tom said, and the Kingfisher surged toward a spot on the enemy fleet's flank.
The first skirmish involved a corvette on the edge of the enemy formation. Every screen on the bridge of the Kingfisher turned to static as they moved into range of the corvette’s Benson field. Electronic targeting would no longer work, but that wasn’t going to be a problem in this battle.
The corvette turned to meet the advancing armed freighters, but there was little she could do. The raiders were too small and quick for the corvette's few guns, and too numerous for the corvette to stand against. Each coyote was poorly armed, but among the twelve of them they wielded almost two dozen guns, a mix of slug throwers and laser cannons. They swarmed the corvette, racing in to strafe her, then zipping away.
They targeted gun turrets, navigational thrusters, and scanner pods. In less than a minute the corvette was half blind, armed with nothing but missiles, and completely unable to turn. The Dewy Honeysuckle darted in, fired a sustained blast into the ship's torpedo bay, and rendered her completely harmless. The Kingfisher and the Blue Heron came up behind the raiders, their support not needed, as the little ships advanced on their next target.
Two cruisers and a corvette broke away from the fleet and turned to deal with the raiders. Tom watched as his ships attacked like a swarm of wasps, darting in to fire and racing away before the larger ships could retaliate. Carpenter sat with her hands poised over her console, ready to fire at an instant's notice, but there was no way to shoot without the risk of hitting a friendly ship.
Nor did the raiders need much help. They focused on the larger cruiser at first. It was a bigger ship, better armored, but its gun turrets and nav thrusters were no better protected than the corvette’s had been. Soon the cruiser was wallowing like a bull moose hamstrung by wolves, her formidable weapons useless.
A line of bright explosions erupted across her hull as the other cruiser fired a burst at a darting raider and missed. The corvette swung around the damaged cruiser, trying to protect the bigger ship's flank where most of the guns had been reduced to slag. That put the corvette directly in front of the Kingfisher without a single raider in the way. Tom opened his mouth, but his gun crews opened fire before he could give the order. Hull plates ruptured and tore as hundreds of explosive rounds tore into the corvette.
“Missile bay,” Tom said. “Time for you guys to get some practice. See if you can hit one of the breaches in that corvette's hull.”
“I thought you'd never ask,” a voice said over the speaker on Tom's console, and the tail of a missile blazed for an instant between the Kingfisher and the corvette. The explosion came a fraction of a second later, an eruption of fire from the corvette's hull that sent debris spinning in every direction. A chunk of hull bounced off the bridge windows and spun away into the darkness as the corvette tumbled and burned.
The raiders went after the remaining cruiser, and Tom spared a quick glance at the rest of the battle. Shots poured into the battleship, a murderous barrage from every cruiser in the UW fleet. The hull of the battleship sparkled and blazed, but Tom could see little real damage. The battleship's massive guns continued to hurtle shell after shell at the attacking fleet. A couple of UW cruisers were out of commission, drifting through the middle of the distant formation.
Missiles, dozens of them, hundreds of them, flashed back and forth between the two fleets. The Dawn Alliance missiles showed as bright points of light that shrank as they raced toward their distant targets. The answering United Worlds missiles were invisible until they exploded, destroyed by defensive fire long before they reached the enemy fleet. Tom watched for a moment, looking for a missile that reached even half way to its destination. None of them did.
“Four down,” Carpenter said, and cackled. “Looks like the carrier is next.”
Tom looked up as the second cruiser tumbled past the Kingfisher, trailing smoke. The raiders broke away and turned toward a blocky rectangular ship as large as both cruisers together.
A cold hand squeezed Tom's stomach, and he stared at the carrier, trying to figure out why he was suddenly afraid. That carrier wasn't there when we started our attack. What is it-
Fighters burst from the sides of the carrier, six of them erupting from three launch bays. They raced to meet the advancing raiders, and Tom shouted, “No, wait!”
He watched, first alarmed and then horrified, as the tables were abruptly turned. The raiders, too fast and nimble for cruisers and corvettes, were hopelessly sluggish compared to the fighters. The little one-person ships zipped and twisted, blasting away at the armed freighters. Return fire streaked through the void, hopelessly too slow.
The Dandelion was the first to fall. Fighters engulfed the ship in a cloud, and when they raced away vapor dribbled from the hull in a dozen places. The barrel was gone from her laser cannon, and smoke belched from the side of the main engine.
Fighters converged on the Oak Leaf, and the Kingfisher hurried to her defense. Even as the corvette advanced Tom wondered if he was doing anything more than hastening the cruiser toward its doom. Still, he had to try.
A stream of shells sprayed from a forward battery, narrowly missed a darting fighter, and vanished into the depths of space. A fighter spun away from the fight, her right side deformed, metal sliced away by a lucky laser strike. Then the Blue Heron raced in close, guns blazing.
A fighter burst into flames that vanished quickly as the last of the oxygen in the cockpit disappeared. The little craft plowed into the side of the corvette. The nose of the fighter crumpled against armor plating without doing the corvette any noticeable harm.
A nav thruster on the nose of the Blue Heron erupted in a spray of sparks, and a laser turret exploded on the underside of her hull. The corvette tried to break away, but the remaining fighters stayed close, pouring laser shots into her from close range. They left the Oak Leaf, badly damaged, tumbling in the void behind them.
There was no way to fire at the darting fighters without hitting the corvette. Tom spent a moment watching in mute frustration. Black streaks appeared on the corvette's hull plates as an enthusiastic laser gunner on the Kingfisher opened fire. Tom decided not to object. The laser cannon, strong enough to cripple a fighter with one shot, would do little harm to the armored corvette.
The Blue Heron twisted and dove in a hopeless attempt to evade her tormenters. Then she turned and raced for the bulging red eye of storm energy just beyond the Dawn Alliance fleet. It was, Tom realized, an excellent strategy. The corvette would be able to handle anything the storm could dish out, unless she'd taken very serious damage indeed. The fighters, though, would have to break off or be destroyed.
Another fighter broke apart in a cloud of glowing debris. Then the corvette plunged into the storm, and the last three fighters followed.
A raider flashed past the nose of the Kingfisher, moving from left to right. Tom turned his head, following the direction of its flight.
The coyote pack raced toward the enemy carrier. They targeted her guns first, blowing apart a pair of laser cannons on her underside. A four-barreled gun tried to track the advancing raiders, then froze in place, barrels pointing impotently into the void, as the Water Lily fired a sustained blast of laser energy into the base of the turret.
The Kingfisher fired a stream of shells at another turret on the nose of the carrier. The turret blew apart an instant before the guns went silent. Carpenter swore, then looked over at Tom. “We're out of ammo.”
“Damn.” Tom turned to Gary Holmes. “Tell the pack to get below the carrier. She doesn't have any guns left on her underside.”
Holmes spoke into a headset, then looked at Tom. “Captain Dell wants to head up top and take a crack at the rest of the guns.”
Tom looked at the crippled cruisers drifting beside the Kingfisher and shook his head. “We've done enough for one day. Besides, why cut up a bunch of perfectly good guns when we can take them with us?”
Carpenter grinned, looking suddenly predatory. “Boarding party?”
“Boarding party,” Tom confirmed. “Let's grab ourselves a carrier.”
On the far side of the carrier the Dawn Alliance fleet was in motion, advancing on the impertinent UW ships. The battleship led the way, smaller ships streaming behind her like carrion birds following a lion.
Spacers in vac suits streamed from the Kingfisher and raced through the void to the carrier. More spacers sprang from half a dozen raiders, and breaching tents inflated in three different places on the carrier's hull.
The Canada Thistle docked with the Dandelion to offload her crew. The Oak Leaf continued to drift. She was in range of the working guns on the top of the carrier, so her rescue would have to wait. Meanwhile the Rippling Brook and the Wapiti approached the crippled enemy cruisers. A spacer in a vac suit jetted across to each cruiser to plant an explosive charge that would destroy the engines beyond any hope of repair.
We don't have much in the way of missiles, Tom thought, but we can still get the job done. He looked at Carpenter. “We should scuttle the Oak Leaf and the Dandelion.”
She gave him a doubtful look. “We can if you like, Captain. Might be nice to recover them, though.”
Tom blinked. “Recover them?”
“The carrier can handle the mass,” she said. “I figured we'd lock 'em to her top deck.”
Tom checked his tactical screen, saw nothing but static, and moved to the side bridge window. The battleship was surrounded by a chaotic swarm of smaller ships as the UW fleet scattered. Every Dawn Alliance ship was busy as a rigid fleet action collapsed into a wild melee. No one would be coming back to harass the Free Neorome fleet any time soon. “Let's do it.”
“Incoming message, Captain,” Holmes said. Static hissed and popped on the bridge speakers, and then a woman spoke, her voice jubilant. “We've taken the bridge of the carrier. They didn't even lock the computer. I think they're in shock.”
“Get ready to bug out,” Tom said. “Don't go quite yet, though.” He twisted in his chair, giving a worried glance at the churning red eye of the storm that had engulfed the Blue Heron.
There was no sign of the corvette or the fighters that had pursued her.
“We need to get those damaged raiders against the hull,” Tom said. “Maybe we could-”
“They're on it,” Carpenter interrupted, gesturing out the bridge windows. “Er, no offense, Sir, but taking ships is kind of what we do.”
The look on her face said she was scared of how he would react, and Tom flushed. She thinks I'm a tyrant. A martinet. And she has good reason.
The Dandelion drifted lazily through the void, heading for the hull of the carrier. Tom watched, looking for a source of propulsion. Maybe a magnetic grapple on a cable with a motorized reel? In a surprisingly short time both damaged raiders were snug against the captured carrier, and “Ready to go” messages came in from the prize crew and the other captains.
A scant few kilometers away the storm roiled, red and malevolent. Tom gave it a last unhappy look. Staying to wait for O'Reilly and the Blue Heron would be foolhardy, and it might even increase the danger faced by the corvette by drawing the attention of the Dawn Alliance.
In the opposite direction a lone heavy cruiser spun end over end, missing armor plates showing as dark squares on her blue-painted hull. The rest of the UW fleet had retreated through the wall of gray storm energy with the Dawn Alliance in pursuit. The battle, as far as Tom and his people were concerned, was over.
“We're done here,” he said. “Signal the others. We're going home.”
Chapter 8
The corridor smelled of smoke, but it was airtight, so O'Reilly wasn't going to complain.
There was a tang in the air, like the smell you get from hot metal, but more acrid. He recognized it as the odor of the insulation that lined the hull. It had a unique smell when it was hot but not quite burning.
“Is it over, Captain?”
O'Reilly looked at the trio of spacers in front of him. There was a woman, dwarfed by the bulky firefighting gear she wore, and a couple of men, one with a toolbox and one with a stretcher. All three looked frightened. “It's over,” he told them. “You can stow your equipment.” When they didn't relax he added, “We're fine.” Which was more or less true. The ship was airtight, after all, and it still had power. The rest was just details.
“What happened?” the woman said.
O'Reilly, who'd been about to walk past, paused. He knew from experience how maddening, how unnerving it could be to come through an armed encounter with no idea what was happening. Word would eventually get around via the rumor mill, but that would take hours.
“Some fighters chased us into a storm,” he said. “We lost one. One got overwhelmed by storm energy. It shut down completely, and we shot it up. The third one …” He sighed. “The third one sat on our tail and fired into the engine until it ran out of ammunition.”
The three spacers looked at him, eyes wide.
“We still have power, as you can see.” O'Reilly gestured around, taking in the corridor with its functioning lights and artificial gravity. “And the ship has propulsion.”
They relaxed, at least somewhat.
“I'm on my way aft to see about the engine,” O'Reilly said. “It was just a fighter. They don't carry much punch. I'm sure we're fine.”
That sounded like the kind of things officers were supposed to say to hide a real disaster, and the three spacers exchanged glances.
If Tom was here he would keep on walking. He would project confidence above all. But I never went to Officer School, and this isn't the United Worlds Navy. O'Reilly tried to scratch his scalp, found his helmet in the way, and lowered his hand. “It was rough,” he said. “The fighters were too fast for us. They shot us up, and we couldn't touch them.” He tapped a bulkhead, the one closest to the skin of the ship. “The Heron hasn't got much armor, but it's enough for the little popguns on a fighter. They couldn't breach the hull. We haven't got any leaks.
“But they trashed half our gun turrets and a couple of nav thrusters. We’ll definitely need some time in the shop once we get back.”
One of the men nodded. All three of them still looked nervous, though, like they figured he was still blowing smoke up their backsides.
“I don't know about the engine,” O'Reilly said. “It's the most vulnerable spot on the ship, except maybe for the bridge windows. I wouldn't worry too much about a couple of bullets, but that fighter sat dead astern of us and emptied her magazines.” He lifted his hands in a shrug. “So I just don't know. I'll make sure word gets passed around, though.”
All three of them nodded this time. They didn't look reassured, exactly, but at least the uncertainty was gone. O'Reilly stepped around them and continued down the corridor.
The engine room was a scene of controlled chaos. O'Reilly pressed himself against a bulkhead where he'd be out of the way and watched people rush back and forth. Rick Jordan, his engineer, was nowhere in sight, but he could hear Jordan's voice, muffled and echoing, shouting instructions in the distance.
“Captain?”
O'Reilly looked down and found a pair of wizened eyes peering up at him from a nest of deep brown wrinkles. The man in front of him was old enough to be his father, if not his grandfather. He was also one of the shortest adults O'Reilly had ever seen. The man made a beckoning gesture and headed for the exit hatch.
O'Reilly followed him into the corridor.
“Engineer’s Mate Bell,” the man said, and gave a quick two-fingered salute. “Mr. Jordan said I should brief you when you showed up.”
O'Reilly nodded.
“We're mostly doing diagnostic work right now,” Bell said. “If this was one of our ships, we’d have to strip the whole engine to be sure what happened. But this tub's got some very nice diagnostic tools.”
O'Reilly fought the urge to tell him to get to the point and nodded instead.
“The plasma ring has a bunch of nicks and dents,” Bell said, “and a couple of actual holes. We're plugging the holes right now. It won't be perfect, though, and we can't do anything for the dents and stuff.” Bell shook his head, looking mournful. “It'll slow us down. We've lost at least five percent of our thrust. Probably more like ten.”
“All right,” said O'Reilly. “I can live with that.”
“The real problem is the fuel,” Bell said.
O'Reilly raised his eyebrows. The Blue Heron had left New Panama with easily twice as much fuel as she would need for the round trip.
“One lucky shot went deep,” said Bell. “There's a tiny opening just inside the plasma ring, and if you get just the right angle, it's a straight line all the way in to the number three fuel injector.” He grimaced. “You would think they’d put a little armor on the injector, but it's a one in a thousand shot.”
Well, that fighter fired at least a thousand rounds up our tailpipe.
“Anyway, the fuel injector's smashed,” Bell said. “And there's no way to get at it without taking the whole engine apart.”
And there was no way to take the engine apart without a full shipyard, O'Reilly knew. “So the engine is crippled?”
Bell shook his head. “The engine will run. We just can't control the fuel intake.” He hesitated. “Well, that's not exactly true. We have one way to control fuel intake.”
O'Reilly didn't speak, just waited.
“If we keep the speed down,” Bell said. “If we keep it below, say, about ten percent thrust, the engine will only use two fuel injectors. But if you increase the thrust, it engages all six injectors and we start losing fuel. It sprays all over the side of the plasma chamber, and then it either burns or evaporates.”
“How bad is it?” O'Reilly said. “How fast will we lose fuel?”
“Can't tell for sure,” Bell said. “Not without doing some experiments.” With his helmet on, O'Reilly couldn't see the man's mouth, but his cheeks scrunched up, showing that he was smiling. “You might not want to do too many of that kind of trial.”
“Not if I can help it,” O'Reilly agreed.
“It's just one injector,” Bell said. He held up his hand with his pinky finger extended. “The tube running to it is only this big. But with the injector smashed, fuel pretty much just pours through, uncontrolled.” He cocked his head, thinking. “My best guess? When you get above ten percent thrust, fuel consumption is going to be two or three times what it's supposed to be.”
“That's ugly,” O'Reilly said. “Still, we'll be able to get home.”
Bell shook his head, and O’Reilly’s heart sank. “What haven't you told me?”
“There was a lot going on after the battle.” A defensive note crept into the short man's voice. “Things were on fire.” He scraped at his chest, dislodging some soot from the front of his vac suit. “We didn't run the full diagnostic scan right away. We couldn't.”
“Go on,” O'Reilly said.
“We're putting a new feedback valve on the fuel line now. Without it, fuel will just run straight through the line and out through the broken valve, whether the engine is running or not.”
O'Reilly, his stomach going cold, said, “How bad is it?”
“We drained the main tank completely, before we knew there was a problem.”
O'Reilly stared at him, aghast.
“Don't worry,” Bell said hastily. “The reserve tank is untouched.”
“Okay.” O'Reilly nodded, doing quick calculations in his head. The reserve tank held enough fuel to get them back to New Panama. More than enough, in fact. After all, it was designed as a backup, in case the main tank was ruptured. “I guess we'll be moving pretty slowly, then.” He thought for a moment. “I better get back to the bridge before somebody decides to order full thrust.” He started to turn away, then paused. “Thank you, Bell.”
Bell gave him a distracted nod and hurried back into Engineering.
“Talk to me, Jules,” O'Reilly said as he stepped onto the bridge.
Julie Heyderdahl, his First Officer, rose from the captain's chair. “Well, the good news is, we've got so many dings and gouges and scorch marks that they might finally give us a proper paint job.”
The Blue Heron had started her life as a Dawn Alliance warship, until the United Worlds disabled and captured her, then turned her over to the brand-new Free Neorome Navy. She now had a Free Neorome battle flag painted on her hull, but most of her original burgundy paint remained. It galled the entire crew to fly in a ship decorated in enemy colors.
“And the bad news?”
“The engine still shows half a dozen alerts. We've lost every single aft-facing gun, and two of the aft nav thrusters, one on each side.”
“Anything else?”
She chuckled mirthlessly. “That's not enough for you? We’ll be grounded for a month.” When he gave her a hard look she said, “No, Captain. No further damage.”
O'Reilly sighed and removed his helmet. “All right, listen up, everyone.” He gave the bridge crew a quick summary of the engine damage and the fuel situation. “We have enough to get home – but barely. I need to know the exact amount of fuel we have left. I need to know how long it will take us to get back to New Panama at ten percent thrust.” He thought for a moment. “And I need to know how much food and water we’re carrying.” Water wasn't a significant problem. The ship recycled most of it. Food, however ….
“Send someone to the galley. Double-check everything. And lock the food stores.”
That brought some startled glances from the bridge crew, but no one objected.
“Now. What's the situation in the scrapyard?”
“The battleship is still out there,” Steve Lacusta said from the Operations station. “I don't think it even took any real damage.”
O'Reilly shook his head. The massed guns of the entire United Worlds fleet had opened up on B14. And achieved almost nothing.
“Now they're using her as a glorified barge.”
O'Reilly brought up a tactical display on his own console. The Blue Heron hovered on the edge of the storm she had fled into to evade the fighters. O'Reilly figured he'd found the sweet spot where there was enough storm energy to make the corvette difficult to detect, but not enough to interfere with their own scanners. And if someone spotted them, he could retreat into the storm in an instant.
Ahead of him, spread across hundreds of kilometers of space, was the battlefield. The battleship, too far away to see with his naked eyes, dominated the tactical display. Half a dozen ships surrounded her in the defensive screen that battleships always maintained.
Closer to the Heron, a couple of frigates were docking with the ships crippled by the coyote pack. No, O'Reilly realized. Not docking with them. The frigates were attaching themselves to the crippled ships with grapples.
Farther away, a frigate carried a damaged corvette up to the battleship. A cruiser was already grappled to the underside of the battleship's hull.
“They're not leaving us any scraps,” O'Reilly said. It was a pity. If he could have scrounged even a bit of fuel from an abandoned ship, it might have cut days from the voyage home.
“They're being thorough,” Lacusta agreed. “They've grabbed some blueshirt ships as well.”
That made O'Reilly wince. He'd worn a blue uniform for years, and he'd been a prisoner of the Dawn Alliance. He glanced down, realized he was rubbing the old scars along his forearm, and made himself stop. There was nothing he could do for any survivors on those ships. Nothing except watch, and survive so he could report what he saw.
“Captain?” said Heyderdahl. “It'll take us nineteen days to reach New Panama at ten percent thrust. We’ll have a fuel surplus of about fifteen percent.”
“Are you sure?” He held up a hand before she could answer. “Never mind. Of course you're sure.” Seventh dimensional storm energy resisted the passage of ships, sometimes strongly. It could help, of course. If you found just the right current, it could sweep a small ship along. Mostly, though, it was an impediment. More than half of the Blue Heron’s available thrust would be squandered just fighting the resistance of those latent energy fields. The ship would crawl along, barely moving. Nineteen days! But it only took us a day to get here.
“We'll stay put for now,” he said. “There's always a chance they'll leave something behind, or send out a salvage ship for the scraps.”
He didn't have to explain that the Blue Heron would swoop down on a salvage ship like an owl pouncing on a field mouse. His crew were all Free Worlds raiders. Taking what they needed from enemy ships was as natural as breathing, to them.
A squeak from behind him and a reflected bar of light on his screen told him the bridge hatch was sliding open. Lacusta straightened up, one hand smoothing the front of his vac suit, and O'Reilly grinned. He knew exactly who had just stepped onto the bridge. He sucked in his stomach reflexively, then realized it didn't show through his vac suit and made himself relax. He turned.
A spacer stood in the bridge entrance with a helmet under her arm. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in person. Taller than most men, she had striking dark skin and short, curly hair with chiseled features that made her look regal and haughty in almost any situation. She was also bashful and sweet and seemed to have no idea why most of the male crew were tongue-tied and stammering whenever she was in the room.
“Miss Banduli,” O'Reilly said. He realized he was smiling foolishly, and made himself stop. Not only are you her commanding officer, you're old enough to be her father. Still, he could feel the smile creeping back.
“I did a survey of the galley, Captain.” She glanced at a data pad in her hand. “There are some boxes labelled Emergency Rations. I didn't look in those. As for real food, though, we have enough for about a week. Maybe a little less.”
“Thank you.” He wanted to find an excuse to keep her on the bridge, but she was hardly good for bridge efficiency. Or for his own personal efficiency, for that matter. “That's all for now. Thank you.”
She left the bridge, and O'Reilly turned in his seat, just in time to catch Heyderdahl rolling her eyes.
Nineteen days. And less than a week of food. We'll have to be on one-third rations. His stomach grumbled unhappily at the prospect.
Lacusta said, “Will we run out of food, Captain?”
“We'll implement rationing,” O'Reilly said. “It'll still be more than double what we had on Gamor.” That was an exaggeration, but not by much. The Dawn Alliance killed its prisoners with slow starvation.
The bridge lapsed into silence. O'Reilly watched the tactical display and did his best not to think about food. He had gained weight in the aftermath of his imprisonment. Food had obsessed him. It still did. He ate too much, not just regaining what he lost, but packing on several extra kilos. This will be good, he told himself. I could use a diet.
“The fleet is moving,” Lacusta said at last.
O'Reilly checked his display. The battleship was in motion, accelerating with ponderous majesty, her attending ships hovering around her like a swarm of flies. That fighter pilot is probably on board, O'Reilly thought. If I want revenge, I'll have to tackle the battleship.
It was a laughable thought. What could one corvette do that an entire battle fleet couldn't?
He remembered the fighter, small and irritating as a mosquito, parking stubbornly directly aft of the corvette and pouring bullet after bullet into her vulnerable engine. Could we do that? Could we sit dead aft of the battleship and cripple her engines?
It was an appealing vision, and he smiled, picturing it. All those massive sheets of armor plating would be useless. A battleship, crippled by a corvette? He'd be a legend.
There were only a few problems. The corvette carried just a solitary missile, and there wasn't much ammunition left for the guns. And, of course, there was the small matter of a crowd of escort ships, the smallest of them a match for the Blue Heron. A heavy cruiser flew directly astern of the battleship, making sure the vulnerable engines were protected. That by itself was enough of a deterrent, never mind the rest of the fleet.
“What next, Captain?”
O'Reilly glanced at Heyderdahl. “More waiting, I'm afraid.” But not too much. Every hour we delay is another hour before we're back on full rations. “We'll see if any ships hang back. We'll see if they leave a scout. And we'll see if anyone on our side comes out to take a look.”
That would be the best option, he reflected. If they could pass word to a scout from the United Worlds or Free Neorome, someone could bring the Heron enough fuel to reach home at full speed, or haul the ship away like the battleship was doing with the crippled cruisers and corvettes.
“What if no one comes?”
“Then we get to enjoy a nice, relaxing, nineteen-day cruise.”
Heyderdahl nodded and turned back to her console.
The Dawn Alliance fleet receded until only the battleship showed on O'Reilly's tactical display. Then a wall of storm engulfed the fleet and the battleship disappeared. They waited. Reports trickled in as engineering teams finished what repairs they could. Heyderdahl fielded a dozen complaints from the galley, then made a ship-wide announcement in which she curtly told everyone to stop whining.
And still the ship waited.
“We've got some weather brewing,” said Shikatani at the helm station. He turned to look at O'Reilly. “It's not a proper storm. Not yet, anyway. But it's getting thick over there.” He pointed through the bridge windows, ahead of the ship and a bit to starboard. “Pretty soon I'm not going to be able to see the far side of the theater.”
The theater of engagement was hundreds of kilometers across, stretching from the Heron's current position to the farthest point where the Dawn Alliance fleet had fired on the retreating United Worlds forces.
If a United Worlds ship turned up looking for survivors or salvage, it would come to the far side of the theater.
“Take us ahead,” O'Reilly said. He hated to move out of cover, especially in a slow-moving ship that was dangerously low on ammunition. But he couldn't bear the thought of missing a friendly scout just a few hundred kilometers away. “Keep it slow.”
“Ahead slow,” Shikatani acknowledged. Sparkles of light danced across the bridge windows as the ship left the perimeter of the storm.
“Contact!” said Heyderdahl. She pointed out the window, something no United Worlds spacer would do, but which O'Reilly found surprisingly intuitive. “There. It's something small, range about eighty kilometers.”
The ship showed on O'Reilly's screen as well. The Heron's AI identified the profile. “It's a Dawn Alliance scout ship,” he said. “Looks like they spotted us as soon as we moved. And they panicked.”
The ship was moving laterally across the Blue Heron’s path, following the departed battleship. It would escape easily, unless the Heron increased speed.
Scenarios formed in O'Reilly's mind, and he weighed them as calmly as he could. The scout would catch up to the enemy fleet. It would report the presence of the Blue Heron.
And then what?
If a handful of warships returned, the Heron would be in real trouble. But the scout had no way to know the Heron could only flee at a snail’s pace. There was no reason to expect the Heron to still be there when the fleet returned.
If we accelerate, we can cut them off. Then we can be sure. It'll only be a short burn. We won't use that much fuel. The Dawn Alliance will lose a scout ship.
We'll gain whatever fuel they have in their tanks. It'll give us a safety margin. We won't have to sweat over every drop. We could cut weeks off our trip.
“Intercept that ship,” O'Reilly said. “Full speed.”
The corvette surged forward, the back of the seat pressing ever so gently against O'Reilly's shoulder blades. He watched as the distance between the Heron and the scout ship closed rapidly.
“She's changing course,” Heyderdahl said.
O'Reilly nodded. That was to be expected. The scout ship still had plenty of velocity, however, and it would continue to push her into the Heron's path.
On his second console he brought up a live camera feed of the fleeing ship. He could barely see the craft; it was hidden behind by the glow of an engine roaring full blast. Don't burn too much of that fuel. I need it.
“She's got some legs,” Heyderdahl said. “She's really accelerating.”
O'Reilly checked his tactical display. The scout ship was gaining speed, but the Heron was accelerating faster. We can catch her. But will she have any fuel left by the time we do?
“We're getting close to our critical point,” said Heyderdahl.
O'Reilly looked at her. “Critical point?”
“The point at which we won't have enough fuel to reach New Panama.”
Oh, hell. We could stop accelerating. Let the scout go. We've burned away whatever small safety margin we might have had, and achieved nothing.
And if we break off pursuit, we're pretty much announcing that there's something wrong. They'll know we've got some kind of problem, either mechanical or a fuel shortage. The fleet will definitely send hunters.
“Hold the course.”
Shikatani nodded.
Heyderdahl said, “We're pretty much at critical fuel right now.”
“Noted,” O'Reilly muttered.
“Oh,” said Heyderdahl.
O'Reilly stiffened. “What?”
On his tactical display, the icon representing the scout ship flashed. Beside it on the live camera feed, the flame from the engine changed from red to orange, then yellow.
O'Reilly tapped the scout ship icon, and a block of text appeared. He bit back a curse.
“They've increased their rate of acceleration,” said Heyderdahl. “I don't know how they did it. Maybe they've got a plasma injector.”
O'Reilly nodded. Plasma injectors were hell on fuel consumption, and they shortened the life of an engine. They could be handy in an emergency, though.
Heyderdahl said, “If it's a plasma injector, they won't run it for long.”
Because they'll run out of fuel, O'Reilly thought. Which means we'll catch them, but it won't do us any good.
Do I break off pursuit? Conserve what fuel we have left?
It's already too late. Catching them is our only chance. “Stay the course, Shikatani.”
“Wow,” said Heyderdahl. “Look at them go.”
The Blue Heron was running flat out, but the gap between the two ships grew rapidly. Even if they turned off their injector right now, it would take us twenty minutes just to match their velocity. And by that time they'll be out of range.
I gambled, and I lost.
“Cut thrust to ten percent.”
The faint pressure from the back of his chair vanished as the Blue Heron lost most of its acceleration. “We'll wait until the scout is out of range. Then we'll head for the nearest storm and get out of sight.”
Heyderdahl turned to look at him. O'Reilly stared at his tactical screen, unable to meet her gaze. The icon representing the scout ship flickered several times, then disappeared.
Chapter 9
“I want that man arrested! He disobeyed orders and screwed up the entire attack!”
Overcaptain Lundbreck’s index finger, shaking with outrage, pointed directly at Tom. Tom stared at the finger, doing his best to stay poker-faced. He was both furious and nervous. This, however, was Admiral Sayles’s office. Captains weren’t supposed to get into shouting matches with visiting officers in front of admirals.
“He screwed up the attack, did he?” Sayles said, favoring Lundbreck with a frosty smile. “He destroyed or captured five ships. The only five ships the Dawn Alliance lost, I believe.”
“We had a strategy for the fleet. Sublieutenant – pardon me, Commodore Thrush and the ships under his command had a role to play in that strategy. They failed to follow orders. They let the whole fleet down.”
“Come now,” said Sayles. “We both know that your strategy was to throw away a dozen armed freighters, and to use a cruiser and a corvette as nothing more than targets in a shooting gallery. Instead, they achieved something. You’ll forgive me if I have trouble taking your complaints seriously.”
Lundbreck’s face, already red, darkened. “They were supposed to help protect our heavy cruisers.”
“Which they did, by destroying a cruiser and three corvettes, and capturing a carrier.”
“That carrier,” said Lundbreck. “You need to turn it over to us.”
Sayles laughed, a single startled bark, then leaned back in his chair, smirking. “If I thought you had a sense of humor, I would assume you were joking.”
Lundbreck scowled. “It’s properly ours.”
“Our ships captured it.”
“But we supplied your ships,” Lundbreck protested. “They captured that carrier using ammunition from United Worlds stores.”
Sayles leaned forward, his smile vanishing. “Our ships ran out of ammunition during the battle, which is the only reason we stopped at only five ships captured or destroyed. You've made it clear that we cannot rely on you to keep us adequately supplied with ammunition. So we'll buy ammunition. It's the only way we can be sure we'll have enough.”
Lundbreck said sarcastically, “I thought your little navy was broke.”
“We'll use the proceeds from the sale of this fine carrier. You say you want it. What’s your opening offer?”
Lundbreck stared at him. “You can't be serious.”
Sayles didn’t answer, just stared at him with eyes as cold as deep space.
Lundbreck sagged. “I'll have to talk to the admiral. We'll be in touch.” He stood, gave Tom a last murderous glare, and stomped out.
Tom and the admiral sat without speaking as Lundbreck’s footsteps receded. Then Sayles shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that went well,” he said, “but it was as good as I could reasonably hope for.” He fixed his gaze on Tom. “You brought back most of our people safe. And you brought us a carrier, too. You did good.”
Tom grimaced. “The Blue Heron-”
“Will likely still turn up,” Sayles said. “If not, well, we still got off easy considering the circumstances.”
It was cold comfort, and Tom squirmed in his seat, thinking of O’Reilly and the other crew missing with the Heron.
“You knew the job when you signed up,” Sayles said gently. “It’s war. Casualties are inevitable. You know that.”
Tom nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“Now, I want you to resume training the crew of the Kingfisher, and I want a crew on the Egret. I’ve modified the patrol schedule for the coyotes, and I want you to look it over and distribute it. But all that can wait. First, I have an important assignment for you. I need you to get on it immediately.”
“Of course,” Tom said, straightening in his chair. “What is it?”
“It’s 18:00,” the admiral said. “The sun’s going down. Take the evening off. Do something fun. Relax a bit. Then get a good night’s sleep.”
Tom blinked.
“I want you at your best tomorrow,” Sayles told him. “Right now you’re exhausted and stressed out.” As Tom started to shake his head Sayles said, “It’s written all over your face. You’re burning your last engine, and it’s about to flame out. Take a break. Enjoy yourself.” He gave Tom a mock scowl. “That’s an order.”
“Aye aye,” Tom said, bemused.
“You’re dismissed,” Sayles said. “Go waste some time.”
The pub was called the Admiral Benbow, and it was done up to look like something from the Age of Sail. Vast oak beams supported the ceiling, and strands of thick hemp rope decorated the walls. The barmaids wore long skirts and laced bodices as they passed around beer in thick glass mugs.
“I can’t believe there’s live servers in every bar,” Kenny said. “I know it’s the colonies, but still, it’s hard to get used to.”
Tom nodded. Live serving staff was an expensive affectation back on Earth. Colony worlds often lacked the infrastructure for smart tables, though.
“We should move to a shadowy corner,” Kenny added, making no attempt to move. “It could damage my career, being seen in public with you.” He laughed to show just how worried he was. The two of them had gone through boot camp together. Those bonds ran deep.
“It’ll get you a reputation as a shady character,” Tom said. “Women love that.”
Kenny laughed. “Well, if I get a chance to practice my docking maneuvers tonight, I’ll think of you.”
“Oh, great.”
A plump waitress paused at their table, a vast tray balanced on one shoulder. “You gentlemen ready for another round?”
Kenny glanced at his half-full beer. “I need at least thirty seconds.” He gestured at Tom. “Do you realize you’re serving beer to Commodore Thrush himself, the hero of Operation Fuego?” He pointed a thumb at his own chest. “And I’m the guy who taught him everything he knows.”
She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Didn’t we lose the battle? The Doghouse Alliance is still dug in just past the plateau.”
“Not that battle. The other battle. The one in space, where Tom here captured a dozen ships single-handed.”
“What he’s trying to say,” Tom interrupted, “is yes, we’d love another round.”
The waitress winked and moved away. Kenny watched her go, then looked at Tom. “Seriously, though, you guys were brilliant. Sure, you’re officially on the shit list, but you kicked ass today.” He shook his head. “Four ships destroyed, and you actually boarded a carrier and captured her!” He laughed. “That wolf pack of yours is something else.”
“Coyote pack,” Tom corrected.
“Wolf pack sounds cooler,” Kenny said. He cocked his head. “Or is the name your idea? Is it a Cree thing?”
Tom shook his head. “The raider crews thought it up on their own. There’s a few colony worlds with wolves, but the truth is, coyotes are a lot more adaptable. They’ve done really well on just about every planet they’ve been introduced to. They’re not as impressive as wolves. Not as pretty. But they can survive anywhere. The colonists identify with them.”
Kenny grinned. “I can see that. They fight like wolves, though.”
Instead of answering, Tom lifted his beer. They clinked their mugs together and drank.
“Do they hate your guts?” Kenny asked, wiping his mouth. “For being UW Navy?”
“No-” Tom hesitated. “Well, they didn’t. I’ve been cracking down, though. They might hate me now.”
Kenny gave him a rueful grin. “Officer’s life, eh? It’s not so bad for me. I just talk to the crew chiefs. The chiefs put the screws to the crew. The crew all hate the crew chiefs instead of me.”
“That’s what I need,” Tom said. “Crew chiefs.” He shook his head. “And an established navy where everybody already knows their job. Instead …” He stared into his beer, searching for words. “The problem is, they all come from small boats. They’re used to doing things a certain way. Now they’re on a cruiser, and everything’s changed. No one knows what they’re doing. But they’ve all been serving on armed ships longer than I have, so they’re not all that keen on listening to me.”
“That’s a tough one,” Kenny said, leaning back as the waitress set a couple of beer mugs on the table. He gave her his most ingratiating smile, which she ignored. Kenny frowned briefly, then turned his attention back to Tom. “If it was anyone else, I’d say, talk to your team leads and supervisors and crew chiefs. But you don’t have any of those.”
“It reminds me of Basic,” Tom said. He took a sip, thinking. “They had to break us all down and then re-shape us. I’m trying to do that with my people in the middle of a war.”
“Are you sure you need to break ‘em down?” Kenny asked. “They seem pretty effective right now. I mean, four ships destroyed and one captured, while the rest of us chased ourselves in circles?” He chuckled wryly. “Maybe you shouldn’t fix what isn’t broken.”
“The coyote crews are fine,” Tom said. “They're brilliant. It's when you take them out of the small ships and put them on a cruiser that problems begin.” He shook his head. “It took months to turn us from wet-behind-the-ears civilians into useful officers. I don't have months.”
“Well,” said Kenny thoughtfully, “you're also not starting with civilians. Most of them have years of experience, right?”
Tom nodded.
“Well, see if you can find a way to work with their strengths.” He looked past Tom's shoulder. “But enough of this idle chatter. We have more important things to discuss.”
“Such as?” Tom said, turning in his chair. The plump waitress was behind him, facing away, leaning forward to wipe a table.
“Such as, do you think she likes me? I'm a dashing naval officer, after all.”
Chapter 10
They parted ways soon after, promising to meet up again soon. Both of them knew it was a promise that depended utterly on the whims of Fate. Death could take Tom at any moment. Kenny was assigned to a support ship, which made him theoretically safe from combat, but every ship in the Green Zone was at risk. Mortal danger aside, he could be reassigned to another star system or shipped back to Earth at a moment’s notice.
Tom leaned against the pub’s timbered front wall, pleasantly tipsy, and watched as people flowed past. He surveyed the street with an architect’s eye and decided he was pleased with what he saw. There was no design unity to the buildings in this part of Panama City, no attempt to make one building blend in with the others around it. Yet the limitations of building materials, primarily wood and stone, forced a certain uniformity on the neighborhood. The result was a pleasing variety that never quite swerved into chaos. It was a hodgepodge, he decided, but not a mess.
The people filling the street created a similar impression. The street was like a river of light, the fronts of buildings making a barrier on either side, street lights blotting out the stars and reducing the sky to a blank ceiling. Within that bright tunnel the colonists of New Panama and the warriors who had come to fight blended together in a cheerful melange.
Blue uniforms dominated the street. From time to time Tom saw a United Worlds marine or soldier, but mostly it was spacers. The colonists were flamboyant and colorful by comparison, in loose-fitting clothing of bright colors. At first glance the street seemed like a bustling, happy community, but as he watched Tom saw signs of tension. A knot of spacers swaggered down the sidewalk, and a trio of local women stepped into the street to let them pass. A spacer came out of a tavern, his eyes wary as he edged around a group of locals.
Rising voices made Tom turn his head. Two groups confronted each other in the middle of the street, four young men in civilian clothes squaring off against five spacers. It looked like a pointless, testosterone-driven staredown, everyone bristling and sticking out their chests, waiting for the other side to blink. A spacer planted a hand on a tall colonist's shoulder and shoved. The tall colonist responded with a two-handed shove, knocking the man off balance. His friends kept him from falling. He got his feet under him, snarling with rage, and brought up a fist.
“Hold it!” The voice echoed with such authority that even the colonists froze. “Da Costa! What do you think you're doing?”
The spacer with the raised fist looked at his own hand as if astonished to find it hovering beside his head. He lowered his arm, stammering.
A woman in a UW Navy officer's uniform came stomping up. “We don't brawl in the street.”
“Ma'am, he-”
“Button it, Da Costa.” The woman was not large, but she had no trouble dominating the group of spacers. “If you can't act like grown-ups on leave, then maybe your leave needs to be canceled.”
The group quickly broke apart, spacers edging away, pretending they'd never been with the luckless Da Costa.
“No, Ma'am. That won't be necessary.” Da Costa glanced at the tall colonist. “Sorry I bumped you.”
The tall man took a half-step toward Da Costa, but his friends caught his arms, dragging him back. He let them lead him away.
“Don't make me talk to you again,” the officer said. She glared at Da Costa until he lowered his gaze and slunk away, heading away from the colonists. The officer shook her head and continued on her way, and the crowd that had started to gather quickly dispersed.
Tom shook his head, wondering just how big the fight might have gotten. A riot on the streets of New Panama was the last thing they needed.
The argument that preceded the shoving match replayed itself in his memory. The two groups had bickered over the morning’s battle. The colonists were out celebrating a victory. Their forces had dished out real damage and captured a carrier while taking practically no casualties. The Blue Heron was bound to reappear soon. It was a glorious day for the Free Neorome Navy.
The United Worlds perspective was quite different. They’d been humiliated, driven from the battlefield in disarray. They’d lost ships and taken casualties, and achieved nothing. For them, the battle was a disaster.
People-watching was suddenly unappealing. Tom straightened up and strolled down the street, wondering if it was time to head home. He had a tiny, cramped apartment on the outskirts of the city. It was an ugly, airless box, and he spent as little time there as possible.
A gap opened in the buildings to his right, forming a gloomy alley. Tom turned impulsively and walked into the opening. In moments he couldn't see his own feet, and he slowed, one hand outstretched. He stopped after a dozen paces and tilted his head back, looking at the sky.
A couple of stars were visible, and more stars gradually appeared as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Tom gazed up and thought about the cold beauty of deep space, so far away from petty human squabbles.
One star moved, inching across the sky from left to right. A ship or a satellite, he couldn't tell which. It was just one craft and it wasn't descending, so it wasn't a fresh attack from the Dawn Alliance.
The night was so peaceful, it was hard to believe that ground forces were locked in mortal combat just a couple of hundred kilometers away. Someday the Dawn Alliance would be driven out, and he wondered what they would leave behind. A scar on the landscape, he supposed, and the shattered remains of the ships they'd arrived in.
That would be a boon to the colony, which was metal-poor. The colonists would strip those ships down to skeletons. The bones would remain, though. Warships were built around frames of steel and titanium. The giant reinforced framework would be difficult to salvage or repurpose.
In his mind's eye Tom pictured the skeleton of a heavy cruiser, like the bones of a dinosaur in the pine forests of New Panama. In his imagination the ribs of the ship were like the arches that supported the roof of a cathedral.
“I wonder …” he murmured. The Free Neorome Navy needed a new headquarters, after all. What could be more appropriate than beginning with a framework made from the remains of an enemy warship? Space was at a premium aboard ships, but a building on the ground could be airy and full of light.
He was staring at the wall in front of him, not seeing it, when voices to one side caught his attention. He turned his head and saw a handful of UW spacers at the mouth of the alley. A man giggled, and two people spoke at once, drowning each other out. Then one man, weaving a bit on his feet, took several steps into the alley. He faced the wall, fumbled at his fly, and urinated. Tom shook his head and went back to looking at the stars.
“Hey,” said a drunken voice. “Somebody there?”
Tom glanced over. The drunk, both hands at his fly, was staring toward him. “Yes,” Tom said.
The man came stumbling down the alley, his friends gathering behind him. “Sammy!” a man called. “Where are you going? The street’s this way.”
Tom walked toward Sammy, squinting as he reached a pool of light from a streetlight. Sammy jerked up short, then leaned forward to peer at Tom. “There IS somebody there.”
“Nothing gets past you,” Tom said. “Nice night, isn’t it?”
“You don’t sound like a greenie.”
Tom shrugged and stepped around the man. The quiet mood of introspection he’d enjoyed was gone. It was time to think about going home.
“Wait!” Sammy’s hand shot out, his palm against Tom’s chest. The spacer was young, barely out of his teens, and he reeked of beer. He squinted into Tom’s face. “You’re him!”
“I’m somebody else,” Tom assured him, and took a side-step. Sammy’s hand fell away.
Suddenly the young spacer stepped closer. His hand went back to Tom’s chest, and this time he grabbed a handful of Tom’s shirt. “You’re him,” he said. “You’re that son of a bitch turncoat flying with the greenies.”
Tom, annoyed now, knocked the arm away. Sammy’s friends, five more young men, stood in a loose arc across the mouth of the alley, watching with expressions ranging from boredom to amusement to idle curiosity. If Tom had moved quickly he could have pushed through them and been on his way.
Instead, he hesitated.
One man, a thick-shouldered blond with the orange shoulder flashes of an electrical specialist, stiffened. “Tom Thrush,” he said. “As I live and breathe.”
Tom wasted a few seconds staring at the man. He was a stranger.
“This is the hotshot who took his ships out of the line of battle this morning so he could play hero and steal a carrier.” The blond man sneered. “This is the guy who got Les killed.”
“I didn’t get anyone killed,” Tom snapped. “Well, maybe some Dawn Alliance crew.”
The atmosphere at the mouth of the alley changed. Gone was the boredom, the amusement. A man who’d been leaning against a wall straightened up. Another man shifted to one side, filling a gap in the line.
Keeping Tom trapped.
Even then, Tom might have escaped. One quick punch and some fast footwork would probably have gotten him through to the street, where there would be witnesses. Officers. Room to move.
But throwing a punch when you’re facing six opponents is no easy thing. He hesitated, lifting his hands palm-out in a placatory gesture. “I did what I could. I took the fight to the enemy.”
“You left us wide open!” Sammy declared. He took a step toward Tom, and Tom backed up.
Deeper into the alley.
“The battle plan called for me to throw away twelve ships and their crews, and for nothing.” Tom still had his hands up, but he was feeling less conciliatory every second. The old familiar rage rose up, and he controlled it with an effort. “What would you have done?”
“I would have obeyed orders,” Sammy said, advancing again. “And then Les would still be alive.”
The others were advancing as well. Tom edged back. He didn’t know if the alley had another exit, but he suspected not. Sammy was too drunk to be much of an opponent, but the others seemed capable enough. Fury battled with caution in Tom’s breast. This could get real ugly.
“I didn’t kill your friend,” he said. “The Dawn Alliance did that.”
“It’s your fault!” Sammy bared his teeth. “You’re a coward and a trait-”
Tom hit him, a straight jab to the mouth that sent a line of hot pain across one knuckle. Sammy flew back, thumped against the chest of the man behind him, and landed on his rear end. He clapped both hands to his mouth and shouted, his words unintelligible, his eyes wide with shock.
“I’m done listening to you dickheads.” Tom brought his fists up. The skin over one knuckle was split. He figured he’d hit one of Sammy’s teeth. The tooth in question was probably on the ground somewhere. “Fuck off or get hurt.”
For a long, frozen instant no one moved. They wanted to back down. Tom could see it in their faces. They glanced at one another, then at him. He held his breath, willing them to make the right choice. Walk away. Before I get stomped into a bloody mess.
Then the blond man stepped forward. He opened his mouth to speak, but his body language told Tom everything he needed to know. He was to Tom’s right, so Tom threw a cross that grazed the man’s cheek as he twisted his head to one side.
From that moment on there was no hope of peace. All five men advanced, staying just out of reach of Tom’s fists. They tried to surround him, and he edged backward, a grudging step at a time. He took a half-step forward, feinting with his left, and a man flinched back. A moment later, though, Tom had to retreat again.
Wood slid against metal above him as someone opened a window. Tom didn’t dare turn his head to look, but he heard muffled voices. Then a woman said, “It's Tom Thrush.”
“Damn right,” said the blond man. “And he’s gonna get what’s coming to him.”
“He broke my toof.” Sammy was back on his feet, keeping well behind the line of his friends, one hand still cupped in front of his mouth. “He broke it!”
The blond man advanced, feinting the way Tom had done. He backed away a moment later, though, when Tom held his ground.
The man on Tom’s left edged forward. Tom took a half-step toward him, smiling when the man retreated. Tom was close enough to the side wall now that his left side was protected. The man farthest right circled around, and Tom backed deeper into the alley before they could trap him against the wall.
He could no longer make out the faces of his opponents. They were just shapes in the darkness, outlines against the distant glow from the street. Tom figured his own face might still be lit, so he kept a contemptuous smirk on his face.
He was getting a feel for these men. The one on the far right was afraid, keeping himself on the periphery. Second from the right was a tall, heavyset man who planted his feet flat on the ground with every step. He’d be slow. Next came the blond man, the natural leader of the group, and a couple of toadies blindly following the blond man’s lead.
The one on the far right did his circling thing again, and Tom lunged at him. The man stumbled back, and Tom changed direction, swinging for the big man’s jaw. The punch connected, snapping the man’s head back, and Tom stepped in close. He sensed he’d caught the blond man by surprise. He had another second or so before the guy would react, and he made the most of it, planting a couple of wicked body hooks into his lower ribs.
The big man hunched forward, clutching his midsection, and Tom retreated, putting the big man between him and the advancing blond man. The two toadies were behind their leader. The timid man on the far right had his fists up, but he was retreating. The big man, doubled over with his hands on his stomach, made a beautiful target, and Tom made the most of it. He brought a knee up, putting everything he had into a brutal blow that took the man square on the nose.
Bone and cartilage broke, the impact jarring Tom all the way to his hip. The big man’s head snapped up and back, and he landed flat on his back, spraying an arc of blood from his destroyed nose as he fell.
Tom took a step sideways, putting the fallen man between him and the blond man. The two toadies flanked their comrade. The last man, the timid one, was behind Tom, but he quickly scurried around to join his friends.
For a moment nothing happened. Then the man on the ground let out a wail, a sound of such intense suffering that it twisted Tom’s stomach. The timid man took a single step back.
The others advanced.
One man began to step over the fallen man’s legs, and Tom hit him while his footing was compromised. The man blocked a jab with an upraised arm and ducked under a cross, and then Tom had to retreat as the others closed in.
Their blood was up now. They pressed forward and Tom retreated, and then his heel touched a wall behind him. He was at the end of the alley.
A tumult of voices rose at the mouth of the alley. Tom didn't dare take his attention from the men pressing in around him. A fist came at him, and he caught it on his open palm. He threw a flurry of jabs, one at each of his opponents. Nothing landed, but they edged back.
He could feel himself slowly losing the battle against his own rage. His mind went through a catalog of dirty tricks, eye gouges and throat punches and pressure points. This will be a close-range fight. I can do some real damage.
A quiet voice in the back of his head pointed out that he would regret it later. Battle lust drowned the voice out. “Come on, you pussies,” he said. “What are you waiting for?”
Shouting voices echoed from the wall of the alley, a jumble of incomprehensible noise. The spacers in front of Tom backed away, then turned to look. Tom fought the urge to lunge at them from behind.
A crowd filled the alley, at least a dozen people, probably more. They were no more than dark outlines. The blond man lifted his arms defensively, then fell as a chunk of wood slammed against his skull. The sound was awful, an echoing, fleshy thud that snapped Tom instantly out of his blood lust. His anger vanished, leaving a cold vacuum in his guts. He edged around the spacers, who ignored him.
A crackle of static cut through the babble of voices. Somewhere behind the gathered mob a woman, sounding rattled and frightened, said, “A bunch of greenies have them trapped in an alley. We need reinforcements.”
This is going to escalate. Three spacers now occupied the corner where Tom had made his last stand. The blond man was on hands and knees, crawling between two of his friends to take shelter behind them. For the moment it was a standoff.
Tom pushed his way into the crowd, which was entirely composed of colonists. He broke through and reached the mouth of the alley. United Worlds officers were clearing the street of UW spacers, sending them reluctantly away from the mouth of the alley. Just down the block, a crowd of colonists had parked a couple of ground cars to block the street in an improvised barricade. Men and women gathered on the near side of the barrier, parting to let the retreating spacers leave.
A couple of hundred meters away, a blocky shape descended through the night sky toward the street. By the configuration of the lights it was a United Worlds Army drop ship.
Good God. This is going to be more than a riot. Tom returned to the alley, pushing his way through the crowd. When the crowd grew thick he had to use knees and elbows to make a gap, but at last he reached the tiny stretch of open ground between the mob and the cornered spacers.
He arrived in the middle of a standoff. The little knot of UW spacers, grim and frightened, stood shoulder to shoulder, glaring at the surrounding mob. The colonists, jostling one another to gain better positions, had the ugly air of people working themselves up to do something terrible.
For a moment, people on both sides turned to stare at Tom. His stomach sank. Okay, I'm here. Now what the hell am I going to do?
You're an officer. Managing people is what you do.
The spacers were constrained. He could ignore them for the moment. He stepped in front of the cluster of frightened men and turned his back to them. “Hang on,” he said, calmly but firmly, to the front rank of the mob. “I'll handle this.”
To his shock it worked, for the moment at least. The closest colonists stopped jostling one another, and the noise died down somewhat. People farther back began to ask what was going on.
“I'm negotiating a surrender,” Tom said, pitching his voice so most of the crowd could hear. “Wait a minute while I talk to these guys.”
That set off a buzz of conversation, with a few people demanding that they ignore Tom and tackle the cornered spacers. The crowd's sharp edge was blunted, though. He'd planted the idea that they needed to wait, and they looked at one another, uncertain.
Tom turned around. There was no better way to communicate confidence than to ignore the people you were most concerned about. The confrontation hung by a thread. All it would take was one firebrand leading the mob and Tom would be trampled in passing as they vented their frustration on the trapped men.
No one spoke up, though, and Tom turned his attention to the spacers. “I need your surrender,” he said. “And an apology.”
They gaped at him. The blond man bristled and said, “But we never-”
“I need to throw them a bone or you're never getting out of this alley alive. Understand?”
The spacers stared at him, not speaking.
Tom turned to face the mob and lifted his hands. The people closest to him went silent. Those farther back grew even louder, demanding to know what was going on.
“Good news!” Tom announced. “They've surrendered themselves into my custody. We're going to escort them to the barricade, and we're going to expel them from New Panama.”
A handful of people cheered. A man said, “Like hell. We're killing those bluebottle sons of bitches.” A woman said, “I don't understand. What's going on?”
Hesitation would send the message that Tom was waiting for the crowd's permission. That wouldn't do. He looked over his shoulder, muttered, “Stay close if you want to live,” and stepped forward.
The first rank of the crowd parted to let him through. As he pressed deeper into the mob it became more difficult. Tom bulled his way through, the spacers close on his heels. Angry mutters rose on all sides, one man complaining that he couldn't find anything to throw.
There was the sound of a scuffle, and Tom looked back in time to see a fat man throw a punch at a spacer who brought both arms up to protect his head. Before Tom could react a couple of colonists shoved the fat man back. “Knock it off,” someone said. “They surrendered.”
“We should string them up. Make an example of them.” The voice came from the fringe of the crowd, and it lacked conviction. No one else tried to interfere, and Tom broke at last into clear space at the mouth of the alley.
The crowd of colonists followed close behind, full of scowling faces and muttered threats, as Tom led the spacers into the street and toward the barricade. There were more colonists along the barricade, but their attention was on the far side, where at least a dozen soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder. No one tried to stop Tom as he walked between a couple of ground car fenders. He stopped just beyond the barricade.
“Here's your spacers,” he called to the gathered troops as the spacers hurried past him. “There's no more of your people back here. You can stand down.”
“Hang on.”
Tom turned his head. He hadn’t noticed the officer, a tall woman almost vibrating with tension. She looked like someone with no combat experience, like this near-riot was the most terrifying thing she’d ever seen. She looked like trouble.
“Who are you?” she demanded, pushing her way through the troops and planting her hands on her hips. She was Army, which he hoped meant she wouldn’t hate him for his history with the UW Navy.
“Tom Thrush,” he said. “I’m a captain in the Free Neorome Navy.”
She scowled at him. “I need to talk to someone with more authority.”
Tom sighed and gestured over her shoulder. “Everyone with more authority than me is probably behind you.”
That disconcerted her for a moment, but she pushed past it, relying on belligerence to take control of the situation. She looked past him. “I want those civilians to disperse.”
Tom, who’d been enjoying a sense of relief, felt a rising dismay mixed with more than a little annoyance. “Those civilians are completely surrounded by your troops.” He didn’t know that for sure, but it seemed likely. “They can't leave. Why don’t you withdraw, and it’ll all be over?”
She shook her head. “We can't withdraw until they do.”
“Oh, for-” Tom stopped, closing his eyes, breathing deeply. He opened his eyes after a moment. “Someone has to back down first. And it's their town. They live here. Let's not have a pissing contest.”
She stuck out her jaw. “I want them to disperse.”
“Then quit goading them.”
She stared at him. She was a finger’s breadth taller than he was, and she leaned forward, her eyes hard. Tom met her gaze, knowing she was hoping he’d back down. When he failed to flinch she would try something else. She might relent. Or she might go with a violent escalation.
I should give in. Tell the colonists to cooperate while soldiers come in and arrest everyone. They’ll turn us loose in a few hours. At least no one will get killed. His blood was up, though. He was annoyed, and he wasn’t going to roll over for an arrogant twit, no matter how many troops she had with her.
A couple of large, dark shapes moved behind the massed troops in front of the barricade. The army had mechs, two of them, massive steel machines almost four meters tall. Tom gulped. Not just troops. Troops and armor. This could be bad. But even if he decided to toss away the dignity of the colonists behind him and let them be humiliated and arrested by foreign troops on their own world, it wouldn’t matter. The crowd was just as fired up as Tom was. They weren’t under his command. They weren’t about to submit. If the troops advanced, blood would flow.
“Stay here,” the officer said curtly, and backed away. Tom waited, facing a line of burly armored soldiers, as she retreated and tapped at a bracer.
This is it, Tom thought. Someone much higher up is about to make a decision. There will be a bloodbath, or there won’t. And there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.
“Fall back,” she said. “We’re done here.”
A cheer went up from the colonists as the front line of soldiers took a step back, lowering their weapons. There was a pause while the mechs, clumsy and ponderous, turned in slow, shuffling circles. Then the force began to withdraw.
Tom turned, keeping a wary eye on the nearest colonists. All he needed was for a zealous patriot to send a brick or a bullet after the departing soldiers and the whole crisis would begin again.
The crowd, however, behaved itself. A few people watched the soldiers withdraw, their faces bleak. Others clapped comrades on the shoulder and puffed out their chests. Someone made a rude gesture at the soldiers, drawing laughs from his companions, before turning away.
It’s over. He exhaled, and the tension he’d been holding went out of him in a rush. Tom sagged, suddenly exhausted. The colonists were forming into small groups, some of them leaving the street, some going back to the bars and taverns. Tom was suddenly, sharply aware of how thoroughly he didn’t fit. He fought for the colonists, and today some of them had fought for him. But he wasn’t one of them.
He glanced over his shoulder at the retreating troops. Only the heads of the mechs were still in sight. Once the UW military had been his family, but no more. For a moment he felt a yearning, shockingly strong, for all he’d lost.
He pushed it out of his mind, turned his back on soldiers and colonists alike, and headed for his quarters.
Chapter 11
Unit Leader Battor Ganbold stood in front of smudged floor-to-ceiling windows and stared out at the stars. The ships of the Dawn Alliance swarmed outside, bringing soldiers and supplies to the newly captured space station
If he pressed his forehead to the glass he could see Novograd, far below. A plume of smoke rose from a settlement along the coast of a teardrop continent. The fire had to be bad if he could see it from up here. For the most part, though, the invasion was going smoothly. The colonists had thought the Dawn Alliance was their ally, after all. And they had no real ability to resist.
The data pad on his belt chimed, and he lifted it. He had a message from Squad Leader Davaaj. This level of the station is clear.
Ganbold sighed as he turned away from the window, back to the sordid realities of the war. The Dawn Alliance had attacked the station in overwhelming force, but a handful of stubborn colonists were still holding out. They were in a hopeless, untenable position, but they refused to give up. Now, with the rest of the station secure, he had to deal with them.
The bottom deck of the station was mostly used for cargo. Ganbold walked through Bay One, a wide chamber with a low ceiling and rows of cargo-moving machinery along one bulkhead. Wide bay doors with vacuum warning signs filled much of one wall and a large section of the floor. A lot of cargo was transferred through the floor hatch into ships directly below.
A dozen prisoners knelt in one corner, sullen and defeated, surrounded by a handful of soldiers. There were similar groups of prisoners all over the station. By now soldiers would be herding some of them into holding areas or shuttling them down to the surface.
Not here, though. This deck wasn't yet secure.
“There's five or six of them,” said a squad leader. Ganbold didn't know his name. The man had an unpleasant, sneering expression, but his tone was respectful enough as he said, “They're holed up in there.”
He pointed toward a short stretch of corridor with armored doors standing ajar. The far end of the corridor was obscured by shadow. “We overrode the doors,” the squad leader said. “But they've got good cover, and they're armed.”
Ganbold peered down the corridor, then pulled back out of the line of fire while he took a good look around. Signs on a nearby bulkhead identified the room at the far end of the corridor as “Secure Storage 1”. That probably meant reinforced bulkheads. They wouldn't be cutting their way in from the back, not any time soon.
A commando bot would make short work of the holdouts, but that would mean asking another unit for help, and waiting at least an hour. Ganbold was right on the cusp of achieving his fondest wish, an officer's berth on a warship. They might even give him a ship of his own.
If he could demonstrate his ability to solve problems and get things done without needing to ask for help.
“I don't suppose we have any grenades?” A floater or a creeper would be absolutely devastating in the enclosed space where the holdouts hid. Even an old-fashioned hand-thrown grenade would do the trick.
“Sorry, Unit Leader.” The squad leader smirked.
Ganbold nodded, unsurprised. The Dawn Alliance was spread thin, very thin. Equipment and ammunition shortages plagued every part of the invasion force. It was the main reason they were invading Novograd. The colony was a manufacturing hub, full of factories the Dawn Alliance needed desperately.
“We'll do it the hard way, then.”
The soldiers around him stiffened. A direct assault would work, but the troops who led the charge down that narrow corridor would pay in blood.
“Come with me,” said Ganbold, and led them away from the corridor. He could sense puzzled relief from the soldiers as they followed him to the middle of the cargo bay. Ganbold turned to the squad leader. “Bring me a prisoner.”
He didn't like the pleased smile that spread across the man's face. The squad leader gestured for another man to accompany him, then sauntered over to the little knot of prisoners. He looked them over with the air of someone savoring a treat.
A burly man with a goatee lifted his head, met the squad leader's gaze, and curled his lip.
“Him,” said the squad leader. He and the soldier crossed to the kneeling man. When they reached for his arms the man surged up, struggling. For a moment he grappled with the squad leader. The soldier sank a punch into his kidney, though, and trapped one arm. The squad leader caught the other arm and they dragged the man to where Ganbold stood.
“This way.” Ganbold walked over until he could see down the shadowy corridor to Secure Storage 1. “Your attention please,” he called.
Nothing happened. Still, he was sure the holdouts were watching. Peeking cautiously around the frame of the inner hatch, wary of a trap.
“You need to surrender,” Ganbold said. He patted the burly man on the chest. “For this man's sake.”
There was no response. Well, he hadn't expected one. They wouldn't crumble so easily.
After all, they wouldn't believe he was serious.
A jerk of his head told the men with the prisoner to follow him. Ganbold crossed the cargo bay, and they dragged the struggling man along behind him. Ganbold approached the cargo hatch set into the deck. A soldier stood near the controls. “Open it,” Ganbold told him.
A warning chime sounded, and a flashing light came to life at each corner of the hatch. A force field came on, covering the hatch in a pale rosy glow, keeping the atmosphere contained as the hatch slid open. The field was strong enough to hold in air, but cargo would pass right through.
Cargo, or a person.
“No! What are you doing? You can’t!”
It wasn’t the burly man who spoke. He was wide-eyed with terror, jerking at the arms that held him, moaning as he tried to brace his feet and push himself back from the hatch.
The voice came from behind Ganbold, and he turned. The rest of the prisoners were staring at him, horrified. All but one. A young woman fought to rise to her feet as a soldier braced a hand on her shoulder and shoved her back down. She didn’t look frightened at all.
She looked furious.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t just-” She struggled for words. “You can't!”
She was quite pretty, Ganbold noted absently, with thick red hair and flashing green eyes. She was young, perhaps in her early twenties, and full of the fiery conviction of youth. She grabbed the hand that pressed on her shoulder, twisted free, and rose to her feet. She pointed an accusing finger at Ganbold, opened her mouth, then doubled over as a fist sank into her solar plexus.
Ganbold smiled. The holdouts would not be able to see what came next, but the reaction of this young woman and her companions would leave them in no doubt.
“Throw him out,” Ganbold said.
“No.” The man's voice was hoarse, desperate. “No, please.” He clutched frantically at the sleeves of the men holding him.
It did him no good. They hauled him inexorably forward, then exchanged glances, getting their timing right. With a quick shove they sent him stumbling backward. His arms thrashed the air, searching for balance, and then his foot came down on the force field that shimmered above the open hatch.
He fell, shrieking, his voice going suddenly silent as he plunged into vacuum.
“You rotten sack of shit.” The voice belonged to an older man kneeling beside the red-haired girl. His expression was a mix of fear and anger. “That's plain murder. That's what it is.”
The girl didn't speak. She just sobbed. Across from her a plump young man lifted his head, glared for a moment at Ganbold, then lowered his gaze. “Fuck,” the young man said.
He'll be next. Then the old man, if they haven't broken yet. That should be plenty. Throwing prisoners into space was distasteful work, but they should have known better than to give their enemies such a powerful lever. It had been the same at the prison camp on Gamor. The prisoners should have rebelled. It was the only sane response to the way they were treated. But they allowed each other to be used as hostages, and it made them docile as sheep.
A cold silence came from the holdouts in Secure Storage. I guess they need another example, then. He looked at his remaining supply of prisoners. The red-haired girl inhaled, grimaced, then lifted her head and glared at him. She had more spunk than the rest of them put together. I can spare her, Ganbold thought. I have to do hard things, but at least I can let this girl live. He turned his gaze to the plump man and lifted a pointing finger. “Take …”
He hesitated. If he chose the young man, the young man would die, and perhaps another prisoner after him. But if he threatened the girl, the holdouts would capitulate immediately. They wouldn't be able to help themselves. She wouldn't have to die, and neither would anyone else.
His pointing finger swung to the right. “Take her.”
“No!” The plump man planted a foot on the deck as if he was going to rise. The soldier behind him drove a short, sharp punch into the back of his neck, and he sprawled on his face.
“Don't do this,” said the older man, and Ganbold smiled. He'd read the situation correctly.
The girl struggled briefly as the squad leader and another soldier hauled her to her feet. Then, head high, she let them walk her across the bay. Ganbold led the way, holding up a hand to stop the little procession in view of the corridor leading to Secure Storage. “Are you ready to surrender yet?” he called.
A muffled curse came from the holdouts.
Ganbold shrugged as if he didn’t care and nodded to the squad leader to continue. He wouldn’t kill her, he decided, even if the holdouts refused to break. But he wouldn’t flinch until the last possible second.
She kept her courage as they marched her, one terrible step at a time, across the bay. Only when she was a few paces from the hatch did she falter. For a moment she tried, helplessly, to plant her feet. The squad leader snickered and jerked her forward.
“You’ll lose this war!” she cried, stumbling toward the hatch. “Someday you’ll all stand trial for war crimes. You’ll hang!”
There was a broken, frightened note in her voice that tore at Ganbold’s heart. He grimaced, knowing he had to stop this. He’d find another way to-
“Wait!”
Ganbold turned toward Secure Storage.
“For God’s sake, wait! We’re coming out.” Something moved at the end of the corridor, and Ganbold lifted a hand, halting the squad leader. Men and women, empty hands lifted palm-forward, stumbled down the corridor. Soldiers grabbed them, shoving them to their knees, patting them down for weapons, and Ganbold smiled, relief flooding through him. The trickle of prisoners ended and a couple of soldiers trotted into Secure Storage.
And a scream ripped through the bay. Ganbold’s head whipped around. He was just in time to see a flash of red hair as the young woman dropped through the hatch and into space. The squad leader stood at the edge of the hatch, both arms extended from shoving her. He lowered his arms, turned to Ganbold, and smirked.
Rage filled Ganbold. He took a single step toward the hatch, intending to shove the squad leader through. But it was too late to save the girl. Too late to do anything but doom himself. You just killed two prisoners for the sake of your career. If you do this it will all be for nothing.
He stopped, and after a moment he managed to unclench his fists. He tore his gaze from the squad leader’s smug face, afraid he might still lose control. I did it. This section of the station is secure. This is a victory.
“You piece of shit.” The voice, low and accusing, came from one of the holdouts. Ganbold didn’t turn his head to see which one.
“You didn’t have to do that. You vicious cockroach. You walking turd.”
“Secure the prisoners,” Ganbold said. Then he stalked out of the cargo bay, away from the soldiers and prisoners who had seen what he had done.
“You’ve done excellent work today, Unit Leader.” General Bataa smiled and lowered a data pad. “I’ve put your name in for official commendation.”
Ganbold managed – barely – not to grimace.
“But men like us don’t fight for commendations, eh? We fight for the good of the Alliance.”
Ganbold nodded cautiously.
“Which brings me to your next assignment. I think you’ll like it.”
Hope fluttered in Ganbold’s chest, tempered by caution. The general might very well think he’d like another assignment dealing with prisoners.
“You’re finally getting the ship you keep requesting.” The general’s smile changed to a grin as he took in the reaction Ganbold was trying hard to suppress. “A destroyer. Brand-new. Still got the stink of the shipyards on it. Brand-new crew, too, for the most part. They’ll be like you. Plenty of pre-war training but no experience. You’ll have a tough couple of weeks while everyone finds their feet.”
Ganbold nodded, not trusting his voice. Ship training in the Dawn Alliance military was exhaustive. Even a rookie crew would do fine.
“Your assignment will be New Panama,” the general continued. “We’ve got troops on the surface, but they’re cut off. We need to get supply ships through that blockade.” All the warmth vanished from the general’s expression. He stared at Ganbold with eyes like dead stars. “New Panama doesn’t matter.” He waved a hand. “Oh, it would be a tremendous boon if we could take it. We’ll have to take it eventually. But that’s not why I’m sending you there.
“No, the role of the New Panama fleet is to keep us from being driven out completely. To keep the United Worlds worried that they might lose their prize at any moment. To force them to keep sending ships and troops to New Panama.”
He gestured at the deck plates beneath them. “No, what really matters is down there. Novograd.” His teeth flashed in a feral smile. “Novograd and its factories. This could be the toehold that changes everything. And the New Panama fleet is going to defend Novograd by breaking the blockade around New Panama.”
Ganbold left Bataa’s office with his thoughts in a whirl. A ship, finally! Command of his own destroyer. Designed for minesweeping and intercepting small ships, destroyers were pretty small. His ship would be just one small part of the New Panama fleet. But still, his own command!
Yet the face of the red-haired girl kept intruding in his thoughts. Her courage, the terror that took second place to her ferocious spirit. The sound of her scream as she fell through the force field.
He found a small observation lounge one deck down from General Bataa’s office and stared out at the stars. Finally. My own ship, and the purity of space combat. Space, where you don’t encounter civilians. Where you don’t see the faces of the people you kill.
Chapter 12
The guards who brought the prisoner into the interrogation room were tall, solidly built men, made even bulkier by light body armor. They shoved the prisoner into a chair and stepped back, out of his line of sight.
The interrogator, by contrast, was a middle-aged woman so petite she almost looked like a child. She seated herself on the far side of a small table and spent a long moment just staring at the prisoner. He was a Dawn Alliance soldier in his thirties, his uniform rumpled and dirty. He did his best to look stoic and unconcerned, but a jumping muscle in his right cheek betrayed the strain he was under.
Tom, watching it all on a vid screen from the next room, shook his head in a mix of admiration and unease. The interrogation technique was good. Very good. And a skilful interrogation was never a comfortable thing to watch.
The presence of two hulking guards where he couldn’t see them would put the prisoner’s nerves on edge, as would the silent stare of the woman across from him. There were other, subtler tactics at work as well. A bright light shone in his face, making him squint as he met the woman’s gaze. His chair legs were cut just a bit short, to heighten his sense of inferiority, vulnerability. And the legs on one side were a couple of centimeters shorter than the other. He couldn’t quite relax. He had to constantly tense one leg to keep from sliding off the chair.
The woman said, “Have you been enjoying your beef ration?”
The prisoner surprised Tom by replying promptly. “Yes, Lieutenant.” He’d been conditioned, Tom realized. During two long weeks of interrogation they would have taught him that refusing to answer questions always brought penalties. He’d be quick to respond to such a harmless query.
“Good,” she said. “I’m afraid it won’t continue.”
A scowl appeared, just for an instant, on the man’s face before the blank mask returned.
She made a show of consulting a data pad. “Yesterday you told me that the weekly menu aboard your ship included four portions of rice. But no fewer than three of your shipmates have assured me that the ship left Encino Station with less than a hundred kilos of rice for the entire crew. You were eating reconstituted supplement stock formed into mock rice grains, most days. You didn’t get real rice even once a week.” She shook her head like a parent disappointed by a stubborn child. “You lied to me, Damdin.”
He squirmed, ever so slightly.
“You know the penalties for lying.” She peered at her data pad. “I see that you have lied to me no fewer than seventeen times since your arrival here.” She sighed. “Eighteen, now.”
“Wait.” By the look on his face he was ashamed by his own reaction. “We all call it rice, it’s practically the same. I didn’t lie-”
She gestured, and the guards advanced. Damdin started to rise, then flinched as heavy hands landed on his shoulders.
“Dunk him and put him back in his cell,” the interrogator said. The prisoner, his shame turning to fury, struggled as the guards dragged him out.
“We don’t torture them.” The voice belonged to Major Duchesne, the head of Free Neorome’s Intelligence service. “I’ll admit, we push the very limits of the terms of the Mars Accords. But we don’t break them.”
Tom nodded, looking around the small lounge next to the interrogation room. Duchesne, he gathered, spent a lot of time here, observing interrogations.
“You’ve been their prisoner,” Duchesne said. “You know they ignore the accords. But we follow them to the letter.” He grimaced. “With any other nation we’d follow the spirit of the accords as well. For these savages, we settle for not quite technically crossing the line. Damdin will be dunked in cold water and returned to his cell, where he’ll be cold, hungry, and miserable until tomorrow. We’ll give him breakfast, and tomorrow’s interrogation will be less confrontational. We’ll ask him some easy questions. Nice safe ones. Then we’ll reward him with all the calories the accords say we have to provide.”
“Why do you care?” Tom said. “About the rice, I mean. You must have asked, what was it, at least three other prisoners.”
Duchesne smiled, the pleased expression of a professional who gets to talk about his work. “First off, it gives us some hints about the general shape they’re in. They’re low on real food.” He made a face. “You can live on the reconstituted stuff, but no one actually likes it. That tells us something about their infrastructure and their morale. Neither is looking particularly good.
“But the main reason is, we’re conditioning the prisoners. We’re catching them in lies and punishing them. Verifying when they tell the truth, and rewarding them. Teaching them there’s no point in lying. When it’s something inconsequential, like how often the crew eats rice, there’s always someone willing to speak the truth. And that gives us a lever against the others.”
A shiver crept across Tom’s shoulders. Ship-to-ship combat was horrific in its own way, but he was sure he didn’t want to live in the ugly world of psychological warfare.
The creak of door hinges from the projector drew his attention back to the screen. The same two guards brought a woman into the interrogation room. She wore a different uniform from the last soldier, a smock and baggy trousers with a less military look. She had the same straight dark hair and high cheekbones of most Dawn Alliance personnel, but when she spoke her accent was different, softer. “Well? What is it you want now?”
“Have a seat,” the interrogator said. “How are your accommodations, Gabrielle?”
“Hardly fit for a barnyard animal,” Gabrielle snapped. “But then, you know that.”
The lieutenant’s voice sharpened. “You will address me with-”
“With the respect you think you deserve,” Gabrielle interrupted. “Yes, I know.” She shifted on the little chair. “You know, I’m about fed up with this ridiculous chair you put me in.” She stood in a quick, fluid motion, turned the chair sideways, and plopped herself back down an instant before the guards could grab her. They stood frozen behind her, their hands just above her shoulders, and Tom saw the hint of a smirk on her face as they retreated.
“That’s better,” Gabrielle said. The short legs were in front now, making it easier for her to brace her feet. She rested an arm on the back of the chair, which was beside her now, and made an impatient gesture at the lieutenant. “Well, go on. Ask me your silly questions. Is it the same set as last time? Should I just give you my answers now, or do you want me to wait until you ask?”
The lieutenant leaned forward. “I don’t think you quite appreciate your position.”
“There’s a lot I don’t appreciate,” Gabrielle said tartly. “However, being your prisoner is a slight improvement over being a prisoner of the Dawn Alliance. Someday you’ll believe me when I say I’m on your side.” She shrugged. “In the meantime, we’ll play your silly interrogation games.”
The lieutenant leaned back, folding her arms. Her back was to the camera, and Tom amused himself imagining the expression on her face. She said, “You could be punished.”
“I’ve answered every one of your questions,” Gabrielle snapped. “And I’ve never lied to you, not once. What are you going to punish me for? Failing to grovel for you? Are you going to browbeat me until I finally break down and lie to you, and say that I take you seriously?” She sneered. “I’ve been a conscript of the Dawn Alliance since the war broke out. Do you have any idea what those people are like?” She waved a dismissive hand. “And you think YOU can intimidate me? You can annoy me.” She slid herself back on the tilted chair seat. “You DO annoy me. But you can’t scare me.”
There was a long, frosty silence, interrupted for Tom by a dry chuckle from Duchesne. Then the lieutenant started asking questions. Where was Gabrielle from? How had she ended up on the crew of a fuel tanker? Who were her crewmates? And so on. Gabrielle, with an air of bored impatience, answered each question. Frequently she interrupted the lieutenant, giving the answer before the question was complete.
It was a standard interrogation technique, Tom knew. Ask the same questions, over and over, and see if the answers were consistent. Gabrielle obviously saw right through it.
“I like her,” Duchesne said. “I’m nearly certain she’s telling the truth, too. She’s from Enkidu. Most of her crew is. They see themselves as separate from the rest of the Alliance. I think the whole planet would switch sides and join the United Worlds if they could.” He shook his head. “Pity I can’t let her go.”
“You can ease up on her,” Tom said. He frowned, thinking it through. “Her and any of her shipmates that feel the way she does. You could admit to them that you halfway trust them, and treat them a bit better.”
“This is war, son.”
“I know,” said Tom. “I’m not being squeamish.” In truth, squeamishness was part of it. Gabrielle looked like a good person in an impossible situation, and he hated to see her tormented. But during his time among the colonists a good deal of their pragmatism had rubbed off on him.
Duchesne cocked his head. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing specific,” Tom admitted. “But it seems to me that people like Gabrielle could be useful. How, I don’t know. But something will come up. There’s things they know that you can’t extract from an interrogation. We might find a real use for them, if we haven’t turned them all into enemies.”
For a long moment Duchesne just looked at him. “You have a reputation for finding unorthodox solutions,” he said at last. “Maybe I should consider what you say.” He glanced at the vid display, where Gabrielle, chin in hand, was answering questions in a bored monotone. “We certainly don’t seem to be making much progress this way.”
He started to speak again, then went silent as a siren howled. Tom jerked in his chair. On the display, Gabrielle looked at the ceiling and smiled. In a pause between siren blasts she said, “At last, some variety.”
“Bomb warning,” said an amplified electronic voice. “All personnel. Bomb warning.” Duchesne was already heading for the door, and Tom followed him. They hustled along the corridor, then down a flight of stairs. Tom's instincts told him to run outside and head for his ship, but the raid would be long over by the time he could reach the Kingfisher. Better to stay alive, and out of the way.
The bomb shelter was a steel-walled room deep underground. It was poorly lit and poorly ventilated, and Tom stood in gloomy semi-darkness with people jammed in around him and waited for it all to end.
His mind flashed back to the dark days just after his capture by the Dawn Alliance. He'd spent weeks crammed into tiny cells on Dawn Alliance ships with far too many fellow prisoners. His heart beat faster, and he struggled to get enough breath. The people around him seemed fine. He wasn't actually suffocating, then.
Just remembering.
Duchesne, pressed in beside him, gave him a curious glance, and Tom flushed, shame and panic fighting for dominance in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut. You're perfectly safe. This is a bunker, not a cell. You can leave anytime you want. Just imagine you're in an elevator. Or at a house party. Lots of people, sure, but nothing to be worried about.
“Well, this isn't exactly pleasant, but it's nicer than my cell.”
Tom opened his eyes. He couldn't see Gabrielle, but her cheerful voice filled the little room. “You guys should try serving on a Sunrise-class freighter. It's almost this crowded, and a typical trip is over three weeks. Oh, and there's nineteen crew with only one bathroom.”
Her voice held a tone of false heartiness, and Tom smiled in the darkness. Gabrielle, a prisoner, surrounded by people who kept her confined and harassed her with petty interrogations, was trying to cheer everyone up.
It worked, too. She kept up a steady stream of banter, and it distracted him, tugging his attention away from the shadows of the past.
Others joined in, competing to see who had the best hard-luck story about claustrophobic ships or workspaces. Story followed story, each more exaggerated than the last, and soon the little bunker echoed with laughter. The next time Tom found himself struggling to breathe, it was because he was laughing too hard. He was almost disappointed when an electronic voice announced that the attack was over.
Parting ways with Duchesne, he reached the ground floor and the reassuring sight of sunlight streaming through slatted blinds. Any glass was long gone, of course, shaken to pieces in earlier attacks or removed from the frames and put into storage.
The building, hastily constructed over the last few weeks, seemed largely unharmed. Pale dust, smelling of chalk, had drifted down from seams in the ceiling panels to form diffuse lines on the floor, and a fresh crack decorated one wall. A bomb must have struck nearby, then. Close, but not too close.
His dream of an elaborate headquarters building assembled on the bones of a captured ship would have to wait, he reflected dryly. Such a distinctive structure would be a magnet for the bombing attacks that came with increasing frequency. United Worlds ground forces were the main targets, but Panama City attracted the occasional raid.
Tom stepped out onto the street, marveling at the way the sun seemed brighter, the air sweeter, in the aftermath of a brush with death.
He headed up the street, amused by his own melodrama. Dust tickled his nose, and he squinted. The air ahead of him was partially opaque, as if a fog had rolled in. He walked to the corner, then stopped, his stomach tightening.
A crowd of gawkers clustered before the ruins of a building. It had stood a couple of stories tall. He could tell because one wall still loomed above the rubble, blackened and battered. A siren howled, not the sharp blare of a bomb warning but the piercing whistle of an emergency vehicle, and Tom edged back as the spectators in the street hurried to the sidewalks on either side.
I must have walked past this corner fifty times. What's that building?
Only when he caught a scrap of conversation from a nearby couple did the memory flood back. The shell before him was all that remained of the Starlight Hotel.
Emergency crews arrived and urged the crowd back. Tom, deciding he was only in the way, edged out of the gathering throng and walked aimlessly away. Surely the Dawn Alliance wouldn't deliberately target a hotel. Were they aiming for the new headquarters building?
The hotel, he recalled, was a favorite for high-ranking United Worlds officers. It was one of the finest hotels in the city, and it was close to the Free Neorome Navy headquarters.
If the hotel was the target, then the Dawn Alliance had a spy in Panama City. Tom looked around, sourly aware that the spy would be just about impossible to find. Anyone could have seen uniformed personnel going in and out of the hotel. There was no way to keep it secret.
A chime from his belt drew his attention. He’d taken to wearing his personal data mini-pad on his belt, on a retracting cord. The bracer he’d worn in the UW Navy had given him bad habits; after losing his pad half a dozen times he’d realized he needed to attach it to his body.
A glance at the screen sent adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream. It was an “all-hands” alert. He glanced around, getting his bearings, then let the cord on the pad retract and broke into a run.
He caught his breath in a shuttle full of red-faced, wheezing spacers. Maybe I need to implement a fitness program. He chuckled to himself. That’ll go over REAL well.
The Free Neorome Navy still had no uniforms, but everyone in the body of the shuttle wore an armband of dark green. Tom’s armband had a couple of stripes marking his rank. His was the only armband without a vertical bar on it. The spacers around him had a bar of soft, powder blue.
“Sunlight on Water?” he said when he’d caught his breath.
The closest man nodded, looking pleased. “She was a good ship, Captain. They impounded her. We’re still hoping to get her back after the war.”
“I hope you do.” Tom glanced around at the others. “Where are you assigned?” He was pretty sure they were on the Kingfisher. After all, that was where this shuttle was headed. After the latest reorganization, though, he had no idea who was in what department.
“Pipes and bowls,” the man said, and tapped the blue bar on his armband. “Seems appropriate, given the color.”
Tom nodded. The former crew of the Sunlight on Water were now in charge of the Kingfisher’s water supplies. They kept the tanks full, the pipes intact, and the toilets flushing. “How are you finding it?”
“It was my department before the re-org,” a woman said. “The rest of them got the hang of things quick enough. There isn’t a spacer in the fleet who hasn’t unclogged a toilet or brazed a pipe. We all picked it up pretty easy.”
The others nodded. “I was on gun maintenance,” a tousle-haired boy said. “I kind of miss it. Guns are cool, you know?” He mimed shooting a laser battery. “But it’s good to be back with my crew.”
An echoing clank told Tom the shuttle was docking with the Kingfisher. The others waited for him to leave first, about the only deference to his rank he could expect from people without a traditional military background. Tom nodded his thanks and led the way onto the ship.
Chapter 13
“Status,” Tom said as he entered the bridge. The new bridge crew wore armbands with a dark red stripe. They had been the crew of a raider called Mist Along the Ground, now destroyed.
“There’s a supply ship inbound,” Brian Tucker said. “A Dawn Alliance ship,” he added unnecessarily. Once concern of Tom’s – that he would need a lot of time to break in a new bridge crew – was quickly fading. His people were learning their new jobs with commendable speed. In fact, it was forcing him to admit that sheer culture shock, rather than inexperience, was the reason for most of his earlier problems. Putting people back in the teams they were accustomed to was helping with that. Helping a lot, if he was honest with himself.
“The show’s pretty much over,” Tucker went on. “The UW lit them up while they were still five thousand K away. They had three fighters as an escort. Those were all destroyed. The supply ship landed, but she had three or four holes in her, and she was on fire by the time she touched down.”
Tom nodded. The destruction of the supply ship was good news, though hardly critical. Much more significant was the fact that the supplies had gotten through. Every piece of intelligence they had said the Dawn Alliance ground forces were desperate. Short of ammunition, short of food, they were rapidly losing effectiveness as a fighting force. Even one freighter full of supplies would give them a significant reprieve.
“They sounded All Hands before they knew it was just the one ship,” said Tucker.
It was no great inconvenience. The crew of the Kingfisher was due back aboard within another hour or two. “Since we’re all here,” Tom said, “we might as well get some work done.” He glanced toward the Communications station. What was the name of the man on the radios? He'd taken serious injuries when the Mist was destroyed. A couple of canes, magnetized to keep them in place, leaned against his console. Tom had barely spoken to the man, but he could see a fierce determination to do his part written all over the man’s face.
“Carter?” Tom said.
“Cortes, Captain.” Cortes grinned. “You were close.”
“Find out if anyone needs to go back groundside, if you please, Cortes. Then inform the crew that we’re going hunting.”
That brought smiles from every station on the bridge. Hunting was what the coyotes knew best. Waging a defensive war, floating in orbit and waiting for the enemy to attack, would never come naturally to them.
Nor was it necessary. The UW Navy was doing a bang-up job of maintaining a tight blockade around New Panama. Their emphasis was on protecting their own base and ground forces, but the blockade kept the colony more or less safe as well. Bombers still slipped through, of course, but an invasion force would never make it.
Which freed up the Free Neorome Navy to do what it did best.
They broke orbit and moved away from the planet with a quartet of small raiders behind them. The Kingfisher opened a portal to hyperspace. “Don’t forget the booster pods,” Tom said. The ship had a couple of cylindrical rocket boosters magnetically locked to her ventral hull. The boosters, almost two meters thick, were designed to move captured ships. The Dawn Alliance was improving the encryption on their ship AIs. It was taking longer and longer to override security locks. Booster pods made it possible to move a locked ship.
“I’ll be careful,” promised the woman at the helm controls. Tom’s biggest worry was that someone would clip a booster pod on the edge of a hyperspace portal. The Kingfisher made it through without mishap, though.
The coyotes had one booster pod each, but the Kingfisher generated a big portal, giving them plenty of room. Once inside seventh-dimensional space, the little fleet moved obediently down the approved corridor toward the UW fort at New Panama’s forward Lagrange point. As they neared the fort, they broke away and skirted the edge of the “north” minefield. Once they were far enough from the fort to avoid Dawn Alliance lookouts, they changed direction and headed for deep space.
The goal now was to steal a ship. There was a strong Dawn Alliance fleet nearby, constantly in motion, constantly tracked by United Worlds scout ships. But there were other ships too. The Dawn Alliance couldn’t keep their main fleet secret, but they could hide a few ships, simply by keeping such ships well away from the fleet.
An isolated supply ship would make an excellent target for the Kingfisher – if only they could find it.
“Helm,” Tom said. He thought for a moment. “Crispin?”
The gray-haired woman at the helm station nodded that he’d gotten her name right.
“Set a bearing of, let me see, about two twenty by minus ten. Then find your best route.”
She nodded and turned to her controls. Finding the best route meant hugging the faces of storms so there was always plenty of cover close by. Without a specific destination in mind, he would give her no more than a general direction.
Almost any direction would do for his purposes, on the face of it. He was blindly exploring a vast sphere of hyperspace centered on New Panama. In practice, though, the ship returned to one broad section of that sphere again and again.
Their unspoken secondary mission was to search for the Blue Heron and her lost crew. In all likelihood she was gone. Destroyed. Until he saw the wreckage, however, Tom clung to hope. O'Reilly and his people might yet live, their ship damaged, either floating crippled or limping home.
If they lived, they were in desperate straits by now. The ship had been missing for a month and it didn't carry a month's worth of food.
Not even close.
He imagined the crew, hungry and afraid, watching their supplies dwindle as their desperation grew. And so he returned, mission after mission, to that impossibly wide boulevard of sky that led from the last known position of the Blue Heron to New Panama.
They searched. They hunted. They skirted magnificent storms, then dropped into normal space to search there.
Hours went by, and a bell chimed, signalling a change of shift. The relief bridge crew entered, men and women with orange bars on their armbands. A man with a single rank stripe approached the captain's chair, and Tom stood. “Captain Antigonish.”
“Captain Thrush.”
Antigonish had thirty years of experience on ships, with twenty years as a captain. Still, his experience commanding a cruiser could be measured in hours. Tom desperately wanted to stay, to shadow him as he worked, ready to correct mistakes or to take over. That, however, would be unforgivably insulting. It would also undermine the new command structure he had worked so hard to implement. So he said, “Captain, you have command.”
“You are relieved,” said Antigonish, and Tom left the bridge.
By the second day of the hunt the crew had settled into that mix of tension and boredom unique to the military. The ship had a tiny wardroom with one good window, and Tom was staring out at the distant red mass of a storm when the doors behind him slid open. A rectangle of light washed across the glass in front of him, spoiling the view. He turned as Antigonish entered the room.
The older man didn't speak, just made himself a cup of coffee, then joined Tom at the window.
Tom drew his data pad from his belt long enough to check the time. Antigonish still had command for another hour. Tom didn't grudge him the break he was taking. The man could reach the bridge in ten or fifteen seconds, and the ship was doing nothing but floating in empty space.
“I'm concerned about our choice of hunting grounds,” Antigonish said.
Tom looked at the man's face reflected in the glass, meeting his eyes without actually turning his head. He raised an eyebrow.
“We keep coming back to the same region,” said Antigonish. “It makes us predictable.”
Tom opened his mouth to reply.
“If we can be predicted, we can be ambushed,” Antigonish went on. “It's not a good way to fight.”
Tom said, “I-”
“I know.” The man's reflection stared into Tom's eyes. “You want to find the Blue Heron. You want to find your friend, and all the others.” He waved a hand at the expanse of seventh dimensional space in front of them. “But what are the chances of finding them in all of this?” He shook his head. “If they even live.”
Tom said, “But-”
“Not as good as the odds of our enemies finding us.”
Tom finally turned his head, and Antigonish turned to look at him. With their shoulders almost touching, it was uncomfortably close now that they were no longer using the window as a mirror. Antigonish, in addition to being older and more experienced, was several centimeters taller than Tom. He stared down with the expression of a stern father. “I know you want to find them,” Antigonish said gently. “I want that too. But we have to keep ourselves safe.”
Antigonish turned back to the window, then stiffened. “Is that a ship?”
“Captain to the bridge!” The voice blared from the ceiling speakers, and Antigonish turned and hurried from the wardroom. Tom lingered, staring into the void.
Storm light glittered on dark metal in the distance. He squinted. Was that a single point of light, or several?
Whatever it was, it was coming straight toward him.
He reached the bridge in time to see swirling golden light wash over the windows as the Kingfisher and its companion ships withdrew into the closest storm front. Antigonish stood beside the captain's chair. Tom dropped into the chair and tapped the controls on the arm. A display popped up on his screen, relayed from a tethered sensor pod floating just outside the storm front. “Status.”
“Six ships,” said the young woman at the Operations console. “By the look of it, it's four supply ships and two escorts.” There was an unmistakable note of eagerness in her voice. “I don't think they've seen us.”
Tom zoomed in his display and examined the approaching ships, one by one. The escorts were a pair of corvettes. They would be no match for a cruiser and four raiders.
Dismissing them for the moment, he turned his attention to the supply ships, like so many fat pieces of fruit waiting to be plucked. They would flee when they saw the waiting raiders. To capture even one ship would be a victory.
He would have to choose his target with care.
“We’ll go for the tanker,” he said. “With any luck it's full of fuel.”
“It's a water hauler,” said Antigonish.
Tom looked at him. “Are you sure?” The tanker was a featureless oval of dark metal. There was no way to tell what it contained.
“Fuel tankers are insulated,” Antigonish said. “The tanks are compartmentalized.” He gestured in the direction of the approaching fleet. “That's just a bucket with an engine on the end. It's water.”
Tom frowned, disappointed. The Free Neorome Navy had plenty of water. The ship wouldn't be worth much, either. The water hauler was just about the simplest, cheapest design there was. Just a can. Maybe some foam to allow for expansion when the water turned to ice. They couldn't even put a hole in it and let the water drain away. The contents of the tank would be frozen.
Next was a troop carrier. Free Neorome didn't need it, and while killing the soldiers inside might have a strategic benefit, he didn't want to commit mass murder.
The last two ships were a freighter and a blocky, armored invasion vessel known as an insertion ship. The freighter was a small, battered craft with an almost spherical hull. It might be carrying just about anything. It certainly tempted him. It could hold a couple of million rounds of precious ammunition.
Or uniforms and bedsheets.
The insertion ship was larger and newer. He could just make out the dark outline of large rectangular bays all along her hull. She would be designed to deploy drop ships. In fact, she was probably loaded with drop ships right now. The small ships were highly specialized, heavily armored on their underside, with navigational thrusters and a couple of small gun turrets.
Free Neorome couldn't use the drop ships directly. They didn't have the manpower for large-scale invasions. But it might be possible to sell the drop ships to the United Worlds Navy. Failing that, they could be cut apart, the gun turrets added to his raiders, the nav thrusters used to repair captured ships. Since the first move in a skirmish involving raiders was to shoot out the enemy’s gun turrets and nav thrusters, a collection of drop ships could be a real treasure trove.
“We'll go for the insertion ship,” he said, and glanced at Antigonish.
Antigonish gave him the tiniest nod.
“Pass the word to the pack,” Tom said. “Let's see how close they'll come.”
“That's odd,” said the woman at Operations. Habit made her address her comments to Antigonish. “They're not quite flying in a straight line. They're curving to stay close to the storm.”
Tom frowned. Every ship in the little supply fleet was sturdy enough to fly straight through anything but the very worst of storms. If anything, he might expect them to steer away from storm fronts, which might contain raider fleets like his own.
Why would they steer toward the storm?
Antigonish said, “Maybe they want to have a place to hide, in case they're attacked?” He shrugged. “Either way, it makes our job easier.”
Tom nodded. His fleet would be right on top of the little convoy by the time they had to reveal themselves. The enemy was making a mistake, and he intended to capitalize on it. “Vac suits on,” he said. “Alert the crew. It’s time to get to work.”
The ambush got off to a beautiful start. Five ships slid out of the golden storm front, and the supply convoy reacted with predictable panic. The supply ships retreated while the two corvettes came forward in a hopeless attempt to defend them. The Kingfisher and the four raiders advanced, implacable and eager. The small ships led the way, surging toward the closest corvette. The plan was to swarm the escort ships one at a time, leaving them crippled and toothless, and then to pursue the transports.
Both corvettes opened up with streams of shells and blasts of laser fire. The Bee Eater slid between the two corvettes, and a line of bright explosions stitched its way along the hull of the farther corvette as its sister ship aimed for the raider and missed.
Tom, leaning over his console, was about to order the Kingfisher in close for a point-blank barrage when a man swore. Tom jerked his head up, looking around for the source of the outburst. He'd learned not to expect perfect discipline from his crew, but this was extreme, even for them.
The man at the Tactical station stared back at him with wide eyes. “Ships,” the man said. He jabbed a finger at his console. “Behind us!”
Instinct made Tom look over his shoulder. There was, of course, nothing to see but a blank bulkhead. He looked instead at his display screens.
Ships were coming out of the storm front, just a few kilometers away. Four of them, three cruisers and a corvette. And they were heading straight for the Kingfisher.
“It's a trap!” said Antigonish. He immediately looked embarrassed by the outburst.
Tom nodded his agreement. “Helm. Get us back into the storm.”
The corvettes and the four raiders vanished as the nose of the Kingfisher swung around. Bronze-colored storm energy filled the windows, and the ship vibrated as the engines roared. The storm, however, retreated. They had come out of the storm like a bat out of hell, and it took time to overcome that much momentum.
The newly arriving ships raced along the storm front on an intercept course, and someone said, “Missiles!” There was nothing for Tom to do – nothing, in fact, for any of them to do – except watch as the Kingfisher’s automated systems took control of the guns and efficiently reduced half a dozen missiles to flying scrap. Tom noted absently that two of the missiles had been directed at the Kingfisher, plus one each at the raiders. He was lucky the little fleet was close together. The anti-missile defenses on the raiders didn't amount to much.
“Should I launch missiles, Captain?”
“Negative,” Tom said. “Save the missiles.” He only had four of them, and no idea when he might get more. He wouldn't use them until they had a chance of actually getting through. “Evasive maneuvers,” he added. “We're getting into popgun range.”
As if in response, a metallic clatter rang out as a dozen or so shells bounced from the hull somewhere beneath him. The ship shook and stumbled, not from impact but in response to random bursts from her nav thrusters. She would wobble and jerk her way through the sky to the storm front, with any luck dodging the worst of the fire coming her way.
“Laser banks only, return fire.” The ship didn't have ammunition to waste on low-probability shots. “Save the shells until we can see the whites of their eyes.”
The approaching cruisers were close – terrifyingly close – by the time the Kingfisher reached the storm front. When Tom's screens flared and turned white he thought at first it was a static discharge from the storm. It was the Benson fields from the approaching warships, overwhelming and suppressing the Kingfisher’s electronic systems. His screens went black, then reset themselves with a much more limited display. It hardly mattered; from inside the storm, the ship's scanners couldn't tell him much anyway.
“Give me a random course change,” he barked. He assumed the helmsman obeyed him. There was no way to tell with nothing visible through the windows but a golden fog.
“They're still with us,” said Tucker.
Tom could see the nearest cruiser as a thick red circle on his tactical screen. For a moment another circle appeared as a second ship came close enough for the Kingfisher to detect it through the storm. That circle faded as the Kingfisher zig-zagged its way deeper into the storm.
A distant sound rang out, like a hammer striking a nail. Tom frowned. It had to be a single lucky shot, a solitary shell hitting their hull. The enemy ships would be squandering ammunition with wild abandon, firing into the clouds, hoping for a lucky hit.
“Orders, Captain?”
Tom glanced at the helmsman, who looked young and frightened. Well, he was the only one on the bridge with something to do. It would help him control his fear. “Evade,” Tom told him. “Be random. Be unpredictable. But for the love of God, keep us inside the storm.”
The man nodded and turned back to his console.
“Tactical.” I really need to learn their names. “Any sign of the raiders?”
“No, Sir.”
Damn. We could really use their help. It would be close to impossible for the raiders to find them in the storm now. “Keep evading,” he said with a confidence he didn't feel. “We're bound to shake them soon.”
A click-click-clank punctuated his words, three lucky shots finding the hull and bouncing away without doing damage.
The yellow energy around them darkened toward orange as the ship moved deeper into the storm. That was a good sign, Tom decided. It meant they wouldn't blunder into open space.
So long as they didn't encounter a gap…
It was as if the thought summoned the reality. The veil of cloud across the windows fell away and the Kingfisher moved into a pocket of open space several kilometers wide.
“Straight ahead!” Tom barked, pointing. “Get us to the other side of-”
A flash of motion in the corner of his eye made him turn his head. The Dawn Alliance cruiser was nothing more than a dark outline against the storm energy on the far side of the pocket. Tom didn't see the first missile until it flashed past the bridge windows, terrifyingly close. He never saw the other two missiles at all. Twin explosions slammed into the Kingfisher, so close together they sounded like one continuous roar. His chair jerked underneath him, and Antigonish stumbled, going to one knee. Damage alarms blared, and Tom’s faceplate slammed shut.
“Keep us moving!” Tom bellowed. “Return fire! Everything we've got.” He thought for a moment. “No missiles.” Missiles would be destroyed before they crossed a quarter of the distance. “Hit them with everything else.”
“The engines aren't responding.” With everyone enclosed in helmets the voice was an anonymous cry.
“I'll see about the engines,” said Antigonish, lurching to his feet. He ran from the bridge.
One of Tom's screens filled with damage reports. The pocket in the storm was large. They had to be just outside the other ship's Benson field. Tom glanced at the damage report, wincing. A fat red icon, flashing ominously, covered the main engines in the display.
“Keep us moving,” Tom said. “Use nav thrusters.” He made himself take a deep breath, then hold it for a moment before exhaling. Above all he had to think clearly.
What was the ship's momentum? With no storm energy touching them, they would continue in a straight line. “We're coasting toward them,” he said. “Give me lateral motion. Directly to starboard.”
“Lateral motion. Right.” The helmsman sounded flustered, but yellow circles appeared on Tom's display as the port side thrusters fired.
“Tell the gunners to cease fire.” The two ships were closing, and he wanted to save a bit of ammunition for the final battle. “The laser batteries can keep going.”
He spent a moment staring in mute frustration at his console, trying to think of something – anything – useful that he could do.
He couldn't think of a damned thing.
He started trying to calculate how long it would take for momentum and the ship's navigational thrusters to carry them to the edge of the storm. Tom was a competent mathematician, but not a brilliant one, and he glanced around the bridge, wondering if there was someone who would be better at this particular task. Even if there isn't, they need something to do as badly as I do. “How long until we reach the wall of the storm?”
“Nine minutes,” a woman said.
“The bogey is closing,” said Tucker.
That wasn't good news. The enemy cruiser would be able to calculate how long the Kingfisher had, just as easily as Tom and his crew could. They would close the distance, and smash the Kingfisher at point-blank range before she could slip into the storm.
And even if we make it into the storm, they'll be on top of us. They'll stay close, demolish our guns, and then finish us off with missiles. And there isn't a thing we can do about it.
He looked around the bridge. “Options? Suggestions?”
No one answered.
The bridge hatch slid open and Antigonish returned. He shook his head. “The engines are down for the count,” he said. “We won't be fixing them without a full shipyard.”
That's it. We're finished. Tom closed his eyes, needing to hide the watching faces of the bridge crew. Their eyes, full of apprehension and hope, were too much. I need to think.
Not every fight could be won. He'd lost the Kestrel. Now the Kingfisher was lost as well. There wouldn't be any prison camp for him this time, either. A storm pocket like this could close without warning. Boarding the ship and taking prisoners was just too dangerous. The enemy would smash the ship and abandon the wreckage.
I can't save the ship. He is there any way I can save the crew?
Or even a remnant of the crew?
“Captain?” said Antigonish softly. A flashing indicator light inside Tom's helmet told him Antigonish was on a private channel. “Orders?”
He never said I told you so. Most officers in the United Worlds Navy would not have spoken as bluntly as Antigonish had in the wardroom. On some level Tom had been fearing a real discipline problem. But the man's bluntness was simply part of Free Planets culture. Colonists didn't give much thought to delicacy or hurt feelings. They focused on getting the job done.
They focused on solutions.
“We're abandoning ship,” Tom said. He took a moment to open a channel to every crewmember on the ship. “All hands. This is the captain. We're going to be abandoning ship. There is a Dawn Alliance cruiser just over a kilometer away. We're going to board it, capture it, and fly it home. Arm yourselves accordingly, and make your way to the nearest airlock.”
He closed the channel and looked around the bridge. The helmets and closed faceplates made it difficult to read people's expressions, but no one spoke up in protest.
And this was not a crew that would stay silent in deference to his rank.
“It won't work.” It was Antigonish, still on the private channel. “They'll shoot every last one of us in transit.”
Tom switched to the private channel. “I know. But maybe a few people will get through.”
There was a dry chuckle from his First Officer. “I suppose a ghost of a chance is better than no chance at all. It's been an honor serving with you, Captain.”
“And you,” said Tom, and closed the channel. “Where's the closest arms locker?”
He didn't see the new ship enter the bubble. But the helmsman turned his head, staring through the windows, then stooped to peer into his display.
“I can't believe the trouble you get into the first time I let you out of my sight,” said a drawling voice. “It's just a cruiser. Why haven't you swatted it yet?”
The Bee Eater soared lazily between the two cruisers, then disappeared into the storm. Tom stared at the place where it had vanished, wondering if he'd imagined it.
Then all four raiders burst from the far side of the storm. They were on the enemy cruiser in an instant, zipping around it, and light flared as a gun turret on the cruiser exploded.
White light sparkled near the tail of the enemy ship as her engines ignited. She swung around in a ponderous curve, plunged into the wall of the storm, and vanished.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said the same drawling voice. “Are you in need of assistance?”
Tom checked that he was patched through to the other ship, then said, “We lost our engines.”
“Looks like you've lost your pods, too,” said the other captain. “By the look of it they took a direct missile strike. Well, the Honeysuckle and the Leaf still have one pod each. Let's get those bolted on. I don't want to hang around here any longer than we can help.”
Tom tapped his screen, bringing up a magnified view of the four raiders. Only two ships still had their pods. “Where's your pod, Bee Eater?”
“Well, we had to put a couple of pods on that insertion ship. It was either that or leave it behind.”
“You captured her?” Tom said, incredulous.
“We couldn't keep up with you,” the captain said, sounding apologetic. “So we figured the best way to help you was to draw them off. And the best way to draw them off was to make sure the supply convoy was in plenty of trouble.”
He's worried. Tom shook his head. He's just been through two battles, but making his report to me has him sweating.
He thinks I'll blow up and accuse them of deserting me. After all, I've done it before.
Tom winced. How long will it take me to live that down? “You did excellent work,” he said. “You saved our bacon. Thank you.”
“All in a day's work.” The jauntiness was back in the captain's voice. “Stand by while we get the pods attached. You'll be home in no time.”
Chapter 14
The New Panama dockyards were a giant structure, a framework of steel girders that allowed men and equipment access to any part of the ship's hull. Like a vast metal birdcage, it surrounded the Kingfisher and several other ships. Tom stood just outside the structure, peering between the girders at his wounded ship. Staying on the perimeter galled him, but he couldn't contribute to the repair effort. He could only be in the way.
The ship's twin engines needed a complete overhaul. Repair crews were rebuilding them practically from scratch. Aside from that, the damage actually wasn't too bad. Both pods had been destroyed, but they had spared the ship a lot of damage.
The most optimistic estimate Tom had heard was that his ship might be spaceworthy in a week. A month, however, was not out of the question.
He thought of the Blue Heron, imagined the ship drifting as her crew starved, and knotted his hands into fists. I can't even look for her.
A chime came from his data pad, and he drew it from his belt. He had a parcel, apparently, waiting for him at an address on the outskirts of New Panama.
His first impulse was to ignore the message. He had a responsibility to his ship, after all. Except he wasn't doing anything useful. The ship would be fixed when it was fixed, whether he gawked at it or not.
The skeletal nature of the shipyard made it seem appallingly vulnerable, though he knew a metal skin would do little to stop Dawn Alliance bombers. He scanned the other ships waiting their turn for repairs or refits. The insertion ship wasn't among them. Hastily patched, it had already been passed along to the United Worlds Navy.
They had no doubt paid a pretty penny for her, too, Tom thought with a smile.
He didn't recognize the other ships. Most of them seemed to be recent captures, still painted in Dawn Alliance colors.
He gave the Kingfisher a final, wistful glance, then turned his back. A parcel. I wonder what it could be.
The shipyard was a couple of kilometers past the edge of New Panama. Little autonomous runabouts hovered near the shipyard entrance, ready to take passengers into town, but Tom decided to walk. He hadn't gotten much exercise in a while. He thought about running, but quickly decided the long walk would be exercise enough.
He passed a gun emplacement, the massive barrel pointing at the sky. A sentry stood in the doorway of a squat guardhouse, watching alertly as Tom went past.
It was a pleasant day, cool and overcast without being cold, and he set a brisk pace. It felt good to stretch his legs, to work away some of the accumulated stress of his long weeks aboard the Kingfisher. Before long he was puffing for breath. I really need more exercise. I need to start running again.
He remembered his days in Basic Officer Training, and grinned. Will I ever be that fit again? All in all, he realized, he hoped not. The effort required had been brutal.
Fallow fields lined both sides of the road, the withered stalks of a crop he couldn't identify poking up from the soil in tidy rows. He was ostensibly a resident of New Panama, though he spent most of his time aboard the Kingfisher. He realized that, even after all this time, he knew very little about the colony and its people.
He soon reached the outskirts of Panama City. It lacked the kinds of neighbourhoods he knew back on Earth. Here, residential buildings, businesses, and industry were jumbled together willy-nilly with no pattern he could discern. He walked between a factory on one side of the street and row houses on the other, and watched a cargo robot pick its way around a game of street hockey. Then the street opened up into a plaza of sorts, with a fountain bubbling in the middle. Shade trees grew in a dozen planters, though they were tiny at the moment, barely waist-high.
Tom smiled, pleased by this simple indication of faith in the future. Wars would come and go. In the meantime, the colonists would continue to build a home.
“Hi there.”
Tom turned his head. A young woman walked beside him, smiling up at him. His first thought was that she was very young. Then, with an inward chuckle, he realized she was quite close to his own age. He worked almost exclusively with people older than himself; his perspective was a little off.
She was also quite pretty, and he smiled. “Hi. I'm Tom Thrush.”
“I’m Tia.” She shook his hand, then pointed at his armband. “Does this mean you're a spacer?”
He nodded, and her eyes lit up. “Are you a privateer?”
“No,” he said, startled.
Her face fell. “Oh.” She looked him up and down with an air of greatly reduced enthusiasm. “Are you on a cargo ship?”
“No. I'm in the Free Neorome Navy.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “You should join the privateers. They’re rich!” She did a little pirouette, then moved away through the park.
He stared after her, bemused. Privateers were getting rich?
He'd heard about the privateers, but he had the impression there were only a few of them. A recent phenomenon, they were small ship operators who wanted to fight the Dawn Alliance, but not join the Navy. They preyed on Dawn Alliance shipping, bringing captured vessels back to New Panama.
The invasion of Novograd had kicked it off, filling the other colonies with a mix of outrage and naked fear. The Dawn Alliance claimed they were retaliating against raiders from Novograd who had aligned themselves with Free Neorome. Everyone knew, however, that the factories on Novograd were the real reason. Each colony looked at its own resources and wondered how long it would be before the Dawn Alliance turned on them.
Ships began to appear at New Panama, while colonial governments started a discreet flow of money to the government in exile. Free Neorome used the money to pay bounties on captured ships.
The raiders carried nothing so quaint as a letter of marque. Each ship painted the battle flag of Free Neorome on its hull, in hope that the wrath of the Dawn Alliance would not be directed against their home colonies. Every raider captain, however, knew it was just a matter of time.
The Dawn Alliance would not be satisfied with Novograd.
When Tom reached the address where his parcel waited, it turned out to be a tailor shop. His parcel was a uniform shirt, loose-fitting with long sleeves, decorated at the cuffs with gold bars to signal his rank. The fabric was a rich dark green, and the design was simple but striking. Tom stood in front of a mirror in the tailor shop, holding the shirt up to admire it. Then he folded it carefully, slid it back into the parcel, and left the shop.
Apparently there would be no trousers or footwear, not for now at least. Well, uniform shirts were a big improvement over armbands. It would give the crews some esprit de corps, a sense of unity and belonging that they would need if they were to resist the siren call of the privateers.
You should join the privateers. They’re rich. He shook his head. The Free Neorome Navy was gaining ships, while at the same time gaining a new set of rivals for recruiting crews.
The park was not far off, and Tom, with nothing better to do, retraced his steps. He paused to watch some children playing a game he'd never seen before. They had a ball a little bigger than his fist, made of hollow plastic and covered in small holes. He watched as a girl threw the ball, which sailed lazily through the air. A boy intercepted it. He had a device strapped to one hand, some kind of low-powered repulsor that pushed the ball away. He sent it drifting sideways to another boy, who repelled it the same way. Four or five children dashed around, sending the ball back and forth, keeping it aloft without quite touching it.
If there were rules to the game, Tom couldn't see what they were. The kids were certainly having fun, though. He watched them send the ball back and forth, wondering if technology like this could be used on ships to deflect missiles and bullets. Surely the same technology that kept atmosphere contained and provided artificial gravity could be used to push enemy munitions away. Granted, a shell had vastly more kinetic energy than a hollow plastic ball. But it wouldn't be necessary to push a shell backward. Only to nudge it to the side, just enough that it missed its target.
He was lost in a fog of math, staring into space with his eyes unfocused, when he realized someone was standing right beside him. He blinked and turned his head.
It was Tia, her arms crossed, bottom lip sticking out in an expression of mock annoyance. She said, “You never told me you're famous, Tom.”
He blinked. “Famous?”
“Captain Tom Thrush,” she said. “I thought you were just a spacer. But you were at the Battle of Black Betty.”
Tom shrugged self-consciously. “Yes …”
Her eyes lit up. “It is you! I always figured it would be some old man.”
He shrugged, tongue-tied.
“You have to tell me all about it!” She seized his arm and led him toward a bench. “How did you know there was a secret rendezvous?”
“Well, I met some Free Planets people, and one of them told me.”
Her eyes went round, as if he'd told her some grand secret. She looked enthralled, and Tom found himself responding. I'm smiling like a fool, he thought, but couldn't stop himself. It was a long time since he'd talked to a pretty girl who wasn't under his command. With Tia he had no need to keep his guard up, no need to play the role of unflappable captain. Her obvious admiration didn't hurt, either.
An image flitted through his mind, the Starlight Hotel in ruins, the street strewn with rubble. Tia would make an excellent spy. What man could resist telling her everything?
She seemed utterly transparent, though, and completely genuine. If she was a spy, he decided, she was inept. She asked him questions, but never about ships or personnel. Instead she demanded to know if he'd been scared, if he'd wanted to run away, and what it was like giving orders to people who were so much older than him.
Tom sat there and forgot about everything while they chatted. The war was distant to Tia, an abstraction. She was from New Panama, and an influx of refugees and troops was all she had seen of the conflict. She seemed to think it was all exciting and dramatic.
He told her about Operation Fuego, where his fleet had destroyed four ships and captured a carrier. The Dawn Alliance certainly knew about the battle; they'd been there, after all. He doubted he could tell her anything that would qualify as a military secret. So he relaxed and talked, enjoying the way her fingers tightened on his arm when he came to the exciting parts.
He was telling her about how the Dawn Alliance fighters had entered the fray when an image of Alice Rose popped unexpectedly into his mind. He found himself comparing the two women. Tia was certainly much prettier, and he couldn't imagine Alice ever looking at him the way that Tia was looking at him now.
For that matter, he couldn't imagine Alice being impressed with someone because they were famous, or because they might be rich. He had the unsettling realization that Tia had no particular interest in him. Her interest was in his status, and the secondhand status that she could get by being with him.
Alice was an entirely different kind of person. For her, status came from what you were capable of, and what you chose to do.
When he looked at it that way, Tia seemed pretty shallow. Her bright attention was doing wonderful things for his ego, but he suddenly wished it was Alice sitting on the bench beside him.
“I have to go.” He couldn't help being pleased by the way Tia's face fell. “I need to put away my new uniform.”
“There's a party tonight at the Córdoba Social Club,” she said. “There's a dance band. Will you come?”
He started to shake his head, then hesitated. For once he actually had time on his hands, and hadn't he been thinking that he wanted to connect more with colony life?
What am I going to do instead? Sit alone in my room? Go stand outside the shipyard and stare at the Kingfisher?
“Yes,” he said. “That might be fun.”
“Fantastic!” She squeezed his arm one last time, then let go. “I'll be there. Look for me.” She stood and hurried away, and he watched her go, smiling. Then he stood as well, and left the park.
Chapter 15
The little courier ship swung around an upthrust finger of dark storm energy. Once the ship was clear of the obstacle, the pilot lifted his hands from the controls and leaned back in the poorly padded chair that practically filled the ship's tiny cockpit. The AI promptly took over, moving the nose of the ship to port and up several degrees so it was pointed laser-straight at its destination. Spaceflight, utterly dull under the best of conditions, was infinitely worse when the ship was tiny and able to pilot itself.
Jamtsyn Davaad, “Jam” to his friends, stretched as best he could in the cramped cockpit, then sagged in his chair. He perked up a bit when a warning light flashed above the window, informing him he'd just been scanned by active radar. The light turned green as the scanning ship sent out a brief ping from her transponder. It was the F94, a frigate somewhere beyond the scout ship’s very limited scanning range.
Jam leaned forward and craned his neck, peering through the bridge windows. He saw nothing, of course. Watching a frigate go past didn't amount to much in the way of entertainment, but he was disgruntled to realize he would be denied even that. “Are we there yet?” he muttered.
“Please repeat the query.”
“I wasn't talking to you, Tinny.”
“There's no one else here,” the AI said primly.
“Nevertheless …”
Jam brought up a navigational chart. He could have asked Tinny how far he was from his destination, but looking it up for himself would help kill the better part of thirty seconds.
S21, he was pleased to discover, was only a few minutes away. At least, it was supposed to be. He couldn't actually detect the Dawn Alliance provision ship – he had to be almost in danger of a collision to detect anything with his substandard scanning equipment – but S21’s scheduled location was just ahead.
If the bloody United Worlds hadn't spotted her and dragged her off, and if the ship hadn't developed mechanical problems or run out of something vital, and if he hadn't gotten the schedule confused, or missed an update …
Provision ships were, in effect, little portable supply depots, like a base that could come to you in the depths of space between star systems. Since they made tempting targets, provision ships never stayed in one place for long. Every few days they moved, and the only way to find one was to stumble across it or to know the pre-set schedule.
At last a chime sounded, and Jam leaned forward, peering through the window. Provision ships were big. He figured he'd be able to spot it from quite a ways out.
A dark spot caught his eye, and he squinted, then snorted when he realized he was looking at a chunk of grit stuck to the glass. He scraped at it with a fingernail, verified that it was on the outside where he couldn't do a thing about it, then flopped back in his chair. I wonder if I could requisition a replacement seat. Something with some actual padding. He squirmed. But there's barely enough room for me and the chair already. At a couple of centimeters of foam and I might not fit in the cockpit at all.
His gloomy line of thought was interrupted by the scream of an alarm. He jerked, then swore as the back of his head banged into the top of the seat. “Son of a-”
He spent a moment staring at the cockpit displays, trying to remember the details of a training session on emergency procedures almost five years in the past. Then he said, “Tinny! What's going on?”
“We are under fire,” Tinny replied with infuriating calmness. “Several hundred shells have been fired at this ship.”
A long-forgotten scrap of training came back to Jam, and he jinked the ship sideways. “Shells fired? By who?”
“S21 appears to be firing at us,” Tinny said, as if it were a perfectly reasonable statement.
“What the hell are they shooting at us for?” Jam fumbled for the transponder switch on his console and turned it on.
“I have no way to determine that.”
“It was a rhetorical question, Tinny.” Jam jerked at the controls, putting the ship into a corkscrew spin. The internal force fields in the little scout craft were terrible, and he wasn't strapped in. The top of his head hit the cockpit ceiling a moment before he thumped back into his unpadded seat. He groaned and lifted his hands from the controls. Getting shot is probably less painful. “Hail S21.”
A man's cautious voice said, “This is the Dawn Alliance provisioning vessel S21.”
“Why the hell are you shooting at me?”
“Identify yourself.” The voice on the radio managed to load those two words with a galaxy of doubt and alarm.
“My name is Jamtsyn Davaad! This is the courier ship M219. Can't you see my transponder signal?”
“Well, yes, but your transponder was off when I fired.”
“Have you stopped shooting?” Jam demanded.
“Um, yes.”
Jam spent a moment struggling for calm. “Can I bring my ship in now? Without getting shot at?”
“If you are who you say you are,” the other man replied.
Who I say I am? What in space does that mean? Jam shook his head, baffled. He's gone space-happy. “I'm coming in. Remember, I'm on your side.”
Soon he could see the bulbous shape of the provision ship. She was built like a zeppelin, plump and elongated with a blocky superstructure on one end. That would contain her engines, bridge, crew accommodations, and so on. The main part of the ship, the vast metal sausage, was a combination repair bay and cargo hold with spare parts and supplies.
Jam wouldn't have minded docking the courier ship manually, but the book said he was supposed to let Tinny do it. So he sat back, frustrated and impatient, while the AI snugged the little ship up against a docking ring on S21. Tinny can do it faster than I can, Jam grudgingly admitted. Which means I can get out of this damned flying shoebox a few seconds sooner.
He wormed his way out of the cockpit, leaned over to avoid banging his head on the cables and fixtures protruding from the ceiling, and slapped a hand on the hatch control that would finally set him free.
The corridor on the far side was grungy, battered, and industrial-looking, but he could stand up straight and even extend his arms to either side without touching the walls. He did exactly that and chortled, his bad mood improving somewhat.
He was still going to give someone a good telling off, though. Shoot at me, will you?
The corridor opened into a small lounge with couches and a couple of vending machines. A fat man in a dirty uniform waited. After their argument over the radio, Jam hadn't exactly been expecting a friendly welcome. The man, however, held a flechette gun in his hands, and he pointed the barrel at Jam.
“You know,” said Jam, his mouth dry, “I've had just about enough of you.”
The other man lowered the gun. “I'm sorry,” he said, shamefaced. “I thought you might be the ghost.”
“Ghost?” Half a dozen comments occurred to Jam, none of them prudent things to say to a man holding a gun. He settled for shaking his head in angry bewilderment.
“I really do apologize.” The man looked like he meant it, too. “I’ve been under a lot of stress.” He looked at Jam, and a muscle jumped in his cheek. “There's been a ship watching us for the past ten days. It's always just at the limit of scanner range. Sometimes it's gone for hours. But it always comes back.” The man raked fingers through his greasy, sweat-damp hair. There were dark circles under his eyes, and stress lines around his mouth. “It never comes close enough for me to identify. If another ship shows up, it disappears.” He gave Jam a beseeching, desperate look. “But it always comes back!”
“There’s no ghost ship. It’s a scanner echo.” Otrya Serdamba folded her arms across her chest and smirked at the fat man as he put the flechette gun away. “But you’ll never get Dor to admit it.”
“Scanner echoes don’t disappear whenever warships show up, and return a few hours later.” Dor gave her a hurt look as he plopped himself down in a chair.
The entire crew of S21 was in the lounge with Jam. There were four of them, Dor and Otrya and a couple of young men as alike as twins. They spent their time staring into a data pad on a table between them. Jam had already forgotten their names.
“I shouldn’t have shot at you,” Dor said. “Once the frigate left I figured it was a perfect time for the ghost to finally attack.” He gave Jam a sheepish look. “You weren’t on our schedule, and your ship’s so small, it barely shows up on the scanners. I thought you were the ghost.”
Jam, unable to think of anything polite to say, gave him a non-committal nod.
“Maybe Otrya’s right,” Dor said. “Maybe there’s no ghost ship.”
“Of course there isn’t,” she said.
Dor’s thick shoulders sagged. “You’re right.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than an alarm sounded. All five of them jumped in their seats, and Dor said, “X Five-Seven! What is it?”
“There is an incoming ship,” an electronic voice announced. “It has ignored a ping from our transponder.”
The twins leapt to their feet, abandoning the data pad, and dashed out of the lounge, going in different directions. Dor looked at Otrya, a mix of triumph and fear on his face.
“It’s not the ghost,” she said, and left the room at a run.
“I have to man the guns,” Dor said. “Stay here. You’ll be safe.” By the look on his face he didn’t believe his own words. He glanced over his shoulder as he galloped out of the lounge, his eyes wide with terror.
Jam sat frozen for thirty long seconds, his mind a churning maelstrom of fear. We’re under attack. And I was complaining about boredom. He looked around the lounge, wondering what to do. Dor said to wait here. But Dor is an idiot. I need to get out of here. He imagined a fleet of United Worlds warships bearing down on the provision ship. They won’t care about one little courier ship slipping away. And Dor said I barely showed up on scanners.
Of course, Dor is an idiot …
He stood, his legs shaking, then hurried back the way he’d come. He was just reaching a leg through the hatch when the interior of the courier ship filled with a soft pink light. He jerked his leg back, then stared in baffled dismay as a hole appeared in the bulkhead on the far side of the little ship. A sudden wind buffeted him from behind, almost pushing him into his ship. Then the hatch slammed shut, bashing his knee in passing. Jam stumbled back, clutching his knee and cursing, trying to figure out what had happened.
That was a laser. They saw my ship at the docking ring and they burned a hole in it. He backed away from the hatch, adrenaline making him rabbit-quick. I’ve got to – I need to – What the hell am I going to do?
In the end he returned to the lounge. It was all he could think of. He stood in the middle of the little room, turning in a slow circle, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. He thought about dragging one of the vending machines away from the wall and hiding behind it, then abandoned the idea as ridiculous.
Steel banged against steel, the noise echoing around him, seeming to come from every direction at once. Jam flinched. A ship just docked. A big one. He waited, hardly breathing.
Nothing else happened.
They docked with us. That’s good, right? Okay, it’s not great. But they didn’t blow us up with missiles. “Hey,” he said, glancing at the speakers set into the ceiling. “Hey, X, um, Seventy-five? Computer? Can you hear me?”
If the ship’s AI heard, it chose not to reply.
“Oh, God.” Jam threw himself down on a couch and rubbed his bruised knee. He didn’t think he was badly hurt. If that’s the worst thing that happens to me today, I’ll count myself lucky.
The twins were the first ones to return to the lounge. They walked in with their hands clasped behind their necks, wearing matching expressions of weary resignation. A pair of spacers walked in behind them, a man and a woman in unmatched vac suits and helmets with their faceplates retracted. The man held a laser pistol, while the woman cradled a formidable-looking blast rifle. She whipped the gun to her shoulder when she spotted Jam.
Jam raised his hands.
“You two. Sit down.” The man shoved one of the twins toward Jam’s couch. The twins sat on either side of him, crowding him.
“Are you armed?” the man said to Jam.
It took a moment for Jam to translate his words. The man’s accent made him almost incomprehensible. Jam had heard actors from the United Worlds on movie feeds. This man's accent was different.
“No,” Jam said. Then, just to be sure, he shook his head and said, “I'm not armed.”
“Lying to me could get you shot.” The man gave Jam a hard look, but the effect was spoiled when he couldn't seem to maintain his focus. His eyes kept straying to something along the side wall. Jam finally turned to look.
There was nothing there but a couple of vending machines.
“Have you got this?” the man said.
“I've got them covered,” the woman assured him. “Go.”
The man walked to the nearest vending machine. He spent some time tapping at the control screen. He holstered his pistol, used both hands to shake the machine, then drew the gun again and took aim at the screen.
“Don't!” the woman cried. She jabbed the barrel of her rifle at Jam. “How do you make the machines work?”
“The vending machines?” he sputtered, certain he must have misunderstood.
“Yes,” she snapped.
“I have no idea. I just got here.”
She gave him a suspicious look, then swung the gun over to cover the twin on his left.
“It links to my data ring,” he said. He lifted a hand from the back of his neck and pointed toward his lap. “In my pocket.”
“Get it out,” she said. “Don't try anything.”
He wormed a hand into his pocket and pulled out a thick copper-colored ring. He held it up, then said, “It only works when I'm wearing it.”
She made an impatient gesture with the rifle. He stared at her, afraid to move until she gestured again. Then he rose and scuttled over to the nearest vending machine.
Another spacer walked into the lounge. These were not United Worlds marines, Jam realized. None of their vac suits matched, and none of their weapons. This man had a pistol on each hip, a slug thrower and a gas-powered flechette gun. He stepped aside as Dor and Otrya came in, hands raised. Two more armed spacers came in behind them.
“Are those food machines?” said the man with the two pistols. He ignored the prisoners, rushing over to the nearest machine.
“It's pouring soup right now,” said the man with the laser pistol. “Can you smell it? Oh my God, this is the greatest moment of my life.”
Jam rubbed his forehead, wondering if he was hallucinating. These had to be Free Planets rebels. Jam knew things were strange in the Green Zone, but this was bizarre. What kind of person gets excited about vending machine soup?
One spacer backed away from the machine, slurping noisily at a plastic cup. His companions still held guns pointed at the prisoners, but every last one of them was staring at the machine. The man with the two guns gestured, and the twin with the data ring started brewing another cup of soup.
A man in a dark red vac suit tore his eyes away from the vending machine. “All right, listen up. I'm Captain O'Reilly of the Free Neorome ship Blue Heron. You're all prisoners now. Cooperate, and you won't be harmed.” He looked at each of them in turn. “We have no facilities on our ship for prisoners, and we sure as hell can't feed you. We’ll leave you here when we depart.”
“You mean you’ll leave our bodies,” Dor said bitterly. “We know how you people operate.”
“You need to pay a little less attention to your government's propaganda,” O'Reilly told him. “You won't be killed. Not if you cooperate.”
“What do you want?” Dor said.
“Fuel and food,” O'Reilly said. “Specifically, food that isn't cornmeal.”
Dor gaped at him. “Cornmeal?”
O'Reilly grimaced. “One of the first cargo ships Free Neorome captured was carrying almost five hundred tonnes of cornmeal. They tried to sell it to the UW Navy. When that didn't work, they loaded it into the larders of every ship in the fleet.” He shook his head. “I drew up a plan for rationing, once I knew how long we’d be stuck out here. It's pretty strict rationing, too. But I haven't had to enforce it yet. We've got nothing left but pure cornmeal. No one will eat it. I restricted everyone's ration to one cup per day. We’re all eating less than that.”
He looked at Dor, his eyes full of quiet desperation. “We're going to take every crumb of edible food you've got on this miserable tub. But don't worry. We'll give you enough cornmeal to get by until you're rescued.”
Dor said, “But we don’t have any food!”
O’Reilly’s eyes hardened. He took a step toward the fat man, one hand going to the butt of a pistol on his hip. “Listen carefully,” he said. “I’m going to have a good meal shortly. If that means I drag you into the galley and shove you head-first into your own oven to broil for the next thirty minutes, well, by God that’s what I’ll do.” He glared at Dor, his expression fierce and terrifying. Then his features softened. “Unless you want to provide me a better option?”
“We have food,” Dor stammered. “You won’t have to ….” He gulped, his chin wobbling. “What I mean is, we have our personal rations. But we don’t have enough to equip a ship.”
“Bullshit,” O’Reilly said, and tightened his grip on the gun butt. “This is a provision ship.”
“Food always goes first,” Dor said. “Food and liquor. We don’t even bother carrying alcohol anymore. It doesn’t last. Food, fuel, and bullets. That’s what everybody wants. We’ve got over ten thousand resistors. We have a thousand pairs of socks, and eighty kilometers of copper wire. But food? We’re completely out. We’re supposed to rendezvous with a supply convoy next week and restock.” He spread his hands in a helpless, frightened gesture. “We’ve hardly got anything, I swear.”
“Where’s your galley?” O’Reilly demanded.
“I passed it on the way here,” a spacer said.
“Go,” said O’Reilly. “Grab every morsel.”
“Don’t need to tell me twice,” the spacer said, and hurried out.
“Now,” said O’Reilly, leaning close to Dor, his voice full of menace. “Let’s talk about fuel.”
“The cargo tanks are empty,” Dor said. “We have a couple hundred liters for our own engines.”
“Not any more, you don’t,” O’Reilly said. “We’ll be taking that. Show me.” He left with Dor.
“You,” said a woman’s voice.
Jam looked around and found the woman with the blast rifle staring at him. He said, “Me?”
“You said you just got here. Where did you come from?”
He hesitated for a couple of seconds, wondering if either duty or prudence dictated that he should lie, or refuse to answer. Oh, to hell with it, he decided. “I’m a courier. I docked with this ship just before you arrived.”
That caught her interest. “You have a ship?”
“Not anymore,” he said bitterly. “You barbarians burned a hole in it with a laser.”
“Oh.” She looked downcast for a moment, then brightened. “Show me.”
So he led her back down the corridor, the only part of S21 he’d seen, and showed her the closed hatch that hid the remains of his ship. She tapped the hatch controls, which refused to open, then frowned. “I bet you had something to eat in there, too.”
“I had a box of Haultain chocolates,” he said maliciously. “Dozens of them. The caramel kind, with the cherry in the middle.” He thumped the hatch. “They’re just a meter away.”
The look she gave him was filled with such grief that he had to turn away. He thought about telling her the truth, that he had a stale peanut butter sandwich with a couple of bites missing and that was all. That might make her angry, though.
Instead, he changed the subject. “What are you doing out here? Why are you out of food? Why don’t you just go back to New Panama, or whatever colony you’re from?”
She gave him a searching glance. “I shouldn’t really tell you,” she said. “Ah, what the hell. We’re going to kill you all anyway. Why keep secrets, right?”
He backed away, eyes glued to the blast rifle, and she burst out laughing. “I’m just messing with you.” She clicked a button on the rifle, then slung it across her back. “See? Relax.”
Jam said, “You’re not a very nice person.”
“That’s true.” She nodded. “Anyway, we were in a scrap a few weeks back.” She shook her head. “Longer than that. I don’t even want to think about how long. Anyway, we took engine damage and lost fuel. We don’t have enough to get home.
“Your provision ship was a godsend,” she said. “Now we’ve got a fighting chance.” She gave Jam a warm look. “You guys saved our lives. You’re like angels of mercy. But it won’t stop us from blowing up every single thing we can’t steal or use. It’s not personal. You understand, right?”
He said, “Um, sure.”
“Good man.” She slapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s get back to the lounge. I don’t want to miss my turn for soup. Then I need to figure out how to get at your scout ship from the outside. We need the fuel in your tank. Every last dribble counts.” She leaned close and murmured, “No one else needs to know about those chocolates, right?”
He laid a finger alongside his nose and gave her a solemn nod.
“I knew I made the right choice when I decided not to shoot you.” She followed him into the lounge, then hurried to the vending machine.
Jam dropped into a seat and rested his chin in his hand. He would be stranded in S21 for days as the ship drifted without fuel or food, waiting for a friendly ship to find them. Then he’d have to catch a ride to whatever Dawn Alliance base he could reach, and from there, probably catch another ride back to Neo Tuul.
In fact, he might not be back in the cockpit of another tiny courier ship for months. He sat up, brightening.
“Sons of bitches.”
Jam turned. One of the twins sat beside him, his face a twisted mask of bitterness. Jam shrugged. “Ah, they’re not all bad.”
Chapter 16
Alice was feeling pretty pleased with herself when it all went to hell.
The ship was a great catch, a huge freighter that was almost all cargo hold. That meant an excellent haul, and minimal crew to resist a boarding party. It also meant the ship was a fat, wallowing sow, completely unable to dodge incoming fire or to escape. They'd parked the Winter Morning in front of the bridge windows, the barrel of her dorsal cannon staring directly at the freighter’s crew. It wasn't necessary to damage the ship. The crew wisely powered down the engines. They even opened an airlock for the raiders.
It was all so easy that Alice decided to take a stroll into the cargo hold and see just what she had captured. She took Dutch with her, the two of them relaxed, chatting as they scanned the labels on stacks of crates. Much of the hold seemed to be crammed with ammunition, which made it an absolute gold mine. Smiling like a kid on Founding Day morning, Alice said, “Let's see what else the Dawn Alliance brought us.” She led Dutch around a corner into yet another narrow corridor between stacked crates.
And found herself face to face with a squad of at least eight Dawn Alliance soldiers, at a range of less than a dozen meters.
She flung herself backward, shouting a warning, and dove around the corner as the soldiers opened fire. Dutch stood frozen for two endless, fatal seconds. Then he turned, took a single step towards safety, and screamed as dozens of bullets tore into him.
Alice ran, cursing, ignoring the shouted questions of her crew over her helmet radio. It was a freighter, for God's sake. What the hell were they doing carrying troops?
Laying a trap, said an insidious voice in the back of her mind. Setting a snare, just for you. Those soldiers have been riding in the hold for weeks, bored silly, hoping against hope that someone will be rash enough to intercept their ship and board it.
How happy they must have been when you showed up!
A gap in the wall of crates showed on her left, and she dove into the opening. This corridor was much narrower, and deeply shadowed. Her helmet light came on, illuminating a passage barely wider than her shoulders. She ran, fighting a rising panic.
“We've got soldiers approaching the bridge,” Bridger said over her radio. “Alice?”
“There's soldiers down here, too.” She glanced over her shoulder. Nothing. But then, she'd feel a bullet before she ever saw them. “Pull out. I can't get to you.”
“Find yourself a hatch,” said Bridger. “We’ll be just outside.”
Unless the trap is a little more elaborate, and this tub has guns. She pushed the thought from her mind. Her own immediate survival was enough to hold her full attention. Her left shoulder brushed a crate. Then her right shoulder. Then both shoulders at once. The passageway was getting tighter. She turned her shoulders, which made running awkward. She could see nothing ahead of her but darkness. Her helmet light came on automatically, and she turned it off, knowing it would make her easier to hit. To hell with this. She braced a hand against the crates on either side, and she started to climb.
In some places she was able to get her fingers or the edge of a boot on the top edge of a crate. Other times she had to simply push against the close-pressing walls. It wasn't easy, but desperate terror gave her strength. Up and up she went, afraid to look behind her.
A man shouted, her helmet muffling the voice and making it directionless. Then came a volley of shots that vibrated the crates beside her. Her muscles went rigid with terror, freezing her in place.
“Hold your fire! You'll hit the shells.” The gunfire stopped, and Alice, with a massive effort, made herself move. She reached the top of the stack and slid herself onto the topmost crate. The ceiling of the hull was quite close. She had room to crawl along the top of the stack, but not to stand.
Move. Don't be where they expect you. She crawled, dropping down to a lower stack, then clambered up onto something shaped like a barrel. She reached another passageway, the opposite stack of crates no more than a meter away. She wanted to be careful, to brace herself and then stretch out until she could get a hand on the opposite stack. Instead, she flung herself into the gap, fingers scrabbling for a grip as her body swung down and her feet thumped against the side of a crate.
Scrambling and wriggling, she got herself onto the top of the stack. Then she pressed herself flat, panting for breath, her heart thumping madly. I can't just keep crawling around in this hold. I need to think.
Footsteps echoed somewhere far below, and men called to each other as they hunted for her. Her tight-stretched nerves screamed at her to move, to run. But there was nowhere to go, and motion would only draw the hunters to her. So she lay still, pressed flat with her back against the top of a crate. She stared up at a set of ceiling plates a couple of meters above her and struggled to bring her breathing under control.
There were lights along the ceiling, but they were widely spaced. She was in fairly deep shadow. She fumbled a pistol out of the holster on her hip, cradled it against her chest, and tried to make sense of the noises that reached her ears.
Hold your fire. You'll hit the shells. The soldier's voice kept replaying itself in her memory. I'm surrounded by crates of ammunition.
Is that something I can use?
It seemed unlikely. Even the danger of an accidental explosion from gunfire was not great. A modern shell held a lot of destructive power, but it was difficult to detonate.
She looked at the pistol in her hands. I could start firing into the crate underneath me. Maybe I'll get lucky. Set off a shell, start a chain reaction. Below this whole ship to hell. I won't be caught, and the Dawn Alliance loses a ship and its cargo.
It’ll be a hell of a sendoff for Dutch.
The idea didn't hold much appeal, but she had to admit, the odds of escape seemed poor. I might as well die on my own terms.
But what if this crate is full of canned beans?
She holstered the pistol, wishing it was a laser weapon instead of a slug thrower. Then she explored the crate top with gloved fingertips.
Opening the crate was easier than she expected. There were hinges along two edges and a seam down the middle. She fumbled a couple of latches open, squirmed to one side, and swung open a flap. It was too dark to see a thing inside the crate, so she turned on her helmet light.
Shells, slim and deadly, filled the crate.
“I don't know if this is good news or bad news,” she murmured. “I get to blow myself up after all.” She reached into the crate and drew out a shell. Perhaps as big around as her forearm, the shell was as long as her hand with fingers outstretched, a cylinder tapering to a point at one end. There was no great need for shells to be aerodynamic, not for combat between spaceships. But there was at least a chance a shell might be fired in atmosphere, and the tapered design made it easy for a gun crew to know which end was which as they loaded.
The shell, she saw, didn't quite come to a perfect point. The tip was flattened on a surface the size of her thumbnail. That would be the impact point, which would detonate the explosive charge within.
She thought about giving it a good hard thump with her hand and realized she didn't have the nerve. Not that it would work. No one would design a shell that would detonate too easily. No one wanted their own ship destroyed when someone dropped a crate.
She could fire a bullet against the tip of the shell, she supposed. Even then, it might not work. Her own ship had a new dorsal gun, manufactured by the United Worlds. The shells they'd gotten from the UW were inert until they were actually loaded into the breech of the gun. Each shell had an electronic mechanism activated by a transmitter in the gun. The shell in effect armed itself right before it fired.
The base of each shell held a smaller explosive charge, used for propulsion. That one would be even harder to set off. The gun detonated the propellant with an electrical current. She could fire bullets into the base of the shell until she'd smashed it to pieces, and never trigger an explosion.
Something rattled nearby. Something else creaked. Her imagination quickly filled in the blanks.
Soldiers were climbing the stacked crates.
Alice's fingers tightened convulsively on the shell. I should lean out. See if I can take a shot at them while they're climbing. But if they have any sense, they've got sharpshooters down on the deck, waiting for me to do something stupid.
But I can't just stay here.
Paralyzed by terror and indecision, she clutched the shell, wondering if she might detonate it just by squeezing too hard. The thought forced a chuckle from her constricted lungs, and panic loosened its hold somewhat.
Imagine a magazine full of shells that won't explode. What if the ship is inside someone else's Benson field? Would the shells even activate? But that's the United Worlds for you. Always over-engineering things. If there's a simple way to do things, they won't touch it. There's always something more complicated, more expensive to do instead.
The Free Planets would never design a shell like that.
She lay there, gripping the shell and thinking.
What about the Dawn Alliance? Everyone says they're not as technologically advanced as the United Worlds. Oh, they have access to the same level of technology. But they don't have the industrial base.
What if they decided to keep their shells simple, so they'd be cheaper to manufacture?
She moved before she could think too much. Thinking would just bring back the paralysis of terror. She rolled to one side, one hand reaching out to find the edge of the crate beneath her. She looked down into a narrow, shadowy corridor.
Two soldiers were in the process of climbing the stacks. Each man had his back against one side of the gap, his feet braced on the other. They were halfway up, maybe six or seven meters from the deck. Two more soldiers stood below, rifles raised, heads moving as they scanned the tops of the stacked crates. Both men spotted her, and the rifles swung in her direction.
Alice reached out, held the shell point-down, and let go.
She pulled back and squeezed her eyes shut. Nothing is going to happen. It's going to bounce, that's all.
The shell exploded. The noise, magnified by the close-pressing walls of crates on either side, hit her like a blow from a fist. She squeezed her eyes shut against the flash, shook her head to clear the ringing in her ears, and heartily wished she'd had the sense to close her faceplate.
When she opened her eyes, fire retardant foam was gushing from vents in the ceiling. It streamed into the gap between the stacked crates, and she smiled, imagining the sticky morass forming below. I'm probably going to die here, but at least I've managed to make one hell of a mess.
The foam, she realized, would drive the soldiers back. She had a few minutes at least to work. She spent a moment weighing her options, then drew a multitool from her belt. It wouldn't even occur to those Navy types to take a basic tool belt into combat, she mused as she dug another shell out of the crate. That was the problem with specialization. It made you helpless when things got messy.
She sliced open the shell casing, peeled back the metal skin, and pried out a puck of high explosive.
A few minutes later the crate was half empty, with greasy discs of high explosive piled in the bottom. Alice took a grenade from her belt, set the timer for five minutes, and dropped it into the crate. Then she closed the top flap, climbed onto the next crate over, and kicked the armed crate from the top of the stack. It tumbled into the corridor, bouncing from side to side, ricocheting from the stacks. She winced, imagining the top flying open and all her explosive pucks scattering through the foam.
Well, it was too late to worry about that now. She got up and scrambled along the top of the stack.
It was a beautiful ambush. She didn't see the soldier until he popped up from behind a crate directly in front of her. She jerked sideways as he fired, and grunted as something kicked her in the shoulder. She flung herself sideways, thinking she would grab the edge of the stack and hang by her fingertips for a moment. But her left arm refused to obey her, and she fell.
Fortunately the gap between the stacks was quite narrow here. Alice, acting on instinct, curled herself into a ball. For a moment she bounced like a pachinko ball from one wall of crates to the other. Then she stopped, her knees against one stack, her back against the other.
She tried to brace her arms against the walls on either side, and a wave of agony tore through her left shoulder. She gave up and straightened her legs, dropping with a grunt to the deck.
Then she ran.
Gunshots rang out. It was maddeningly difficult to tell the direction of shots that echoed and re-echoed through the narrow corridor. She assumed it was the ambushing soldier above her. Her suspicion was confirmed when several bullets tore past her head and smashed divots from the deck plates just in front of her. She wanted to stop, to flinch away from that terrible impact. But there was nowhere to go, so she just kept running.
The gunfire ceased when she reached a cross-corridor. She enjoyed several seconds of blissful silence before a pair of soldiers stepped into the corridor a dozen paces in front of her.
One man shouted at her to surrender. The other man, ignoring him, swung a rifle up and fired. He somehow managed to miss despite the point-blank range, and Alice made an undignified squealing sound as she dove into a gap on her left. She ran, walls of stacked crates pressing close on either side, grimly aware of two inescapable facts.
The soldiers would be behind her in a moment, and there were no more cross-corridors. They had her dead to rights.
And it must have been a good ten minutes since she'd set the grenade. The damned thing was a dud.
“Hold it, lady. Give up. There's no escape.”
A bullet in the back, she decided, was better than surrender to the Dawn Alliance. She kept running. In her mind's eye she pictured the man behind her lifting his rifle, taking aim, and gently squeezing the trigger …
The gunshot when it came was louder than she expected, and the impact of the bullet lifted her off her feet. She fell sprawling, and crates tumbled down all around her. A man screamed, and a siren howled.
Wow. What did he shoot me with?
Only when she smelled burning plastic did she realize she hadn't been shot at all. Her grenade had finally exploded. She stood, trembling.
The next explosion made the first blast seem like the popping of a balloon. The deck dropped away from beneath her feet, and she didn't even feel it when she landed on her hands and knees. Convinced she would never hear again, she got to her feet and stumbled forward, hands outstretched for balance.
Explosion number three was the big one. Alice wasn't sure quite what happened. When the deck stopped shaking beneath her she was curled into a ball with her arms wrapped around her helmeted head. Fire retardant foam poured from the ceiling, splashing the deck plates to her left and to her right.
For some reason, she remained dry. She looked straight up and saw a crate jammed corner to corner between the walls on either side. More crates had landed on top of it, creating a jumbled logjam above her. I should move. That mess looks heavy enough to crush me.
She stood, took a single faltering step – then froze as a crate slammed into the pooling foam just ahead of her boots. For a moment she just stared.
A flashing red light above her left eye clamored for her attention. She stared at it, fighting the stupefying effects of adrenaline. It was an indicator light inside her helmet, warning her that her suit was no longer airtight.
Well, duh. I've been shot. Of course I'm not airtight.
But if the warning light was on, her faceplate had to be down. And that meant her suit had detected either toxic gas or dropping pressure.
She looked at the display on the sleeve of her suit. The pressure around her was at point eight atmospheres and dropping. Her explosion had worked better than she dared hope. The freighter had a hull breach.
The foam stopped falling, and Alice started to walk. The top of the foam had already hardened, making a crust that her feet broke through. She knelt, punched her fist through the crust, and pulled out a handful of wet foam. She rubbed it into the bullet hole on the front of her suit. She couldn't see any blood, and she told herself that was a good sign. It was pooling inside her suit, of course. She could feel moisture all down her leg. It squished between her toes when she walked.
Well, one crisis at a time. Bubbles expanded and burst over the bullet hole as air escaped. She pressed more wet foam against the hole, then reached an exploratory hand behind her, looking for an exit hole. If it was there, she couldn't find it.
The indicator light continue to shine in her helmet. Well, it'll have to do. I can't hang around here. She broke into a stumbling run, her feet sinking ankle-deep in the foam with every step, and she muttered curses as she staggered along.
There was another explosion, and the lights and gravity failed at the same instant. The energy of Alice's last step drove her upward, and a breeze caught her, blowing her along, as helpless as a leaf. Well, if there's a wind, it's pushing me toward a breach in the hull. I suppose that's good.
The lights came back on, not at full strength. She heard a gunshot, and a hole appeared in a crate a couple of meters away. The crate spun away with the impact.
The recoil must have kicked the soldier back, because there were no more shots.
A few crates floated upward, but inertia kept most of them in place. Only Alice and a bit of debris rose with the wind.
When she hit the ceiling she stopped moving, so she activated the magnets in her boots and walked. Walls of crates made a crazy upside-down maze above her head as she followed whirling scraps of debris toward the hull breach.
She never did find it. She came to a long chain set in metal brackets along the ceiling. It was the kind of thing a large cargo operation would use to bring in cargo from a hatch. She picked a direction and followed the chain.
The cargo hatch was enormous, and completely without power. Alice found the manual controls, a wheel more than a meter across. There was nothing else for it but to plant her feet and start turning. She made one brief attempt to pull with both hands, and doubled over, whimpering. After that she pulled with her right hand and let her left arm float beside her.
There was a brief rush of escaping air as the hatch opened. By that time there wasn't much atmosphere left in the cargo hold. The warning light in her helmet continued to flash as her suit lost air. That meant compressed oxygen was pouring from the tank on her back, inflating her suit and helmet, and racing out through the hole in her shoulder.
She used her right hand to grab her left wrist and press her left hand against the hole. It hurt, but she was able to make a fist and clench the ruptured suit fabric. She squeezed, watching vapor trickle between her fingers.
Then she pushed thoughts of oxygen out of her mind, grabbed the wheel that controlled the hatch, and pulled for her life.
It seemed to take an eternity, but at last a gap of thirty centimeters or so showed at the edge of the hatch. Alice let go of the wheel, clumped over to the opening, turned off her boots, and grabbed the edge.
There was a bad moment when her body got stuck halfway through. It's the bloody oxygen tank. It's just about empty, but it still takes up space. She exhaled, squirmed, swore, and at last popped through.
She looked into the ship one last time. A red glow filled the cargo hold. The munitions were burning, with fresh explosions coming several times a minute. “Take that, you bunch of shit rats,” she muttered.
Then she kicked off, and sailed into the void.
This, she realized, was how she would die. She would float through the void for another minute or two, and then her air would run out and she would lose consciousness.
Her body would never be found.
Alice shrugged. Even for an honest cargo crew, space travel was fraught with risk. She'd been a raider for years. She was living on borrowed time, even before the war broke out. If this was the end of the line, well, she could hardly complain. She looked down past her boots at the burning freighter, hoping she might see it explode before she passed out.
The back of her helmet slammed into unyielding steel.
Garth Ham dragged her aboard the Winter Sunshine. She knew it was him by the olive swirls decorating his vac suit. He got her inside, closed the hatch, and spent an endless time fumbling with her helmet. When her helmet was off he raised his own faceplate and said, “Alice! Alice, are you okay?”
Alice, to her surprise and relief, was able to hear him. His voice sounded small and far away, but she could make it out over the ringing in her ears. “Garth,” she said. After that, she didn't know what to say. She couldn't shrug without moving her injured shoulder, so she grinned at him instead and said, “I guess I get to live.”
Chapter 17
Tom stood on a hillside, looking down at the Córdoba Social Club. The sun was down, but the dance hall was brightly lit, and he could see few stars.
The building was architecturally unimpressive, just a rectangle with a curved roof, but colored lights hung in loops from the eaves and bunting decorated the walls, giving it a cheerful, festive look.
Picnic tables decorated a lawn around the hall. The lawn was empty, though. A dozen or so people stood in little clusters by the front steps to the building. A steady stream of men and women emerged from the darkness, wove their way through groups of loitering people, and entered the hall.
Every man wore a formal jacket, and every woman wore a dress. Still, despite this attempt to emulate Earth fashions, the mark of colonial life was plain to see. There were no high heels, and many of the women wore either a vest or a belt with a selection of pouches. They might yearn for the sophistication of Earth culture, but this was the colonies, where an outfit with no pockets just seemed ridiculous. Tom grinned as he watched people file into the dance hall. Even when they dressed up, the colonists were pragmatic.
Footsteps scraped the asphalt behind him, and he turned. Two couples strolled up the middle of the street. The men wore matching jackets of deep umber, with baggy trousers tucked into high boots. The women wore bright dresses. A woman waved at him and called, “Are you looking for the hall?”
“I found it,” Tom said, and pointed.
“Great!” She looked him up and down. “Are you a spacer?”
He nodded.
“Are you Tom Thrush?”
He blinked, startled. “Yes…”
Both women giggled. “You're kind of famous. And, no offense, but we can tell you're not from the colonies.”
Tom looked down at himself. “Because I don't have a jacket?”
“You're a war hero,” said a red-haired young man. “You don't need to dress up.” He gestured at his own clothing. “I need to look pretty. It distracts people from my utter lack of accomplishments.”
That triggered hoots of laughter from his companions as they trouped past Tom. “You'd better hurry up,” said one woman over her shoulder. “All the pretty girls will be gone.”
“Well, it's better than it used to be,” said the red-haired man. “We used to get a hundred blueshirts every time we had a dance. Now that they’re banned, guys like me almost have a chance.”
“Except you're spoken for,” said the woman on his arm, and gave him a playful jab with her elbow.
“Yes, but you're going to get tired of me any minute now. I need to think of the future.” They continued to laugh and joke among themselves as they headed down the hill.
Tom shook his head, watching them go. So United Worlds spacers were banned from dances in New Panama? It was a depressing reminder that tensions between the supposed allies ran deep, and they weren't getting better.
He started down the hill, feeling strangely self-conscious. I don't belong here. They can tell at a glance I'm not from the colonies, and people from the United Worlds aren’t welcome.
I should just go home.
But the thought of his empty apartment depressed him. With the Kingfisher still under repair, he had a few hours of administrative duties each day. Aside from that, time weighed heavy on his hands. You need to meet people, or it's only going to get worse. People who aren't your direct subordinates.
That made him think of Alice. Will she be here? He tried to imagine Alice wearing a dress, and couldn't do it. No, the Winter Morning is on patrol. They won't be back for another day, unless they find something.
Doing his best to push thoughts of the war from his mind, he picked his way through groups of loitering colonists, up the steps and into the dance hall.
“Hold it, buddy.” A thick hand landed on Tom's chest, stopping him. A young man, meaty shoulders straining the fabric of a pale jacket, stepped in front of him, glaring. “Locals only.”
Tom wrapped his fist around the man's middle finger and twisted, bending the finger back. The man's mouth opened, and he arched his back, leaning away from the pressure on his finger. “Touch me again,” Tom said. “Any time you like. See how it turns out for you.” He let go of the finger, circled around the man, and walked into the hall without a backward glance.
You need to dial it down, Tom. This is a party. You could have spent five whole seconds explaining who you are. You need some better stress management techniques.
“That was nicely done. I salute you.”
Tom glanced sideways. The man beside him might have been thirty years old. His jacket had an archaic military look, with closely spaced buttons down the front and a lot of gold braid decorating the shoulders. It was not the uniform of a military Tom had ever encountered. It was as if someone had made a costume so he could play at being a naval officer.
The man inside the jacket had the good looks of a drama star from the feeds. From the wavy blond hair that swept back from his high forehead to his patrician nose and rugged jaw, he was almost ridiculously handsome. Broad-shouldered and lean-waisted, he moved with the grace of an athlete or a dancer. Only his height spoiled the effect. The top of his head barely reached Tom's nose, and Tom was not a particularly tall man.
“Nigel Cruickshank,” the man said, and stuck out a hand, which Tom shook.
“Tom Thrush.”
“I thought it might be you.” Cruickshank smiled. “You're making quite a name for yourself in the Neorome Navy.”
Tom shrugged. “The coyote pack does most of the work. I sit back and make suggestions, and then I take all the credit.” He grinned. “I used to give orders, but people who've been proudly independent for twenty years tend not to be great at doing what they're told. So now I make suggestions.”
Cruickshank chuckled. “Well said.” He leaned closer. “You know, if you ever get tired of working without pay, you could have a future with the Golden Hind. I could use an experienced officer.”
Tom said, “You’re a privateer?”
“I'm the greatest of the privateers.” Cruickshank sketched a little bow. “I'm easy to find. Come and see me when you're ready to get rich.” He strode away, regal as a peacock.
A six-piece band, mostly guitars and fiddles, performed on an elevated stage at one end of the room. Dozens of couples danced, and Tom paused to watch them. He didn't recognize the dance or the song, kind of a sprightly jig. The dancers looked like they were enjoying themselves, twirling and hopping and spinning, all of them rotating counter-clockwise around the floor.
“Captain Thrush!”
Tom turned to see a man close to his own age wearing one of the Free Neorome Navy's brand-new uniform shirts. “Spacer Jackson,” the man said, and gave him a brief salute. “I’m on the Egret.”
“Hello, Jackson.” Tom didn't return the salute. He didn't want to encourage a habit of random saluting from off-duty spacers. “Are you enjoying the dance?”
“Very much.” Jackson turned and gestured behind him. “Would you like to join us?”
Tom opened his mouth to decline. Sitting with his subordinates would be no fun for him or them. The table behind Jackson, however, contained almost a dozen people, none of whom looked like Navy personnel. Well, you wanted to meet people. “Sure. Thank you very much.”
He took a seat next to a matronly woman who reminded him strongly of his mother. She tried to get him to tell her stories about Jackson, and gave him a disappointed look when she learned they didn't even serve on the same ship. She told him how proud she was of Jackson, who was a distant relative, and how delighted she was with the heroic efforts of the Free Neorome Navy. She patted his shoulder. “I think you're doing a splendid job. We all do.”
Tom spent a moment squirming self-consciously. The conversation quickly moved on to other topics, though. Everyone at the table was either a close friend or a relative of everyone else, and they chattered about people and places Tom didn't recognize. He leaned back in his chair and let the conversation wash over him, enjoying the simple pleasure of being around people who were, if not friends, at least friendly. There was something wonderful about the realization that no one needed him to make a decision, no one was looking to him for orders, and if he screwed up, nothing very bad would happen.
“It’s a shame about the Kontos,” a woman said. “Still, at least they got the B14.”
That sparked a spirited discussion of the recent battle, much of it quite bloodthirsty. A week earlier the United Worlds battleship Kontos had arrived at New Panama with great fanfare, ready to end the grinding, bloody stalemate of the blockade. Five days later the mighty ship was a burned hulk orbiting the planet while salvage crews stripped her for usable parts. The official story was that she’d taken “moderate damage” and would soon be back in action. It was an open secret, however, that the battleship was a write-off.
The only consolation was that the Kontos destroyed the B14 in the same battle. The loss of lives and equipment was horrifying, but encouraging in a macabre way. The United Worlds had superior industrial infrastructure. If they could keep trading battleships one for one, they would win.
“You know, Captain,” Jackson said during a lull in the conversation, “I like this new way of doing things. After the reorganization, I mean. I like being back with my own crew. I didn't know how to talk to my old supervisor, the one I had before the reorg. But I know how to talk to Sweeney. He was my captain on the Bristlecone Pine.”
“I'll tell you a secret,” Tom said. “It's not really the new way of doing things. It's really the old way.” When Jackson gave him a blank look he said, “I modeled the organization of personnel after the way we did things in the UW Navy. Only, I spent most of my time on this ship that had just lost half its crew and almost all the officers.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering, then shook his head to clear the gathering shadows. “We lost all the experienced people. All the crew chiefs and department heads. And I forgot what it was supposed to be like.” He shrugged. “You're supposed to be on a tight team. You're supposed to work with the same people for years, and you're supposed to know who you report to and who to go to for guidance. I just forgot.”
By the look on his face, Jackson had no idea what he was talking about.
Tom clapped him on the shoulder. “Never mind. Thanks for telling me. I'm glad the reorganization is working.”
“It's a good system,” said Jackson. “You should use it on the new destroyer.”
“New destroyer?”
“The privateers brought it in this morning.” Jackson grinned. “It's a beauty. They shot the bridge to hell, but the rest of it’s in good shape. There’s even a secondary bridge, so she could probably fly right now, if we needed her.”
“Interesting,” said Tom. “Dawn Alliance destroyers are tough little ships.”
Jackson nodded. “The only hard part will be finding crew.” He grinned. “Three different privateer captains have offered me a job since I got here.” He plucked at his uniform sleeve. “I never should have worn my uniform. Mom insisted, though.”
Tom chuckled. “Never argue with your mother, Jackson.”
“You don't need to tell me, Captain.”
A plump brunette arrived a moment later, seized Jackson by the hand, and hauled him toward the dance floor. Tom watched as they vanished into the crowd of whirling dancers. The dance seemed bewildering at first, but as he watched he realized the steps weren't too complicated. It was the endless twirling that made it seem wild and chaotic. There was a dance called the nova, popular on Earth, with almost the same steps. This dance was pretty much just the nova as a hyperactive six-year-old might have performed it.
“Excuse me, Tom?” It was the older woman who had spoken with him earlier.
He racked his memory, trying to pull her name out of the whirl of introductions when he had first sat down. “Sarah?”
“Sira,” she said. She hesitated, looking almost bashful. “You're Cree, right?”
He nodded, realizing for the first time why she had reminded him so much of his mother. “You're Cree as well?”
She nodded. “I don't really speak it.”
“Neither do I.”
A look of relief spread across Sira’s face. “The local Cree community gets together once a week for dinner. The next gathering is tomorrow, and we'd love for you to join us. We usually do a potluck dinner.” She leaned forward, patting his arm in a reassuring way. “Oh, but you wouldn't have to bring anything. Just show up.”
The look on her face was so intent, so eager, that he couldn't refuse. “Sure. That sounds lovely.”
She beamed and brought out a data pad. Tom took out his own pad and held it next to hers as the two devices exchanged IDs.
“I'll send you the address,” she said. “It'll be fun.”
“Tom!” A figure dropped onto the chair recently vacated by Jackson, and Tom turned. It was Tia, smiling from ear to ear. “You came!”
He nodded.
“Well, don't just sit there. Aren't you going to ask me to dance?”
“Well, actually-”
“I'd love to!” She sprang up and held out an expectant hand.
Sira nudged him from behind. “Don't keep the lady waiting, Tom.” She sounded amused.
Tom surrendered, stood, and took her hand.
For the first minute or two he did his best to dance like the men around him. The problem was, the dance required the men to spin as enthusiastically as the women did. Tom, accustomed to dances where he just had to lift one hand while the women did all the twirling, found that every time he spun he lost the beat. After the third time he stepped on Tia's toes, he packed it in. From then on he just danced the nova, with a few extra spins for Tia.
They did three full orbits of the dance floor, the band never stopping, each song blending into the next. Finally, out of breath, they stumbled away and headed for a long table along the side wall, laden with punch bowls.
Tom was drinking lemonade, doing his best not to gulp it, when he noticed the dance had changed. “The men aren't twirling anymore,” he said, disgruntled. So why did I try so hard?
Tia giggled. “It’s because of you.”
He stared at her. “What?”
“It's because you're from Earth,” she said. “They think that whatever way you do things must be the right way.” She shrugged. “The next time they have a social, half the men won't wear jackets.”
“But …. But that's ridiculous!”
Tia laughed. “That's life in the colonies.”
“But colonists are so much more sensible than people back on Earth. Earthers should be emulating you, not the other way around.”
That made her smile. “We do try to project an aura of common sense,” she admitted. “But now you know the truth.”
He was telling her an involved story about how Alice and the other Free Planets revolutionaries had taught the crew of the Kestrel to improvise when he realized she was no longer listening. She stared past his left ear with the fixed attention of a cat who’s just spotted an injured bird. Tom looked over his shoulder.
“Captain Thrush!” It was Cruickshank, looking debonair with a glass of punch in one hand. “Are you enjoying the dance?”
I was, Tom thought sourly.
“You must be Captain Cruickshank,” Tia said, her voice a croon. “I've heard so much about you.” She handed Tom her glass without looking at him. “It must be so exciting, leading a crew of privateers.”
The two of them moved away, eyes fixed on one another, leaving a bemused Tom in their wake. He took a sip, discovered he was drinking Tia's strawberry punch, and set it on the table. He finished his lemonade and watched Cruickshank and Tia move toward the dance floor. They made a perfect couple, each as beautiful and as shallow as the other. Although he knew Tia was a terrible match for him, Tom was startled by the strength of his own envy. He examined the feeling, found it ridiculous, and started to chuckle.
He was watching the dance floor, wondering if Alice knew how to dance, when Jackson tapped him on the shoulder. “Captain? The Winter Morning just came in. Looks like they ran into trouble.”
Chapter 18
“Things have taken a bad turn, and they're going to get worse.”
Alice squirmed in her chair, searching for a comfortable position, and struggled to concentrate on Admiral Sayles’s words. Almost two hundred spacers filled the room.
One of them will be able to give me a summary later.
Her shoulder ached. The wound, packed with medical gel, itched fiercely. Neither the ache nor the itch seemed all that bad, however. Not through a fog of painkillers that made her feel as if she were floating on a lovely golden cloud. Her right hand rose toward her injured shoulder. She stopped herself before she could squeeze the wound to help herself focus.
“Our enemies are adapting, so we must adapt as well. They are now prepared for our old tactics and strategies, so we must meet them with new tactics, new strategies.”
Uh-oh. This definitely sounds like something I need to know. I wonder if anyone is recording this. She looked down at her data pad. I could record it. But I'm in no shape to figure out how to turn the recorder on.
“We need to increase our raids,” Sayles said. “We're getting some assistance in that area from our privateer friends, of course.” A dry chuckle came from the gathered spacers, and the admiral smiled thinly. “It's a chaotic sort of help, I'll grant you. I'm trying to get the privateer captains to at least tell us roughly where they'll be hunting. I'm tempted to have you shoot a few of them down to inspire the rest to be less close-mouthed.”
He would never give such an order, of course, and his crews would never carry it out. The privateers might be money-oriented hooligans, but they were allies.
“Our priority,” said Sayles, “must be to intercept the supplies that the Dawn Alliance is sending to their ground forces here on New Panama. The UW Army has so far failed to dig them out, but I have it on good authority that the Dawn Alliance groundside troops are in desperate straits. If we can keep them from being resupplied, will finally be rid of them.”
He grinned, and for a moment he looked like a young man. “Granted, our allies in the United Worlds are doing a decent job of blockading the planet. But it seems a shame to let them capture or destroy a lot of perfectly good freighters full of very expensive supplies.”
That drew another chuckle from the crowd.
“So we will continue to intercept their supply convoys and to steal their cargoes before they reach the blockade. I'm going to send you farther afield. Right now the Dawn Alliance ships feel secure until they’re within a day's flight of New Panama. We need to hit them when they're much farther out. We need to strike while they still feel safe.”
The rosy fog of medication in Alice's mind grew thin and faded away, leaving her feeling sober and chilled. She stood, surprising herself. What am I doing? I don't even know what I want to say.
Sayles looked her in the eye. “Yes, Alice?”
But she did know what she wanted to say, she discovered as soon as she opened her mouth. “Why is New Panama our priority?” She'd feared her voice would come out quavering and weak, but frustration made her sound strong. “The Dawn Alliance can't take New Panama. If they try, the UW will drive them back. They don't need our help. We need to focus on something the blueshirts aren't doing.” She gripped the back of her chair as a wave of dizziness hit her. It was over in a moment, and she straightened up. “We need to liberate Novograd.”
She sat, not because she had no more to say, but because her legs would no longer hold her. It made a dramatic end to her little speech as voices rose around her, some arguing, some expressing agreement.
The admiral let the hubbub die down. “You're right,” he said. “Novograd needs to be liberated. But that will be a massive job.” His arms swept out, encompassing every spacer in the room. “We have a strong force, and it's growing every day. But it's hopelessly inadequate for the task of freeing Novograd. They're fortifying Sunrise Station. The station by itself is a nut we can't hope to crack, never mind the fleet that's in orbit.”
Sayles planted his hands on his hips and shook his head. “I'm sorry, Alice. I would dearly love to liberate Novograd. Even if I didn't care about the people there – and I care about them deeply, I've got friends there – I would want to take the planet back for strategic reasons. It's absolutely essential for the war effort. The Dawn Alliance has numbers and momentum and shorter supply lines. Their weak technological infrastructure is the only advantage we've got.” His eyebrows drew together and descended. “Once they finish retooling the factories on Novograd, our only advantage will be gone. We'll be in the soup.”
A fresh wave of muttering rose from the gathered spacers.
Sayles spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “But we can only do what we can do. We've built a strong navy here, and it's getting stronger. I won't throw it away, not on a hopeless assault on Novograd. If I thought we could win, if I thought we even had a decent chance, that would be another matter. But there's only one thing we can do for Novograd.”
His gaze swept the room, silencing every murmur, then came to rest on Alice's face. “We can do everything in our power to eradicate the Dawn Alliance ground forces on New Panama. Then the United Worlds can turn their attention to Novograd. Believe me, they want to liberate Novograd almost as badly as we do.”
It was an entirely unsatisfactory answer, and Alice sagged in her chair, frustrated. The hell of it was, she knew Sayles was right.
When the meeting broke up she heaved herself to her feet. Despite sitting for the last half hour, she felt as exhausted as if she'd just run a couple of kilometers with one of her crew slung over her shoulders. She desperately wanted to sit back down, but stubbornness kept her on her feet. She exchanged small talk with a couple of people, then headed for a particular doorway along the side of the room.
“Alice.” Tom Thrush walked up beside her, then slowed to match her pace. “I heard you were injured. How are you doing?”
She opened her mouth to say she was fine. However, forgetting for a moment about her shoulder, she also tried to lift her left hand in a dismissive gesture. Instead of speaking she gasped, and she clutched Tom's arm as a fresh wave of dizziness hit her.
“Holy hell. Here, sit down.”
“No.” That single syllable was all she could manage, but Tom accepted it. He stood there, poised to catch her if she fell, and wisely said nothing about her death grip on his upper arm.
When the dizziness passed she let go of him, then reconsidered and grabbed his arm again. She felt as weak as a spring lamb, like she might fall on her face at any moment. I'll be damned if I'll act like an invalid, though. She took a step, and didn't collapse. She took another step.
“Where are we headed?” Tom said.
Speaking seemed like too much work. Alice nodded in the direction of the doorway that was her destination, and they walked, one trembling step at a time.
She kept waiting for him to offer her a chair or to tell her she needed to take it easy. All he did was walk, though, and she felt a rush of gratitude. She also felt her strength returning, at least in part. By the time they reach the doorway she even let go of his arm.
The room beyond was a chapel of sorts. One wall had become a memorial to casualties of the war. There were a depressing number of pictures set in simple brass frames. Almost two dozen, last time she had counted. She scanned the faces, feeling a familiar twist in her guts. She stopped as she found the picture she was looking for.
Dutch, looking cocky and smug and heartbreakingly young, smirked at her from the frame. Alice said, “Help me with a candle, would you?”
Tom selected a thin wax taper from a box and put it in her left hand. He found an igniter, put it in her right hand, and took it back from her once the candle was lit.
Carefully, gently, she set the burning candle into a small holder on the bottom of the frame. “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I'm sorry I couldn't bring you back.”
Tom glanced at her, his face full of compassion. He scanned the wall of photos, and stiffened. Alice watched, startled, as his hands curled into fists. “What is it?”
“They're not dead.” By the sound of it, he was speaking through clenched teeth.
She followed the direction of his gaze and saw O'Reilly's smiling face looking out from a brass frame. The rest of the Blue Heron’s crew surrounded him. “Oh, Tom.” It's been almost two months. If they were going to return, they would have by now. You need to let go. By the look on his face he didn't want to hear those words, so all she said was, “Oh, Tom, I'm sorry.”
Chapter 19
Battor Ganbold's first space battle was not going well.
“Bring us around! Mag gunners, stand by.”
A warning bell sounded as rounds peppered the destroyer's hull, and a red warning light flashed on the main status display, telling him the ship had taken fresh damage. “It's no good, Captain,” said his First Officer. “We just lost Thruster Three.” The man looked up from his control station, his eyes wide and frightened. “We need to use the air system.”
“No!” Ganbold snapped. I better not get hurt. This fool seems to have forgotten basic tactics. If he takes command, we’re doomed. “We still have two thrusters. Bring us around so we can finally shoot back.”
“They're too fast!” Dagvadorj's voice was rising. He sounded close to panic. “We need to get out of here!”
“You need to bring the ship around,” Ganbold said, even if that was technically the job of the helmsman, not the First Officer. “Everything's going according to plan.”
In a twisted way that was almost true. Five small raiders had burst from a storm front, and Ganbold had taken the R87 to intercept them. Another destroyer and a cruiser had retreated with the supply ships. Two raiders pursued while the other three went after R87.
Two small raiders would never be able to overcome the remaining escort ships. They would need reinforcements, which meant that if Ganbold could keep these three raiders busy, the enemy would slink home empty-handed.
Another alarm blared, and R87 lost another nav thruster. This doesn't feel like success.
R87 packed a real punch for her size. She could handle these raiders easily, if they would just slow down. Fighting the urge to curse, Ganbold calmly ordered the remaining nav thrusters to keep burning. “Give me some thrust on the main engine,” he added. “Let's see if we can disrupt those fancy maneuvers a bit.”
The “fancy maneuvers” consisted of all three raiders making tight circles around the waist of the destroyer. R87's big guns all pointed forward, and the raiders didn't seem inclined to target the main engine. So they raced in circles around her midsection where they were out of harm's way.
Especially now that both his laser batteries and all four machine gun turrets were disabled.
“Captain! They're all over us. They're too fast. We can't touch them!”
“Compose yourself, Section Leader,” Ganbold said. R87 had a tiny bridge, and he could smell the man's fear-sweat. “The situation is under control.”
Dagvadorj looked as if he wanted to argue, but he stayed silent. Until another warning bell sounded. Then he looked up and said gloomily, “We've lost the last thruster.”
The barrage from the raiders continued for a couple more minutes. The enemy ships achieved little except to mark up R87’s hull plates. The destroyer, designed to survive a brush against mines, had plenty of armor. She could ignore this sort of indignity for hours if she needed to, now that everything vulnerable had been destroyed.
“They’re matching velocities,” Dagvadorj said. He sounded resigned now, like a man who has accepted the inevitability of his own death.
I almost preferred it when you were terrified. Ganbold looked at the battle display that filled one bulkhead of the bridge. The raiders were no longer dashing in circles around the destroyer. The three ships were clustered together, like predators watching a prey animal to see if it had any tricks left.
“Gods preserve us,” Dagvadorj said. “They've launched a boarding party.”
Tiny shapes detached themselves from all three raiders, figures in vac suits racing through the gulf toward the destroyer. In moments they would be cutting their way through the hull and swarming inside.
“All hands,” Ganbold said. “Stand by to repel boarders.” He took a deep breath. “Helm. Bring us about. Use the air jets. I want a shooting solution on two of those ships.”
It was a sign of the helmsman's stress that he didn't acknowledge the order, just nodded and tapped keys. Well, it's his first space battle too. If he gets me my firing solution, I'll forgive him.
He couldn't hear the hiss of escaping gas as compressed air rushed into the void from concealed ports on the fore and aft ends of the destroyer's hull. The tiny openings, practically invisible, had gone unnoticed and untargeted by the raiders.
With surprising swiftness the nose of the destroyer swung around. Ganbold leaned forward in his chair, peering through the tiny window at the front of the bridge. He wanted to tell the gunners to be ready. He wanted to give them the order to fire at just the right moment, but he held his tongue. They were professionals. They knew what to do, and the ship's computer would time things much better than he could.
The whole ship shuddered when the magnetic guns opened up. The raiders were not yet in sight, but the motion of R87 gave the shells a sideways momentum that guided them unerringly to their target. The little raider fleet came into view through the bridge window, one ship already in motion, trying to evade the incoming rounds. Ganbold watched in grim satisfaction as that ship, not quite fast enough, shook and jerked with the impact of steel bullets. Vapor erupted from a dozen breaches in her hull.
Another set of air jets fired, stabilizing the destroyer with her nose pointed directly at a second raider. The little ship blew apart as he watched, torn up by a stream of steel slugs.
The tactical display showed the approaching boarding party as a cloud of orange specks, like a swarm of gnats. Several specks flashed out of existence or abruptly changed direction as slugs hit the fragile spacers. Other specks veered away in a panicked reaction to the barrage.
The destroyer had four magnetic guns. Together they could spit out six rounds per second, which didn't sound like much until he saw the rounds hitting their target.
Each round was just a chunk of steel about the size of a man's head. There was no gunpowder, no electronics, not a single expensive component. That meant that, for once, Ganbold didn't have to watch his ammunition. Round after round poured into the doomed freighter, and it disintegrated before his eyes.
The third raider darted away, unscathed. The first raider was completely disabled, and Ganbold thought about giving it another volley. The ship was finished though. There was no point.
Metal clattered against the hull of the destroyer. The sound seemed to come from every direction, and it went on for some time, like a ground car driving into a hailstorm.
The boarding party had arrived.
It took real effort for Ganbold to remain on the bridge. He wanted to prowl the corridors, gun in hand, destroying these impudent invaders wherever he could find them. His people were well-trained, however. They would do better without him.
Metal thumped against metal directly over his head, and he smiled. The bridge had an escape hatch in the ceiling. It seemed to have attracted some attention.
“Prepare for vacuum,” he said, and closed the faceplate of his helmet. He drew the flechette pistol on his hip and stood. The gun, powered by compressed air, was good for only a dozen shots or so.
It would be plenty.
“Shut down the gravity to B Section,” he said, and took a deep breath, preparing himself. A warning sounded over his suit radio, and his guts lurched as his stomach told him the deck was dropping away beneath him. He spent a moment waiting for the nausea to pass. Then, with a gentle kick, he rose from the deck, spun in midair, and touched his boots to the ceiling.
He activated his boot magnets, squatted, and reached for the emergency handle in the middle of the escape hatch. His three-person bridge crew, upside-down from his point of view, stood poised with their own flechette pistols aimed at the hatch.
Ganbold twisted the handle and pulled.
All the air on the bridge left in a sudden rush, and he glimpsed an enemy spacer, caught by surprise, tumbling away into the void. A pair of knees hung suspended in the opening, and he saw the tip of the slug thrower tilting down as a second spacer reacted to this unexpected threat.
A storm of flechettes flashed upward as the bridge crew opened fire. This was no United Worlds marine, highly trained and wearing armor. This was an amateur. Steel darts tore through the fabric of his vac suit, slicing into his knees and shins. Blood and vapor erupted in a fine spray, then more blood in gleaming spheres that hung in the void as the body of the spacer drifted away.
The barrage of flechettes ceased. Ganbold saw with amusement that Dagvadorj was still squeezing his trigger, apparently unaware the weapon was out of air. The other two tilted their guns up, indicating that it was safe for Ganbold to cross the line of fire.
He moved into the hatchway. One body drifted away from him, a man with his lower legs badly lacerated. Three flechettes jutted from his chest, as well.
A woman was braced in the hatchway, both hands gripping a laser rifle almost as long as she was. Ganbold couldn't see any wounds on her, and he had a bad moment when he thought she was still alive. But a single flechette had gone right through the center of her faceplate. Blood coated the inside of the glass. No air vapor escaped through the hole.
He pried the rifle from her arms, planted a hand in the middle of her abdomen, and shoved her out into space. He could see the third spacer, the one who'd been blown back when the bridge depressurized. It was a man, a fat fellow in an orange vac suit. He was a good thirty meters away, just bringing himself under control with measured bursts from little rocket pods mounted to his belt.
Ganbold brought the rifle to his shoulder. It had an excellent scope, and he waved a fingertip in the holographic display, zooming in. When the spacer was a vast orange blob wobbling in the gunsight, he squeezed the trigger. Then he returned to the bridge and closed the hatch.
Reports trickled in from across the ship. The boarding parties, forced by the destroyer’s thick armor to come in through a handful of airlocks, had not fared well. Some of them died on the hull. A dozen or so fled the destroyer, launching themselves toward the disabled raiders.
The last undamaged ship raced in, attempting to pick up the fleeing survivors of the boarding party. For several minutes the R87 played a brutal game of tag, firing slugs at the fast-moving raider. The raider didn’t bother returning fire. Instead it darted to and fro, trying to recover vac-suited spacers without slowing for more than an instant.
It was an amusing exercise, but Ganbold broke it off before long. There were two more raiders out there, after all. Either they would return, putting R87 in real danger once again, or they would get lucky and manage to take a supply ship while he was wasting time here. “That’s enough,” he said. “Helm, bring us around. We’re following the fleet.”
The main engine hummed and the destroyer moved out, leaving the shattered remnants of the raider fleet to pick up the pieces and creep away.
Chapter 20
Sira lived in a small bungalow on the edge of a park set around a tiny lake in the north part of New Panama. She’d slid back a couple of walls to create a long room able to accommodate the nine guests who arrived for the weekly dinner. Once again everyone knew everyone else except for Tom. He was pleased to retain two or three names after the introductions ended.
After each introduction she would retreat to the kitchen, where she was laboring over a moose roast. Moose, Tom learned, was a rare treat. Deer had roamed New Panama for eighty years, but only recently had the climate cooled enough for the introduction of moose. Just in the last few years their numbers had risen to a point where they could be hunted.
Every guest brought a dish. Tom watched as a serving bowl full of beans was given a place of honor on a side table next to a platter of corn on the cob. A plump woman stepped back from adjusting the bowl, then straightened up. “We don’t have any squash!”
“Jerry’s bringing squash,” another woman assured her. “The triangle will be complete.”
The first woman glanced at Tom, caught the puzzled expression on his face, and smiled. “Do you know about the triangle? No?” She gestured at the side table. “It’s a New Panama tradition. No big meal is complete without all three parts. Corn, beans, and squash.”
“We can’t grow them here anymore,” the second woman chimed in. “It’s too cold now. But they still grow at Broken Toe. That’s at a lower altitude. It’s warmer there.”
Tom nodded. Broken Toe was nothing but a dot on a map to him, an outlying settlement near the coast.
“The first settlers always grew corn, beans and squash,” the first woman said. “The squash shades the ground and keeps the soil moist. The corn gives the beans something to climb. And the beans put nitrogen back into the soil. They make the perfect trio. The early colony couldn’t have survived without all three.”
“If it gets any colder they won’t be able to grow the triangle at Broken Toe anymore,” a man said. “Then there’ll be hell to pay.”
“We’ll have to establish a new settlement farther south,” someone countered. “We’re not giving up our corn.”
That triggered a lively conversation about terraforming and climate. It had the sound of a well-worn debate, people repeating familiar arguments and counter-arguments. Tom let it wash over him as he strolled around the room, looking at the pictures on the walls.
The art was a mix of prints showing the landscape of New Panama and watercolors, done by a talented amateur, showing street life in Panama City. The watercolors had to be fairly old, because they showed palm trees where evergreens now grew.
A photograph caught his eye. A little girl, a toddler, stood in a doorway, her expression grave and determined as she lifted one foot to step across the threshold. She wore a brown dress decorated along the hem with beads. Tom leaned close, squinting. The dress was cloth dyed to look like buckskin. The little girl had a wooden rifle slung across her back.
“That’s Sira,” said a white-haired man, stepping up beside Tom. “She’s about a year old in that picture.”
Tom looked at him, searching his memory for a name. “Bill?”
Bill nodded and smiled.
“Is this her walking out ceremony?”
“Sure is.” He beamed. “Do you still have those, back home?”
Tom nodded. “Some people make a big deal out of it. Others just take a few pictures and mark it in the calendar.” He grinned, remembering. “My mother says I almost ruined my ceremony. She and Dad planned it for weeks. They got the whole family together, invited the neighbors over. She spent hours baking. Then they dressed me up in buckskin and waited for me to do my thing.”
Bill laughed. “Let me guess. You didn’t cooperate?”
“No I didn’t, and I don’t think she’s forgiven me yet.” He chuckled. “She told me she spent three days trying to keep me from darting out the front door until everything was ready. Then, with everybody watching, I sat down and refused to move. And when she tried to encourage me I started crying and wouldn’t stop.”
More laughter came from the other guests. A woman said, “My niece was like that.”
“So what happened?” said Bill.
“Well, Mom decided it would be a shame to let all that baking go to waste. So she started passing around the food, and everyone got talking, and they forgot all about me. Apparently that was enough for me to gather my courage. Or else I got tired of being ignored.” Telling the story took him back to his mother’s kitchen, where he’d squirmed in embarrassment as she told the story repeatedly over the years.
“So up I got, and my uncle noticed and held the door for me. Everyone else pretended not to look. And out I went!” Tom shook his head wryly. “The only pictures are from behind. By the time I finally went out there was no one left outside.”
That triggered a mix of laughter and good-natured teasing. The others took turns sharing stories of walking out ceremonies.
Sira appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Does everyone back home wear buckskin?” she said.
The room went quiet, and Tom had the strangest sense they were hanging on his words. His mind flashed back to the dance hall and the way the colonists had copied his style of dancing. They think there’s something special about me because I’m from Earth. Because I lived on a reservation. He looked from face to face, realizing for the first time that he was probably the only full-blooded Cree in the room. They think I’m going to judge them. To tell them if they’re doing things right.
“Some people put their children in leather,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Others use fabric. Sometimes with traditional decorations like Sira had.” He gestured at the picture. “Sometimes not.” He looked around at the watching faces. “Some people put their kids in cloth jumpsuits that look like vac suits. To symbolize space travel.”
Sira and her guests stared at him, uncomprehending.
“I grew up literally in the shadow of the Interstellar Launch Tower,” he said. “The whole world knew a portal tower was the key to exploring the galaxy, but no one wanted something so powerful and untested right next door to them. Only the Cree had the courage to host the construction of the tower.” He waved an arm, doing his best to encompass the entire Green Zone. “Space travel, colonization, all this, it’s as much a fundamental part of Cree history as hunting and trapping.”
It was a relief when the conversation turned to colony politics and relations between New Panama and the Free Neorome exiles. Tom took a seat at the table, glad to be out of the limelight. I’m twenty-four years old. How could you possibly take me for an expert on Cree culture? I’m the youngest person in the room. I should be learning from you.
As they ate he found his thoughts drifting to the war. This interlude on New Panama would end soon. The Kingfisher would fly again. He would return to the maelstrom.
So far he’d been lucky, but his luck couldn’t last. The Dawn Alliance was learning and adapting, and soon the captured factories on Novograd would begin churning out ship components and ammunition. The war was going to get worse. I’ll be in the thick of it. For however long I last.
The message came in on his data pad while he was helping to clear the table. The Kingfisher’s repairs were complete. She was ready to fly. There was no great need for him to rush to the shipyard. It would take time for the crew to gather. They wouldn’t launch until sometime tomorrow at the earliest.
Nevertheless he found himself unable to relax or to concentrate on the conversation around him. He made his excuses and hurried away from Sira’s bungalow.
As he walked across the darkening town he didn’t feel the dread he expected. A return to the Kingfisher meant a return to danger and hardship, but for some reason he wasn’t afraid. His heart beat a little bit faster than the exercise of walking required, and Tom reluctantly admitted to himself what he was feeling.
He was excited.
This is stupid. You’re not supposed to look forward to days on end of unrelenting stress. He was, though.
On the outskirts of New Panama, just past the reach of the last streetlights, he paused to rest his legs. The spindly framework of the shipyard loomed like a jungle gym not far ahead, the Kingfisher shining under a dozen work lights like a deadly jewel. Tom looked at her and smiled. Soon. Soon you’ll be out of that undignified shipyard. Both of us will be back where we belong. Up there, among the stars.
He looked up. It was a clear night, and though the night sky from here was a poor substitute for the view from a ship in orbit, he could still make out a few hundred stars.
One star sank toward the planet, fire streaming from beneath her as her main thrusters controlled her descent. For a moment Tom’s stomach tightened. This was no bombing run, though, no invasion. The arriving ship moved slowly, with no harassing defenders firing on her. Whatever ship it was, she was friendly.
Probably another trophy taken by privateers. That was good news overall, even if the privateers were a source of irritation. Cruikshank, who Tom had met just a day earlier, was rumored to be dead, ambushed by a resourceful destroyer. The stories said two raiders had been lost with most of their crew. If it turned out to be true it would be hell on morale. A fat prize would help keep people’s spirits up.
He resumed walking, enjoying the exercise, enjoying the cool night air. At last he reached the front gate of the shipyard. A sentry stepped out of a guard hut and swung the gate open. “Hello, Captain.”
“Hello, Chris. All quiet?”
“Not even close,” the man said. “Did you hear the news?”
Tom shook his head.
“She’s back!” Chris grinned from ear to ear. “Can you believe it?”
“I might, if I knew what we were talking about.”
“The ship! She just touched down. They’re alive!” He gestured in the direction of the Navy spaceport. “The Blue Heron is back.”
Chapter 21
It was three hundred and nineteen steps from Alice’s tiny rented room to the Golden Pharaoh Café. She counted, because she was trying to beat her personal best of just over five hundred steps before she had to either sit down or fall down. The walk to the café challenged her more than she liked to admit, but it was far from her limit. When she lowered herself into a seat at the café’s largest table she was grateful but not desperate for the chance to sit down.
Two men and a woman sat at the table, all of them eating. They took their eating seriously, too. Not one of them paused between swallowing and taking another bite of whatever they were having. The woman gave her a friendly wave. One man mumbled “Hello” around a mouthful of food. And then they ignored her.
She didn’t let it bother her. All three were fresh off the Blue Heron. It was nineteen hours since the corvette had touched down, and the survivors seemed to have spent most of that time stuffing their faces.
When the main meal, some sort of open-faced sandwich, was cleared away, an amused waiter brought bowls of soup. The three spacers, the worst edge apparently gone from their hunger, finally gave Alice some attention. They didn’t stop spooning up the soup, though.
“Ho, Alice,” said a black man with close-cropped hair. He’d always been athletic, but with the plump cheeks of a cherub. Now he looked gaunt. “You should try the soup.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “I had a good breakfast.”
“So did I,” he said, “but that was almost three hours ago.”
She smiled. “It’s good to see you, Mike. I thought you were done for.” Alice looked around the table. “Charlotte, isn’t it?”
A pale blonde woman nodded around her soup spoon.
Alice turned to the remaining man, a slim older fellow with brown skin and straight dark hair. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Ram,” he said, and took another spoonful of soup before adding, “Nice to meet you.”
“You’ll have to take your pictures down from the memorial wall.”
They looked at her blankly.
“Right, that was after you left.” Alice badly wanted to quiz them about their adventures over the last six weeks, but it seemed cruel to make them speak when they clearly just wanted to eat. Instead, she brought them up to date on everything they had missed. She told them about raids and ambushes, the rise of privateers, and the invasion of Novograd. She informed them that the Navy had uniform shirts now. A few people even had uniform trousers. And, on two separate occasions, the crews had even been paid.
“Amazing,” Mike said, pushing away his empty bowl. His gaze slid to a menu lying on the tabletop. He turned away with the air of a man exercising great self-control and looked at Alice. “Does that mean you can pick up the bill?”
“Not a chance,” Alice told him.
“I told you it was on the house,” the waiter called. “Although I had no idea what I was getting myself into.”
“I just want to eat,” Charlotte said. “My stomach is full and I still feel hungry. I want to order one of everything. I want to send someone out for everything I can think of that’s not on the menu.” She picked up her empty soup bowl, scraped at it with her spoon, and licked up a last few drops. “Oh, that is so good.”
“I take it things were pretty rough,” Alice said.
Mike shook his head. “Only the fact that we were on water rationing and everyone smelled bad kept us from considering cannibalism.”
“Speak for yourself,” Ram said. “I considered cannibalism. But since I was just about the fattest man on the crew, I thought I’d better not set that particular ball in motion.”
Mike said, “We’d still be out there, too, if it wasn’t for the battleship.” He grinned, milking the moment. When Alice gave him an impatient glare he relented. “We were puttering along at about ten percent burn. It should have taken us another three days to get here.” He gave her a quick description of the Heron’s engine problems.
“That’s fascinating,” Alice said. “Now tell me about the battleship before I smack you.”
“We came across the strangest thing,” Mike said. “About twelve hours before we touched down here. We were creeping through a storm front, doing a scan with a remote sensor.”
“That’s one advantage to idling along at a slow crawl,” Ram interjected. “You can use a remote sensor while you’re moving, if you’re careful.”
Mike nodded. “Anyway, we saw a supply fleet.”
“That’s not so strange,” Alice said.
“This fleet was strange,” Mike assured her. “There were six cargo ships and a battleship. And nothing else.”
It took a moment for that to sink in. Alice said, “That can’t be right. They only put battleships in big fleets. They give them destroyers and corvettes and so on. For protection.” She shook her head. “Do you know how much a battleship costs? They’re slow-moving, too. Can’t dodge worth shit.”
“I know,” Mike said.
“So they need protection,” she told him. “Something to keep them from getting swarmed. Otherwise a small ship might dart in close and get in a lucky shot with a missile. A five-hundred-million-cred battleship might be crippled by a three-million-cred corvette.”
“I know it,” Mike agreed. “The captain even talked about taking a shot at it. But he decided it would be better to bring word. So we fired up the engine, full bore. And gambled that our fuel would last until we got here.”
Alice winced.
“It was fine,” Ram said, waving a dismissive hand. “We had a good ten, fifteen minutes left by the time we touched down.”
“Yeah, I don’t know why the captain was being such a timid duck about it,” Mike said.
“I don’t get it,” Alice said. “Why would they risk a battleship like that?”
“We couldn’t understand it either,” Mike admitted. “Until you told us about everything that’s been happening here.”
Charlotte leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. Her knuckles bumped her soup bowl, and she gave it a brief, yearning glance before focusing her attention once again on Alice. “A battleship can punch right through whatever defenses the UW has got around New Panama. They can bull their way through the mines and clear a path for the supply ships. They can shoot up the defending fleet. I bet the whole supply fleet will be able to touch down.”
That, Alice knew, would be a disaster. Still, the loss of a battleship would be a disaster for the Dawn Alliance. “But why send just the battleship?”
“I bet I know,” said Mike. “The small ships are going to make a feint. They’ll come at the planet from the far side. A big fleet to draw off the blockade. Then the battleship will smash its way in and get back out before anyone can react.”
Alice thought it over. She knew little about fleet tactics, even less about large warships. Sending in a battleship without escorts sounded risky as hell. If it worked, though …. With more troops and the right equipment, the Dawn Alliance might even take New Panama.
“I better get back to my ship,” she said. “It looks like we’re going to be busy.”
A portal opened ahead of the Kingfisher, and she slid through and into normal space. The storms of seventh-dimensional space vanished, replaced by a star-filled black void. For a moment the Kingfisher was alone. Then several raiders came through the portal behind her, a moment before it closed. More portals opened on every side, and the rest of the ambush fleet came through.
It was a large fleet. In addition to the Kingfisher there were two corvettes, the Egret and the Merlyn. The Blue Heron was not part of this mission. She was back on New Panama, in the shipyard, with her engine in pieces.
Nine raiders accompanied the three warships. This would be a formidable fleet for most of the missions undertaken by the Free Neorome Navy.
Against a battleship, however ….
It will be fine, Tom thought. The plan is a good one.
“Looks like everyone is here,” said Cortes at the Communications station. He cocked an eyebrow at Tom. Like the rest of the bridge crew – like the rest of the fleet – he was wondering just what they were doing in this out-of-the-way stretch of empty space.
“Give me a channel to the rest of the fleet,” Tom said. It took a minute or two, but at last Cortes looked up and nodded.
“This is Commodore Thrush. As some of you may have realized, this is no ordinary raid. We gained some interesting intelligence from the Blue Heron. Our friends in the Dawn Alliance are becoming desperate. Every time they send a supply ship to New Panama, it gets destroyed or captured. The United Worlds blockade is just too strong. Their troops on the ground are out of ammunition and starving.”
A satisfied murmur moved around the bridge. None of this was news, but everyone enjoyed hearing it repeated.
“They are taking a huge gamble,” Tom said. “Sometime in the next few hours, the bulk of the Dawn Alliance fleet will make a mock attack on New Panama. This attack will draw most of the blockade fleet to the far side of the planet.”
The bridge was silent now. He had everyone's undivided attention.
“Meanwhile, several supply ships are about to make a run for New Panama. They have only one escort, but it's a doozy. The Dawn Alliance has brought in a battleship. They've kept it secret. The United Worlds has no idea it's in the neighbourhood. It's going to clear a path through the minefield and lead a convoy of supply ships right down to the planet. Then it's going to bug out before the blockade fleet can retaliate.”
Tom looked around the bridge, letting the suspense build. “At any rate, that's their plan. We're going to disrupt it.”
Cortes grinned at him. Sharon Vasquez at the helm exchanged a nervous glance with Tucker at Operations. Tackling a battleship was a tall order, after all.
“Battleships are dangerous,” Tom said conversationally. “However, they are not invulnerable. We have eight missiles on board, and we're going to give them some very specific programming. The battleship is escorting a supply fleet, so it won't have its Benson fields turned on.” Please God, let them not have their Benson fields on. “Our plan is to locate the fleet without being spotted, and to scatter our missiles in her path. We'll retreat to a safe distance, wait for the battleship to pass the missiles, then watch the fireworks while they target her engines and cripple her.” Tom paused, letting that sink in. “Then, we'll chase down the supply fleet and see how much we can steal.”
Someone gave a nervous chuckle. Vasquez drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair, then stopped herself.
“Commodore.” Tom didn't know which of his captains was speaking over the radio. “What if they spot these programmed missiles before they strike? What if the battleship turns on its Benson fields?”
“Then we cancel the attack,” Tom said. “We hightail it back to New Panama and tell the United Worlds there's a battleship inbound. Don't worry. I'm not ordering anyone to go toe to toe with a battleship.”
“Well, that's a relief,” said the voice over the radio.
“We're approximately in the path of the fleet right now,” said Tom. “Based on their position and velocity when the Blue Heron spotted them, we can expect them to arrive anywhere from one to three hours from now. We're going to return to hyperspace and find a good big storm to hide in. The warships will keep out of sight while the coyotes spread out and look for the fleet.”
He looked around the bridge. Expressions on the bridge crew ranged from eager to apprehensive, but no one looked unduly afraid. They actually think we can do this.
I hope they're right.
“Any questions?”
No one spoke.
“Then I'll see you in hyperspace.”
Chapter 22
Battor Ganbold stared through the bridge windows of the destroyer, aware that his hunched position was putting a kink in his neck. He wished for the thousandth time that the ship had larger windows, though he understood that windows were a vulnerability.
A storm loomed ahead of R87, a big one. Soon all he could see was roiling clouds of vermillion energy. He leaned back, rubbing his neck, and looked instead at the navigational display on the port bulkhead. The supply fleet, far behind him, was invisible. That was fine with Ganbold. If the fleet ran into something a battleship couldn't handle, his piddly destroyer wasn't going to be much help.
Of course, if he ran into trouble, it would take a while for the battleship to catch up and offer any aid.
That thought was enough to make him lean forward again and peer through the window. A shimmering glow washed across the glass as the nose of the ship pushed its way into the storm, and the navigational and tactical displays flickered. The ship would be half blind until it broke through the far side of the storm.
This was a dull assignment, but it had the potential to become interesting. Lethally interesting, in fact. He thought back to the little corvette he had glimpsed so briefly the day before. R87 had been just inside a wall of cloud when the corvette floated past at the very limit of scanner range. It was well aft, which meant there was a good chance the corvette had spotted the supply fleet. Battleships were good at a great many things, but stealth was not one of them.
As for whether the corvette had spotted the destroyer, there was no way to know.
The maddening thing was that he didn't even know if the ship was friend or foe. It had the silhouette of a Dawn Alliance vessel, but there were captured ships in the colony fleet. He was confident of his ability to handle whatever the colonists threw at him, but they might bring their allies in the United Worlds.
Or the cruiser he had heard so much about, the one that traveled with a pack of raiders and had destroyed, damaged, or captured so much Dawn Alliance shipping.
The cruiser might have missiles, and that was a problem. R87 had received only token repairs after her last battle. The trio of raiders had destroyed every gun turret and every navigational thruster on the destroyer. The nav thrusters were all repaired, but the guns, for which there was very little ammunition anyway, had not been fixed.
His laser batteries didn't require ammunition, but lasers were delicate technology. R87 was on a waiting list for replacements. In the meantime, she flew armed with nothing but her magnetic guns.
Which were a formidable enough weapon, Ganbold reminded himself. They had destroyed two raiders so far, after all.
If the mystery corvette belonged to the enemy, and if it spotted the supply fleet, then he would have ample opportunity to put the mag guns to use once again.
The problem with a secret mission, he thought ruefully, was that you couldn't share your itinerary with other ships. The corvette was probably friendly. All this worry was probably for nothing. But there was no way to be sure.
“The storm is thinning,” Dagvadorj said.
Ganbold started to lean forward, then made himself sit back and look instead at the tactical display. The ship's scanners would spot an enemy ship faster than his eyes would. “Stand by guns,” he said.
Dagvadorj glanced at him, exasperation showing in his eyes for just an instant. Bringing up the gun-control screen in advance only saved a few seconds, and it was almost certainly a waste of time. Nevertheless, he brought up the weapons controls and waited with his fingers curled above the screen.
Through the window the storm energy thinned, became translucent, then vanished. A bell chimed, and a red circle appeared on the tactical display.
“Ship!” said Dagvadorj.
The icon on the tactical display flashed, telling Ganbold the AI had analyzed the silhouette. It was a raider, or just possibly an innocent small freighter with extraordinarily bad luck. Either way, it was certainly not a Dawn Alliance ship.
“Fire!” Ganbold cried. “Shoot now!”
With magnetic launchers, the longer the barrel, the greater the acceleration. The magnetic guns on R87 had barrels that ran the full length of the ship. It meant the guns couldn't be aimed independently. The whole ship had to point at the target. But with all her nav thrusters repaired, R87 needed only a moment. She swung around like a bird dog that had spotted a duck. For an instant the destroyer hung motionless.
Then the deck plates vibrated against the soles of Ganbold's boots as the magnetic guns started to fire.
Alice sat at the helm station on the bridge of the Winter Morning, glumly aware that she had made a mistake. Half a dozen people, from a surgeon to Admiral Sayles himself, had advised her to sit this mission out. She’d been shot, after all. She needed bed rest, not combat.
But had she listened? Of course not! Not Alice Rose, iron-willed warrior of the space lanes. She wrinkled her nose, disgusted with herself. It was two hours into her shift and she was feverish and lightheaded. The only thing keeping her in her seat was the knowledge that she wouldn’t be able to rest even if she gave in and retreated to her cabin. “Bridger?”
Bridger glanced at her.
“Can you double-check our position?”
That made his eyebrows climb his forehead. He opened his mouth, and she gave him a hard look. He closed his mouth and turned back to his console. “It looks like we-” His head whipped up. “Ship!”
There was a procedure for unexpected contacts. The thing to do was to wait, just a few seconds, while you gathered information and determined if you’d been seen. Alice, running a fever and with her nerves stretched tight, forgot the procedure completely. Her hand darted out and dragged down the slider control for main engine thrust. The engine hummed, her seat pressed against her, and then the whole ship jerked with a sudden terrible impact.
Garth Ham, sitting in the third bridge seat, cried out, an inarticulate shout of shock and dismay. Half a dozen alarms sounded all at once, buzzing and shrieking and beeping in a brain-numbing cacophony of sound. Red lights flashed all over Alice’s console. She sat frozen, overwhelmed by it all, knowing she had to do something but completely unable to move.
Bridger was speaking, his voice no more than a gabbling sound in the background. Alice stared at him helplessly. Some tiny corner of her mind, however, remembered at least a portion of her training. She tapped her console, silencing alarms one at a time.
The reduction in noise helped. Just taking action, making a decision, helped more. By the time the last alarm went silent she was at that point where adrenaline sharpened her mind instead of stupefying her.
We’re moving. That’s good. It makes us harder to hit. She checked the position of the enemy ship and made a course adjustment. We need to move across a perpendicular plane. If we run straight toward him or straight away it won’t help at all.
She found she was already doing evasive maneuvers, her hands moving across the controls without conscious thought. The Winter Morning wove and zig-zagged as it flew. It seemed to be working; after the first moment of the attack, there had been no more impacts.
The engine doesn’t sound right. She played back the first few seconds of the battle in her memory. They spotted us as soon as we spotted them. Maybe even a fraction sooner. They opened fire, and we started moving. She closed her eyes for a moment, immersing herself in the memory. We started moving before the first shell hit.
That meant the Winter Morning had been moving out of the path of the incoming rounds when they struck. They hit us aft. They hit the engine.
“Bridger.”
He looked at her.
“I didn’t hear a single thing you said.”
For a moment he just stared at her. Then his gaze returned to his console. “It’s just one ship. A destroyer. The range is about eight kilometers.” He glanced at her. “Did you get that?”
“Yes.” Her hands continued to move on the thruster controls as she surveyed her console. A flashing light told her something was wrong with the main engine, but it gave her no more information than that. “Ham. Get me Radisson. I need to know what’s going on with the engine.”
Garth Ham leaned forward and murmured into the microphone set in his console. “He’s not responding.”
“Bridger, take the helm controls. I’m going aft.” She put her hands on the arms of her chair, started to push herself up, then froze as pain tore through her injured shoulder. For a moment a roaring sound filled her ears, and the bridge spun around her. It took her a moment to realize they had not in fact lost artificial gravity.
“On second thought, I’ll keep flying. You go check on the engine.” She grimaced. “You’re better with engines than I am.”
“True,” he admitted as he clambered past her. “Of course, I’m a better pilot, too.”
“Liar,” she muttered, then hissed as he brushed her shoulder in passing.
The bridge hatch beeped, refusing to open. “We’re losing air in the mid section,” Bridger said.
Alice sighed and closed the faceplate on her helmet. Ham rose half out of his chair and pulled down on a thick red handle set in the ceiling. Dust motes danced in the air as fans started, drawing air from the bridge. When as much atmosphere as possible had been salvaged, Bridger opened the hatch and headed aft.
“How bad is it?” said Ham, sounding like someone badly frightened and trying to hide it.
“We’re moving,” Alice said, working out the details as she put them into words. “So the engine is still functioning. But it’s sluggish. We’ve lost a lot of thrust. More than eighty percent, I’d say.”
Ham nodded, his face pale.
“Let’s see. We’ve lost atmosphere completely in the aft section. The mid section has a bad leak. I don’t know how many rounds hit us. I don’t know what they hit us with, either, but whatever it was, it packed a hell of a punch.”
“Can we fight back?”
“Not really.” Alice shook her head. “They can hit harder, and they’ve got loads of armor. Our only advantage is that we’re more maneuverable. But with our engine crippled, that advantage is gone.”
Ham said, “Should we ditch the thruster?”
Alice pondered the question as she took the ship through a tight figure eight. The Winter Morning had a thruster pod latched to her hull. It was bulky and clumsy, and it would slow them down. The odds of being able to use the thruster to bring home a captured supply ship now seemed pretty slender. But ….
“I think we better keep it,” she said. “We might need it to get ourselves home.”
“Can we use it right now, to get us out of here?” Ham shook his head, answering his own question. “Never mind. They don’t steer well.”
The portable thrusters were good for pushing a ship along in a straight line. They weren’t much good for evasive maneuvers.
“Alice?” said a voice over her helmet radio. “Can you hear me?”
“I hear you, Bridger.”
“It looks pretty ugly back here, but we can do a field repair.” He paused. “We lost Radisson.”
She winced. “Get on the repairs. We need to make some tracks. I don’t know how much longer I can keep evading.”
“I need at least ten minutes. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
She didn’t hear the impact when the next round hit them. It would have been deafening in atmosphere, a terrific thump that made the seat jump beneath her. She ignited both port thrusters at once, making the ship slide sideways. It was probably a wasted effort. By the time her fingers reacted, the Winter Morning had already moved out of the path of the shells.
The destroyer wasn't advancing. That made sense; the closer the target, the larger the adjustments the ship would have to make to track its target. It wasn't retreating, either. The vermillion wall of the storm was close behind the destroyer.
There was no storm energy anywhere near the Winter Sunshine. The destroyer had caught them in a clear gap. Alice silently cursed her luck as she tried to figure out how long it would take for momentum to carry them into some kind of cover.
“Did we just lose gravity?” she said.
“No,” said Ham, and gave her a worried look.
That's not a good sign. I feel like I'm floating. She shook her head, hoping to clear it. The bridge lurched around her. Oh God. Please don't let me puke in my helmet.
“We should ditch the thruster,” Ham said. “The fleet knows where we are. And we're not far from New Panama. Even if the engines burn out we won't be stranded like the Blue Heron.”
For a moment Alice just stared at him. Then her moment of disorientation and dizziness faded as quickly as it had arrived. “Make sense,” she said.
“I'm on it.” He rose from his seat.
“Wait.” He froze, and Alice said, “I have an idea. I want you to point the thruster at that destroyer and ignite it.”
He stared at her, his brow furrowing through the faceplate of his helmet. “I'll never hit it. Not at this range.”
“No, but you'll give them something else to shoot at, for a moment at least.” And it will make them wonder what we're up to. She'd learned never to underestimate the psychological component of a battle. Sometimes, just pretending you had a card up your sleeve was enough to make an enemy do something foolish.
“All right,” said Ham, and headed aft.
“Alice?” said Bridger, his voice tense and frustrated. “We need to seal the aft section. We need air to work. It's just too clumsy with gloves and helmets in the way.”
Sending people out onto the hull to apply patches while the ship was taking fire sounded like utter foolishness to Alice. But, if that was what he needed …
“Everyone who goes outside stays on a tether,” she said. “I won't stop making evasive maneuvers.”
“Understood.”
The radio went silent, and she had the bridge to herself. She wanted to call someone – anyone – to join her. If she passed out, the ship would fly in a straight line until the destroyer noticed and hit them with a barrage. The rest of the crew, however, was busy. Those who were still alive. She thought about Radisson and wondered if he was the only casualty.
A flashing light told her an airlock was opening. She flew the ship in a straight line for several seconds, reasoning that it was a break in the pattern that might actually help her avoid incoming fire. Then she brought the ship around in a gentle curve designed to press the exiting crew members harder against the hull, rather than flinging them off into the void.
The thought of those fragile bodies, protected only by flimsy vac suits, persuaded her not to be gentle with her maneuvers any longer. Not that the hull seems to be much protection, she thought darkly. Those shells seem to punch right through.
At least it's not explosive rounds, she told herself as she made the ship twist and spin. I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies.
“That's the last patch,” Bridger announced. “We're coming back in.”
“Roger that,” said Alice. She made her evasive maneuvers slightly less wild for the next minute or so, until the airlock warning light went dark.
Something moved in the corner of her eye, and she jumped. It was Garth Ham, the skin around his eyes crinkling, showing that he was grinning. “The thruster is good to go.” He held up a thick black box with a joystick on top. “The remote is ready.”
The joystick would only have one active button, she knew. The only thing he'd be able to do with the remote was ignite the thruster. She waited until he was back in his seat with a hand poised over the joystick. Then she swung the ship around and pointed the nose directly at the destroyer. “Now!”
Ham slapped a button on the end of the joystick, and the ship wobbled as the thruster broke free. For a moment a fiery glow filled the bridge window. Then the thruster raced away, shrinking as she watched it. When it was nothing more than a point of light she blinked, then couldn't find it again.
“Well, that's that,” Ham said. He looked at her. “What's our next trick?”
As if on cue, Bridger announced, “the engine’s ready to go. Give us a moment to clear the engine room. And don't take it above seven or so.”
“Right.” Alice swung the tail of the ship around, pointing the Winter Morning at the nearest cover, a pocket of dark blue storm energy thirty or forty kilometers to starboard. The pocket was isolated, a blob of churning energy a few kilometers wide, with clear space on every side. She figured she’d duck inside, then dart out the far side where she’d be invisible to the destroyer.
“Go!” said Bridger, and she fired the main engine. The ship gave a satisfying rumble and surged into motion.
“Uh-oh,” said Bridger. “The weld is coming apart, Alice. You need to back off.”
The Winter Morning plunged into the blue cloud. Alice cut thrust, then swapped ends, pointing the tail of the ship in their direction of travel. The energies of hyperspace would eventually slow the ship, but not until they’d shot well past the far side of the cloud. She had no choice but to ignore Bridger’s warning and use the main engine to decelerate hard.
For a moment the ship was in the heart of the little storm. Sparks erupted from her console, and she swore, unfolding the manual controls stored under the screens. “Ham! How’s your console?”
“Nothing but static.”
That was better than spraying sparks, but still no immediate use. With no way to get scanner data she couldn’t tell how fast the ship was moving. She squinted through the windows at the storm.
The clouds, nearly black, faded to cobalt. For a long minute nothing changed. Then the clouds became wispy and pale as the ship neared the perimeter of the storm. Alice cringed, imagining them about to pop out the other side and into the destroyer’s line of fire.
Then the clouds began to darken. She immediately cut thrust, watching nervously as the storm thickened around them. The last of the ship’s momentum bled away and the clouds outside stabilized, thick enough to hide the ship but not so energy-charged that they would do damage. She let her shoulders sag and sighed in relief.
“My screen’s back,” Ham said. “Looks like we’re stationary.”
“Good.”
“What now?” he said.
“Now I start replacing components on my console,” Alice said. “Once that’s fixed we’ll try to spot the destroyer. Then we’ll make a run for a bigger storm.”
“No we won’t.” It was Bridger, his voice lugubrious. “You’ve completely fried my repair job. We’re back to fifteen-percent thrust.”
“Oh.” She drooped. “Can you fix it again?”
“Maybe.” There was a moment of silence. “Probably. It’ll take hours. It might be faster to just fly home with what we’ve got.”
Except the destroyer would demolish them the instant they left their little clump of cover. And there was a battleship on its way. She wilted in her chair. One way or another it would all be over long before the crew could make repairs.
“Fix the …” She made a flapping gesture with her hand, then looked at Ham. “What’s the word? The thing.” She gestured again. “Do the … thing. What you said.”
Bridger said, “Alice? Are you all right?”
Of course I’m all right, she thought indignantly. She couldn’t make the words come out, though.
“She’ll live,” said Ham. “But you’re in command now. I’m taking her to her cabin.”
That was completely ridiculous, and Alice badly wanted to tell him so. The words slipped away from her as fast as she could assemble them in her mind, so she closed her eyes to help herself concentrate. Her light-headedness immediately got worse. It felt like she was rising from her seat, and she clutched the arms of the chair reflexively.
She felt Ham’s fingers prying her hands loose. She opened her eyes in time to see him tuck her unceremoniously under one arm. He turned down the gravity so he could carry me. That’s why I’m light-headed. That means I’m fine! She struggled, and completely failed to free herself.
“Knock it off, Alice.” He maneuvered her through the narrow bridge hatch, bumping her head a few times. “You need to lie down.”
“I’m perfectly fine.” There! I finally got a sentence out.
“Prove it. Break free from a data geek who’s holding you with one arm.” He waited while she struggled. “That’s what I thought. Now quit being a pest and bend your head forward. We’re coming to a corner.”
She was unconscious by the time they reached her cabin.
Chapter 23
“Captain Dell says he's found the battleship,” Cortes said, his voice eager. “Range about three hundred kilometers.”
Tom leaned forward in his seat. “Vasquez. Plot us an intercept point.” He glanced at his navigational display, which showed a cluster of green icons representing the rest of the fleet. “Is that all the coyotes?”
“Everyone except the Afternoon Thunderstorm and Winter Morning,” Tucker said. “Ah. There's the Thunderstorm now.”
“Intercept plotted,” Vasquez said.
“We need to move,” said Tucker.
Tom hesitated, wanting to wait for the Winter Morning. The ship could arrive at any moment. Or it might be shadowing the battleship, unable to safely break away. Or delayed by engine trouble, or any of a hundred other possibilities. “Pass along the interception point to the rest of the fleet.”
“Already done,” said Cortes.
“Then let's get moving.”
The fleet raced through the void, curving only slightly to avoid a bulging mass of emerald-green storm. The interception point plotted by Vasquez was in open space. Tom's nav screen showed the projected path of the battleship and the supply fleet as a red line that emerged from a gap between distant energy banks, passed a thick blue storm that was quickly breaking up, and vanished into the green storm.
“Take us inside that green mess,” Tom said. “Not too deep.”
The fleet plunged into the storm, spreading out to avoid collisions and make detection difficult. The windows filled with churning green energy.
When the cruiser was more or less in the path of the oncoming battleship, Vasquez brought the ship to a halt. Tucker deployed a remote scanner pod, and Tom switched his navigational screen to a tactical display.
And bit back a curse. A Dawn Alliance destroyer was dead ahead, no more than a hundred kilometers away.
“Bloody hell,” said Tucker. “They've got a scout.” He twisted around in his chair, looking at Tom.
“We'll wait,” said Tom. “With any luck he'll fly right past ….” Tom's voice trailed off as a fresh icon appeared on his display. “What is that?”
When storms dissipated, they often broke into pieces, each chunk forming its own tiny storm before fading away. A little clump of blue storm cloud floated near the destroyer, growing more translucent every moment.
And the cloud contained a ship.
“It's the Winter Morning,” said Tucker. “What the hell are they doing?”
Ruining our plan, that's what they're doing. Tom thought furiously. We can't just sit here. They'll never believe it's just one ship on its own. They'll change course, skirt around this cloud. They'll be on high alert.
And, of course, they'll destroy the ship. They'll kill the crew.
They'll kill Alice.
“We're going after that destroyer,” he said. “Right now. Before the battleship gets into scanner range.” We'll have to drag the wreckage into the storm. But if we're quick, we might just have time.
Alice dreamed she was dying.
In her nightmare shells tore into the ship, ripping through the hull plates like so much tissue paper. The ship lost atmosphere and Alice, for some reason not wearing her suit, fought to breathe as she searched frantically for an oxygen bottle.
She came awake, gasping. The familiar shape of her cabin surrounded her, and she heard no alarms, no sounds of impact. She took a deep breath and told herself to relax.
Then another deep breath, and another. She couldn’t get enough air. In fact, she really was suffocating. Her hands came up, and she saw her gloved fingers pressing flat against the faceplate of her helmet. Well, that makes no sense. Even if the ship’s lost atmosphere, I'm in my suit. Her eyes reflexively scanned the readouts inside the helmet. And she swore.
Her suit tank was empty.
She was half out of her bunk and pawing through the storage bin beneath her bed before she noticed a small green light glowing under the flashing amber “Bad Air” warning. According to the suit’s limited sensors, her cabin still held breathable air at a full atmospheric pressure.
Alice retracted her faceplate and spent a minute or so just breathing deeply. The musty air of her cabin, smelling faintly of socks, had never tasted so sweet. Who the hell stuck me in here and left my helmet on?
She changed tanks and walked to the bridge, taking stock of what her ship was doing. Evasive maneuvers seemed to be in full swing, the ship twisting and changing direction constantly. She struggled with her memory, trying to recall the last few moments before she fainted. We were inside a pocket of cloud. But little pockets like that never last.
When she reached the bridge she was unsurprised to see the faded remains of the storm dissipating through the bridge windows. Bridger was in her usual spot, so she took his seat.
Ham said, “Alice. Are you sure you should be …” He took in the expression on her face and said, “Never mind.”
“Smart boy,” she told him. Then, to Bridger, “What's our status?”
“See for yourself,” he said, and pointed.
She looked through the windows as the Free Neorome fleet came out of a wall of green storm cloud. “The cavalry's here.”
“Not a moment too soon, either.” Bridger worked the helm controls and the fleet vanished as the nose of the Winter Morning swung around.
Alice brought up a communications display. “Winter Morning to Kingfisher.”
“I'm not sure you want to bother the commodore,” Bridger said cautiously. “You're not … entirely … yourself right now.”
She ignored him.
“This is Kingfisher,” said an unfamiliar voice.
“This is Alice Rose. I think that destroyer has lost its missile defenses.”
Bridger shot her a look. “No it hasn't.”
“I think it has,” Alice insisted. Her subconscious had pieced it together as she slept. “Ham sent the thruster straight at them. It must have looked like a missile. But I don't think they even shot at it.”
Ham cocked an eyebrow at her, then tapped at his screen.
“I don't think you're really in a condition to-”
“She's right,” said Ham. The image on his screen was barely recognizable as the destroyer, but he pointed at a blurry spot and said with absolute confidence, “You can see the forward port gun turret right there. It's a mess.”
Bridger gave Ham a skeptical look, but didn't argue. “All right,” he said at last. “You've delivered your message. You should really go back to bed.”
“And miss all the excitement? I don't think so.” She brought up a tactical display and zoomed out so she could see the destroyer and the fleet at the same time. “This should be a pretty good show.”
“If she's wrong, it's a hell of a waste of missiles.”
Tom looked at Tucker and nodded. The problem was, destroyers were wretchedly tough. They were heavily armored, and he needed to kill this one quickly. He called down to the missile bay. “I want you to launch three birds. Clustered targeting.”
Three missiles left the Kingfisher’s missile bay during the next thirty seconds. The first two missiles floated, waiting, until all three missiles were clear of the ship. Then the rockets on all three missiles ignited together and they streamed toward the waiting destroyer.
Tom watched from the bridge, fighting the urge to hold his breath. The missiles wobbled as they flew, a simple evasion pattern to dodge any incoming fire, until the last possible instant before they would reach the destroyer’s Benson field. Then the evasions stopped and all three missiles raced in, aiming for some preselected point on the destroyer’s hull. They might target her bridge, Tom thought. It was the weakest point on her hull, though it was just about impossible to hit.
And the missiles were only so precise. Choosing their target at a range of over a kilometer, unable to steer, they would be doing well if they hit within several meters of one another.
The first two missiles hit simultaneously, sending up an eruption of fire that drew a cheer from Tucker. The third missile slammed home an instant later. Whatever the algorithm was that guided the missiles, it hadn’t targeted the bridge. The damage was amidships on the destroyer’s belly.
“They've lost power,” said Tucker. “Her bridge just went dark, and her radar is out.”
Which meant, in all likelihood, her Benson field was down. It was a priceless and narrow window of opportunity. Tom said, “Hull damage?”
“We buckled a plate.” Tucker met his gaze, his smile wide and predatory. “There's a hole in her armor.”
“Missile bay,” Tom snapped. “I need a smart missile, and I need it now. Opportunistic targeting.”
Seconds crawled past. This time Tom held his breath, waiting for the destroyer to recover power. Once her electrical systems reset, her Benson field would come back on and a narrow split in an armored plate would become an impossible target to hit.
“Missile is away.”
Yes! “Is she …”
“I think the power is still down,” Tucker said.
An instant later, Tom knew it for sure. The missile, corkscrewing to avoid any defensive fire, straightened out in the last split second, slid unerringly through the narrow gap in the destroyer's armor plating, and exploded.
“Take us forward,” Tom said. “Let's finish her off before she can recover.”
The fleet advanced, and Tom brought up a recording of what the scanners had seen during the missile strikes. He slowed the playback and watched, smiling broadly, as the fourth missile slammed home.
The detonation was spectacular, contained and magnified by the destroyer's armor-plated hull. Tom winced as he watched the explosion in slow motion. The damage inside the ship must have been terrible.
“I can see flames through the bridge window,” Tucker said, his voice subdued now. “It's out now, but for a moment there it glowed like a lantern.” He crossed himself. “I think she's had it. I think the bridge crew is dead.”
For a moment no one spoke. I would have preferred prisoners. But there's too much at stake to be squeamish. “Get a grapple on her,” Tom said. “We need to drag her back into the storm.”
“Too late,” said Tucker. At the same time a voice crackled over the bridge speakers, one of the raider captains, his voice a mix of trepidation and awe. “Commodore! The battleship just arrived.”
At least she hasn't got any more escorts. That was the closest Tom could come to optimism. He watched, dry-mouthed, as a massive battleship emerged from a wall of storm cloud ahead of the Dawn Alliance supply fleet. At least there's no more nasty surprises.
Not that the battleship needed help, particularly. Tom had seen battleships before. He might have even seen this one; it might be the ship he'd encountered above Black Betty in the opening days of the war. That ship had demolished the Kestrel with contemptuous ease, and now it was freshly repaired and ready to destroy his command again.
That's enough of that. We’re not licked yet. He opened a channel to his captains. “Well, we found what we were looking for.” He checked his tactical display. “In fact, they’re making it easy for us.” The supply fleet, instead of fleeing, was staying close to the battleship. They would be easy pickings, if the behemoth could just be crippled.
If.
“I know she's big,” Tom said, “but that just means she's ponderous. If we can handle cruisers and corvettes, a brick like this was going to be no trouble at all.”
He didn't mention that a battleship like this had survived a sustained barrage from the entire United Worlds fleet during Operation Fuego.
“She's just an outsized cruiser, really. Keep moving, keep dodging, and they'll never touch you. Don't bother with nav thrusters. Focus on guns. Pull her teeth and the Kingfisher will come in and finish her off. Don't worry, I saved some missiles.”
The captains didn't respond directly, but there was a quick rush of crosstalk as they discussed their attack pattern. In theory the details of the strategy should have been up to Tom, but there was nothing to be gained by trying to take the initiative back from his captains. He knew by now what they were capable of. He knew that the best thing to do was to keep quiet and let them work.
The coyote pack swept forward, ships crossing back and forth in front of one another in a complex braided pattern designed to baffle the battleship's gunners. The distance between the two fleets closed rapidly. The cruiser and the two corvettes hung back, which Tom didn't like. But the Kingfisher was just a punching bag to a battleship. He could achieve nothing except to make the enemy use up some ammunition tearing the Kingfisher to shreds.
“Do we really have a chance?”
Tom wasn’t sure which of the bridge crew had spoken, but he answered automatically. “Of course.” The truth was, he had no idea. No one had ever sent converted freighters against a battleship before. He knew that fighters were the bane of a battleship captain’s existence. That was why battleships always traveled in fleets. They needed smaller, faster ships to take care of flying pests like the fleet now rushing in.
This is one for the textbooks, he thought. There’s never been a battle like this one before.
This isn't a good test, though. We only brought nine coyotes. Eight, with the Winter Morning disabled. We should have a dozen. Two dozen. With even a few more hours of warning …
A moment later, he found himself wondering if maybe it was a good thing his ships were so few. The Mossy River Stone took a barrage of explosive shells and lurched, jolted out of formation. Ships on either side banked hard to avoid a collision, and continued their approach.
“We're taking damage,” said a woman's voice, hoarse with strain. “We lost the dorsal battery.”
Tom zoomed in on his display, looking for a raider with topside damage. Instead he saw the Afternoon Thunderstorm, vapor dribbling from a hole in her starboard side.
She kept advancing, though. All seven ships did, as the Mossy River Stone swapped ends and began a slow retreat.
Seven coyotes swept past the nose of the battleship, leaving her forward gunners with only one target. More shells tore into the River Stone, and flames erupted from her engine. When the flames died down the ship was adrift, crippled.
“Advance,” said Tom. “We’ll extract the River Stone. And get in a few shots of our own.”
“We're not making much headway, Commodore.” Tom wasn't sure which captain had spoken. “We might have disabled one gun turret. Maybe. But they've got dozens of them.”
As Tom watched, the coyote pack rose above the stern of the battleship. The supply fleet broke away and fled, ignored by the raiders as they raced along the top of the battleship’s hull, guns blazing. A gout of flame erupted as a laser turret on the battleship exploded. But the Canada Thistle abruptly lost control, spinning madly before smacking into the battleship. The impact wouldn't do any harm to the big ship, Tom knew. The armor plates could handle far worse than a glancing blow from a small freighter.
The Canada Thistle, however, was in bad shape. She bounced away from the battleship’s hull, then twisted sideways, circling around and beneath the ship.
“This is a shit show,” someone said. “We’ll all be dead before we've taken out half their guns.”
Tom opened his mouth to order a retreat. The coyotes were already moving, though, following the Canada Thistle’s lead. The battleship had fewer guns on her underside.
Shells pattered against the hull of the Kingfisher as she moved into range. Half a dozen lights flashed on Tom’s console, warning him of minor damage. A red-gold flare in the corner of his eye drew his gaze to the Merlyn. Flames erupted from the corvette’s side, then vanished, snuffed out by vacuum.
The incoming fire tapered off as the cruiser and the corvettes matched velocities with the River Stone and moved out of the battleship’s effective range. The brief barrage had taken a toll, though. The Merlyn wobbled as she flew, badly hurt.
The coyotes raced along under the battleship, disabling a couple more guns in passing. The Canada Thistle bled atmosphere, but she kept up.
Then the tattered little fleet passed the nose of the battleship, and the barrage resumed in earnest. A shell tore through the Trout from stern to nose, vapor erupting from the entry and exit holes as she lost atmosphere. A laser blast hit the Free Bird, shearing off a wingtip.
A minute later the coyotes reached the Mossy River Stone and the larger ships as they limped away from the battleship. The other raiders slowed to keep pace.
“Well, commodore,” said a weary voice. “What are your orders?”
That sounds like Dell, on the Free Bird. Tom dismissed the thought as irrelevant. The question mattered, not who had asked it.
What are your orders?
I can't send them back. They're getting shot to pieces, and they're achieving nothing.
I wonder how many people I just lost.
That thought was a trap, one that would paralyze him if he let it take root. The dead are beyond help. Focus on what you can still do. He glanced around the bridge, saw more than one set of eyes staring back at him, and knew that the rest of the crew – and the rest of the fleet – was waiting for his decision.
We need to retreat. Obviously. We're taking a pasting, and it's only going to get worse. We need to get the hell out of here.
But the Mossy River Stone is crippled, and so is the Merlyn. The Canada Thistle might be able to keep up, but the Winter Morning can’t. We need to evacuate those crews.
He glanced through the windows at the battleship, moving inexorably toward him. Then he switched his gaze to his tactical display, calculating how much time he had before the battleship overtook the damaged ships.
Not enough time. We'll never get everyone off.
I've been silent for too long. Right or wrong, I need to give an order right now.
“Advance,” he said. “The Egret will join up with the coyotes. Put tethers on the River Stone and the Merlyn and try to pull them out of harm’s way.” Tom looked around the bridge, taking a moment to look at each of his bridge crew and to think about all the other men and women aboard the Kingfisher. He had an idea, half-formed in his subconscious. He figured it had at least a fifty-percent chance of working.
But the crew of the Kingfisher was going to pay a heavy price.
It's war. There are no options where nobody dies.
“Helm,” he said, “take us straight at that battleship. We need to slow her down.”
Chapter 24
A flood of missiles came to meet them, making a cluster of angry red dots on Tom's tactical display, too numerous for him to count. One by one the icons vanished as the Kingfisher’s guns did their work. The last couple of missiles hit the Kingfisher’s Benson fields, lost their ability to steer, and raced past, missing the hull by no more than a couple of meters.
The Kingfisher’s aft guns destroyed the missiles before they could clear the Benson field and reactivate.
“That was too close,” Tucker muttered.
“Focus,” Tom said. To the helmsman he said, “Keep closing.”
For a moment it looked like Tucker wanted to argue. He closed his mouth, though, and bent over his display.
“Call Captain Antigonish to the bridge,” Tom said. The call would be a huge relief to his First Officer. His role in the current crisis was to stay far from the bridge, doing nothing in particular, ready to take over if the bridge took damage and Tom was incapacitated. The suspense had to be just about unbearable.
The Kingfisher advanced, evading constantly. As the range closed, though, the sheer volume of fire pouring from the battleship became more than any ship could avoid. The occasional thump and clatter of a round hitting the hull became a patter as constant as raindrops, and alarms sounded as the hull took damage.
“We just lost Turret Two,” Tucker announced. Then, a moment later, “Missiles inbound!”
Antigonish walked into the bridge, just in time to see a missile flash past the bridge windows. He flinched, then grabbed the back of Tom's chair.
Tom, his eyes glued to the tactical display, watched missiles wink out of existence one at a time and knew that the defensive barrage wasn't enough. He braced himself, and the ship jerked beneath him as a pair of missiles struck home and detonated.
An alarm wailed for a moment, then went silent. “Power down!” Tom barked. “Everything.” He thought back to how Tucker had determined that the destroyer had lost power. “Turn off active scanning. Turn off the lights. Kill our Benson field.”
Tucker wasted a moment gaping at him. Tom, who hadn't had time to share the plan that was still coalescing in his mind, snapped, “Just do it. We're playing dead.” He stood, walked to the bridge hatch, and paused. “Mr. Antigonish, you have command. We will continue to play dead until I tell you otherwise.”
Antigonish, his eyebrows making surprised half-circles on his forehead, nodded as Tom hurried into the corridor.
Just aft of the bridge Tom found a spacer in firefighting gear standing at the intersection of two corridors. His orders would be to stand by until there was damage in his area. Tom said, “Get to Airlock Two. I need you to override the safeties and vent a bunch of atmosphere.”
The spacer's eyes widened. “You want me to do what?”
“I need that battleship to think she's crippled us. Vent enough atmosphere that they see a good big vapor plume. Understand?”
“I …” The man nodded and took off at a run.
Tom hurried to the closest gun turret, where he found three nervous spacers, one in the gunner’s chair and the other two standing by. “Listen carefully,” Tom said. “This ship is playing dead. We're going to wait for that battleship to move past us. When it does, and when I give the order-” he held up a stern finger, “not a moment before, mind you. When I give the order, you're going to target every aft-facing gun on that battleship. Every gun you don't destroy will be shooting back at you, so shoot straight and shoot fast.” He started to move away, then paused. “Oh, and spread the word to the other gun crews.”
Amidships he found a spot where the wall of the corridor buckled inward. Crumpled deck plates covered in a slick coat of fire retardant foam made his footing treacherous as he scrambled past. The faceplate of his helmet clicked shut as he passed a small air leak. When he was past the damaged area his faceplate opened again.
Oh, my beautiful ship. What have they done to you? At least the damage had halted for the moment. It would resume, though, as soon as the Kingfisher started shooting again.
The next stop was the missile bay, where he found the surviving crew of a tanker called Snow on the Wind. They hadn’t been Free Worlds revolutionaries, just honest spacers with the misfortune to be from Tazenda. Half the crew had died when the Dawn Alliance destroyed the tanker. The survivors went directly to New Panama and joined the navy.
“Listen up,” Tom said without preamble. “That battleship is about to fly past us. When it does, you’re going to fire on her engines with every missile we’ve got left. We’ll be inside her Benson field, so it’s ballistic shooting only.”
Mohamed Tarkan, once First Mate on the Snow on the Wind, now crew chief of the missile bay, said, “Right, Boss. One missile per engine?”
“No.” Tom reached reflexively for his sleeve, remembered he no longer had a data bracer, and looked around. The missile bay had taken minor damage. One bulkhead was scorched and coated in soot. Tom marched over to the blackened panel.
“Here’s how the engines on a battleship are laid out.” With his fingertip he drew six circles in the soot in a three-by-two grid. “All the engines are linked together. You can run all six engines, or, if you want to save fuel, you can run just these two.” He tapped the middle two circles. “There’s no other way to do it. They have a lot of shared components. If you wanted each engine to run independently, they’d have to be twice as big.”
The watching spacers nodded.
“This is your target,” Tom said, and tapped the center of his diagram. “Right between engines Three and Four. A missile between the two engines will cripple them both. And that will make the other four engines unusable.” He looked at the missile team. “Any questions?”
Tarkan furrowed his brow. “Are you sure?”
Not entirely, Tom realized. On a United Worlds battleship, everything he’d said was true. That was why a destroyer or a frigate was always deployed aft of a battleship in fleet actions. Were Dawn Alliance battleships built the same way?
“I’m certain,” Tom said. “You put a missile in just the right spot and that battleship will become a giant floating brick.”
Tarkan and his team looked at one another, grinning. Tom said, “Pick your moment. And tell me when you fire the first missile.”
“You can count on us, Captain,” Tarkan said.
It occurred to Tom that he had nothing now to do. He hesitated, thinking, then crossed to the tactical screens near the aft bulkhead of the missile bay. Just as sophisticated as the controls on the bridge, the display would show him the progress of the battleship as it overtook the Kingfisher.
As he reached the screens, though, they filled with static. “Looks like we’re in their Benson field,” Tarkan said.
The screens quickly reset with a much simpler display. “Don't you worry, Captain,” Tarkan said. “We can still hit what we're aiming at.”
The battleship, its attention focused on the tantalizing gaggle of damaged ships limping away directly ahead, ignored the apparently crippled cruiser floating beside it. Tom felt some of the white-hot tension inside him ease up, ever so slightly. He'd been certain the battleship would give them one more close-range barrage, just to be sure. Maybe even a missile.
He let out a breath. “Well, at least we-”
Metallic impacts drowned out his words as shells tore into the Kingfisher. A siren blared, and an endless string of distant detonations sounded as explosive shells detonated against the Kingfisher’s hull plates. The hatch behind him slammed shut as the corridor beyond lost atmosphere, and the sound of the detonations changed as shells punched their way through the hull and exploded within the ship.
There was nothing to do but endure the pounding and hope the battleship soon decided to conserve ammunition. Shell after shell slammed into the side of the cruiser, and someone screamed, loud enough to be audible through the deck plates.
And then the barrage ended. Tom held his breath, listening. Boots thumped on the deck plates overhead, and metal groaned somewhere. But no more shells came.
He looked at the tactical display beside him. A massive wireframe diagram of the battleship glided slowly past on the screen. He looked up and met Tarkan’s eyes.
“We can still shoot,” Tarkan said.
Then the crew of the Merlyn still has a chance. And Alice and her people on the Winter Morning.
“Seal up your helmets,” Tom said. He gestured at the closed hatch. “I'm going out there.” He overrode the safety settings on the hatch controls, braced himself against the coming rush of air, and opened the hatch.
And stared into hell.
The ship burned. That was his first impression, and it was bolstered by a momentary burst of flame as the air from the missile bay rushed past him. The flame was gone in an instant, extinguished by lack of oxygen, but a red glow filled the shattered remains of the corridor before him.
He stepped through the hatch and let it close behind him. He didn't want the missile crew distracted.
The bulkhead on one side of the corridor was gone completely, ragged edges of metal glowing red-hot. Tom started walking, edging away from the hot metal. Sparks rained on him from the ceiling. They seemed harmless, so he ignored them, pressing forward, looking for a way he could help.
He felt light-headed, and took it for an adrenaline reaction until his boots drifted free from the deck plates. He wondered if the whole ship had lost gravity, and fretted that it might interfere with the missile crew's targeting. Tarkan and his people were old hands at space travel, though. A loss of gravity wouldn't faze them.
Tom worked his way forward, pulling himself along by grabbing at jagged edges of metal where shells had punched their way through the bulkheads. He came to a place where the deck plates ended, and drifted over the gap. There should have been another deck beneath him, but when he looked down, he saw the swirl of a distant storm. Dear God. There's a massive chunk missing from my ship.
He kept going forward, and as he cleared the gap he found himself angling toward the deck. He put a palm down to fend himself off, felt more resistance than he should have as he pushed away, and curled his body to put his legs beneath him. This part of the ship had at least partial gravity, and he kicked off, taking long, gliding steps.
He found a damage control party working feverishly, tearing panels from a bulkhead and capping a breached pipe. He had no idea what they were doing, so he edged around them and headed toward the bridge.
A dead woman lay sprawled on the staircase leading to Deck Three. Tom stepped over her, bounded up the stairs, skirted a small hole in the deck, and came at last to the bridge.
“There's not much left,” said Antigonish, rising from the captain's chair. “I hope you have some kind of plan.”
“We're going to fire a couple of missiles and then run like hell.” Tom looked past Antigonish. Half of the forward bridge window was opaque, covered by an emergency patch. The bridge had lost all atmosphere anyway, which made the patch an impediment to vision and nothing else. Tom stepped up to the window and looked past the patch.
He was just in time to see the engines of the battleship go by at a range of perhaps three hundred meters. It's working, he thought. They've shot us to ribbons, but they didn't finish us. And now they're showing us their tail. He turned. “As soon as the missiles fire, they're going to open up on us again. We need to get out of here.”
“That'll be difficult,” Antigonish said. “The engines aren't in great shape.” He looked at Tucker.
The Operations officer shrugged. “The engine reads dead from here. No one's responding in Engineering.” He glanced down at his console. “But I've got a green light on the portal generator. If we can open a portal, we can use the nav thrusters to go through.”
But we can't open a portal from inside their Benson fields. I need to tell Tarkan to hold his fire. Tom opened his mouth to speak, then closed it as a missile streaked past the bridge windows.
An explosion blossomed on the stern of the battleship, followed a moment later by a massive eruption of flame as something inside the big ship detonated. That was a good hit, Tom thought. They ruptured a fuel feed in Engine Three. He lifted his sleeve, switching the radio his suit radio to “all hands” so he could order the gun teams to open fire.
Light bloomed on the hull of the battleship, just above the vast cylinders of her engines. A gun turret exploded, one long gun barrel spinning away into the void, and Tom lowered his arms. Looks like the gunners figured it out for themselves.
Another missile streaked past, hitting Engine Three pretty much dead center. That was an excellent hit under normal circumstances, but it wasn't the target Tom wanted. He winced as Engines One, Two, and Three winked out, but the other three engines continued to burn.
Sparks flew from the hull of the Kingfisher just beyond the bridge windows as a gun turret on the battleship returned fire. Then the main window exploded inward, showering the bridge crew with thick chunks of glass. Tom ducked, as if that would do him any good, then straightened back up. With the patched glass gone, the view was greatly improved.
A glowing red bar appeared along the edge of the window less than a meter to Tom's left. He saw the metal window frame turned liquid and flow away, and threw himself down an instant before the beam of a laser slashed across the bridge. The beam destroyed the navigation console in a shower of sparks, and it neatly sliced Tucker’s head from his shoulders.
Tom, lying on the deck, stared in horror as Tucker's body landed beside him, almost close enough to touch. Someone swore over Tom's helmet radio, a man's voice, hoarse and terrified.
Tom tore his gaze from the body. A black line on the aft bulkhead marked the path of the laser beam. The line started low, meandered up the wall, and then stopped abruptly.
He glanced around the bridge. Vasquez was on her feet, staring down at Tucker's body. Antigonish was on his knees beside the captain's chair. He rose, staying hunched over, and slid himself into the seat.
Tom stood. It took more courage than he would have believed, but he managed it. He looked out at the battleship.
All six engines were dark.
“We got it.” There was no triumph in Tom's voice, not even relief. The price was too steep. “The battleship's crippled.”
“Their Benson fields are down,” said Antigonish. “Get us out of here.”
For several seconds nobody moved. Tom finally realized he was closest to Tucker's station. He stepped to the Operations console and spent a moment staring at the screens.
Tucker had brought up the controls for the portal generator before he died. All Tom had to do was mash his finger against a fat icon. The battleship vanished as the blazing white rectangle of an interdimensional portal appeared between the two ships.
Ammunition from the battleship still came through from the other side. Fresh rounds ricocheted from the hull just beyond the window, casting sparks. The impacts were weirdly silent in the void, but Tom still had to fight the impulse to flinch.
He glanced at the helm station. Cortes glanced at him and nodded to let him know the ship was moving. With agonizing slowness the cruiser advanced, the white rectangle of the portal drawing closer and closer. The nose of the ship vanished, then more and more of the Kingfisher. Tom, accustomed to racing through portals at a fairly high speed, found the whole experience bizarre and unnerving. He squeezed his eyes shut as the wall of white energy washed over him.
When he opened his eyes, he saw stars.
It took almost a minute for the entire ship to pass through, but at last she was back in normal space and the portal closed behind her. Tom turned away from the empty window frame and walked across the bridge. Antigonish rose to his feet, and Tom sank gratefully into his chair. “It's done,” he said. “We live.” He looked down at Tucker's body. “Some of us, at any rate.”
“What now, Captain?” said Antigonish.
Tom sighed, considering the question. “We’ll attempt engine repairs. Aside from that, all we can do is stay here and wait for rescue.”
Chapter 25
“I'll keep this brief, Commodore,” Admiral Sayles said. “I know you've been through an ordeal.”
Tom, feeling numb and drained, nodded without speaking.
The admiral examined the screen of a data pad. “According to your report, you exchanged fire with the battleship, partially disabled its engines, and fled into normal space.”
Tom nodded.
“The rest of your fleet came through into normal space. You made emergency repairs, then returned to hyperspace where you found no trace of the battleship.”
Tom didn't speak.
“You abandoned the Merlyn, the Mossy River Stone, and the Winter Morning, distributing the crews among the remaining ships. Then you returned to New Panama.” Sayles looked at Tom and raised a bushy eyebrow. “Am I correct so far?”
“Essentially, Sir.”
That made Sayles raise the other eyebrow. “Apparently several more ships were damaged, so you instructed the entire fleet to remain in orbit, clustered together so the ships could assist one another if necessary. You transferred to the Afternoon Thunderstorm, and came down to the surface, where you reported to me.” Sayles lifted his eyes from the data pad and looked at Tom expectantly.
Tom took a deep breath. “There are a few details which are not entirely accurate, Sir.”
Sayles nodded, waiting.
“I'm not sure if the Kingfisher could land safely, but the rest of the fleet is fine. However, with all the ships in orbit and all of them maintaining radio silence, I can keep the crews incommunicado.”
Sayles leaned forward, giving Tom his undivided attention.
“The crew of the Afternoon Thunderstorm is under strict orders not to leave the ship until I return. And I've instructed the AI to stop all communications.” Tom took a deep breath. “The enemy battleship is exactly where we left it. Her engines are disabled. She’s crippled, and she's stranded. The supply fleet left at the start of the battle. They don't know what happened to her.”
A long, thoughtful silence passed. Sayles said, “Are you concerned that the Dawn Alliance will send reinforcements if they learn of her whereabouts?”
Tom shook his head. “No. I'm concerned that an opportunity will be squandered.”
“What opportunity is that?”
“I was thinking about the Blue Heron,” Tom said. “She vanished, and she was gone for two months. And when she turned up, it never even crossed our minds to be careful. We welcomed her with open arms. We weren't suspicious. We were just relieved she finally made it back.”
Sayles’s eyebrows drew together. “You're thinking we could use her as a Trojan horse? I suppose it could give us a small tactical advantage, but …”
“I was thinking about Novograd,” Tom said. “If a battleship took heavy damage, she might have trouble making a rendezvous with the New Panama fleet. After all, the fleet is constantly moving, trying to evade the UW fleet. So the damaged battleship might head for a friendly port.” He grinned despite his weariness. “Like Novograd.”
Sayles stared at him, eyes out of focus as he considered the ramifications.
“She's covered in armor plating,” Tom said. “And she packs some massive guns. She could sail into the system and coast right up to Sunshine Station without meeting any resistance.”
“I don't know,” said Sayles. “They would hail her. We don't know what the proper response would be.”
“We’ll need the tanker crew,” Tom said. When Sayles gave him a blank look he said, “I forget the ship name. The tanker we captured on our first mission. The crew always swore they had no love for the Dawn Alliance. They were draftees at best. Slaves, at worst.” He thought of Gabrielle and smiled. “They’ll make excellent allies, if we can persuade them to help us.”
“You’ve given this some thought,” Sayles said.
Tom nodded. “The bluff doesn't have to last for long,” he said. “Just long enough to fly into the system and approach the station.”
Sayles leaned back in his chair. “It's risky. Very, very risky.” He shook his head. “It sure as hell won't be easy.”
“But if it works,” said Tom.
“If it works, it could change the course of the war.”
“And,” Tom said, “it just so happens the Kingfisher is in need of extensive repairs. She might even need to be scrapped. I'm in the market for a new command.”
Author Notes
The adventures of Tom Thrush continue in Rogue Battleship, coming in December 2018.
Jake Elwood is a Canadian writer of science fiction, especially adventurous space opera with a dash of humor. When he's not at a keyboard he likes hiking and biking and sometimes kayaking on the Bow River. He is also the author of the Hive Invasion trilogy, beginning with Starship Alexander.
For more titles and releases by Jake Elwood check out his website. Sign up for his mailing list and get a free book: http://jakeelwoodwriter.com/