Exiles of Earth: Rebellion

by Richard Tongue

  “Liftoff!” Neville yelled. “You have liftoff! You’ve cleared the tower, all systems go, course perfect, systems nominal, telemetry feed good!”

  “Roger, I read the same. Internal systems are good, power controls are good, fuel feeds are good.” Mitchell, despite himself, smiled. This was the sort of takeoff he had read about in history books, lived through in VR, but had never dreamed that he would actually experience. Shuttle launches were sedate affairs, creeping through the atmosphere, slowly dragging themselves into orbit. This was different. For the first time, he truly was following the footsteps of Gagarin, of Glenn, of Armstrong, and it was the greatest feeling he could have ever imagined.

  “Coming through the clouds,” Watson said. “How’s our trajectory?”

  “Right down the middle,” Mitchell replied. “Sensors tracking activity, due south. Heat plumes.”

  “We’ve got that here,” Neville said. “Six interceptors just launched, heading on a parallel course. Slower, though. They can’t reach you in time, and they can’t reach Endurance in a single orbit, either.”

  “Colonel Brock’s hedging her bets,” Mitchell said. “She can’t shoot us down without a public outcry, but she doesn’t know what we’re going to do. Her best case is that we cause a lot of confusion on Endurance and give her an easy attack run.” He paused, then added, “If the worst happens, I might be willing to go along with that.”

  “You’d let her forces destroy your ship?” Watson replied.

  “If the only alternative was the destruction of Atlantis.” He looked at the readouts again, and said, “Trajectory’s getting a little shallow.”

  “Can we compensate?”

  “Sure.” Tapping a control, he said, “CapCom, this is…”

  “We see it. Engine Four running low on thrust. We’re shutting it down and will burn the rest a little harder. Going to make it a longer ride, but you should come back up. One minute to separation.”

  “Roger,” Mitchell said.

  “All other systems are nominal,” Watson added. “Pressure holding, power fine, fuel feed good.” She smiled, and added, “The stars are coming out. Go for gravity turn.”

  The rocket raced through the upper atmosphere, blues fading to blacks as the ship pitched down, taking full advantage of the planet’s rotation to gain speed, hurtling towards its distant target up ahead. So far, Endurance hadn’t moved, was simply waiting for them. Presumably to get a clean firing solution as they approached.

  “First stage separation in five seconds. Hold on!” Watson warned.

  The roar of the rockets faded way as the fuel ran dry, but the brief instant of silence was shattered by an ear-rending crack, the explosive bolts firing to detach the useless lower stage, destined to burn up in the atmosphere below. The force of separation hurled the crew forward on their restraints, but before they could settle again, the second stage fired, slamming them back, snatching the breath from their bodies.

  “That’s better,” Mitchell said. “Trajectory coming back up. We have escape velocity. Docking in a hundred and eleven seconds, mark.” With an effort, he reached forward, tugging two levers, and said, “Enabling docking hatch, systems fine.”

  “Roger, all good. Docking thrusters armed.” The roar of the engines slowly began to fade, throttling down as they raced into orbit. “Target coming up. Computer auto-navigation locking on.” She paused, then said, “If they decide to throw missiles at us…”

  “They won’t,” Mitchell said. “Fitzroy is a contemptable maggot on a good day, but he’s a competent tactical officer. We’re a job for the particle cannons. He might not even realize that this is a manned vehicle.” Glancing at the sensor display, he added, “They’re still holding position, though.” He turned back to the passengers, and asked, “All secure back there?”

  “All good, sir,” the leader of the soldiers, a former Sergeant named Pope, replied.

  “You’ll need to be ready to move as soon as we dock. Form a defensive perimeter until I can find out what the hell is going on up there.”

  “Might be worth trying communications again,” Thiou suggested.

  “If they’re monitoring us…,” Watson warned.

  “That won’t change his response.” Throwing a control, he said, “Mitchell to any station on Endurance, any station on Endurance, come in, please. Mitchell to any station on Endurance, any station on Endurance, come in, please.”

  “Spaceman Schneider, sir,” a thin, weak voice replied.

  “Schneider, what the hell is happening over there? Report!”

  She paused, then said, “There was a massacre. A dozen dead. Including the Captain, killed by Fitzroy. He tried to lock us down, but we managed to break out. Captain, Spaceman DeSilva has been captured, and they’re taking her to the bridge. There’s nothing we can do for her from down here. If Fitzroy gets his hands on her, she’s as good as dead, and she saved all our lives.”

  “Where, Spaceman?” he asked.

  “She was captured close to Turret Nine, sir.”

  Nodding, Mitchell said, “Maintain position until I land. We’ll sort out this mess when I do. For the record, I’m assuming command, and I order you to take no offensive action for the moment. Just stand your ground. Are you under fire?”

  “Negative, sir, but I don’t know how long it will be before we are.”

  “Understood. Hopefully we won’t be too long, and we’ll do what we can for DeSilva. Good luck. Out.” He turned to Watson, and said, “Alter course. We’re going to need Docking Airlock Seventeen.”

  “That’s off optimum approach, and awfully close to the point defense turrets.”

  “Right down their damned throats.” He paused, then said, “Damn it, if I can’t win back the loyalty of the crew, all of this is a waste of time, and I can’t think of a better way to start than by rescuing the person who saved all of their lives.”

  “No argument here,” Pope replied. “Just tell me who to shoot.”

  “Fifty seconds to docking,” Watson said.

  Looking at his tablet, Mitchell grimaced, and said, “Endurance altering course, coming around. He’s trying for a firing solution. Give him what he wants.”

  The engines faded away, and Watson replied, “Fuel’s gone. We’re in the arms of Isaac Newton until we detach.” Turning a key, she said, “Second state separation systems armed.”

  “Wait until we see the whites of their eyes,” he said. “Energy buildup on the turrets. Optimum firing range in thirty-two seconds. We’ll be docking four seconds later.”

  “We hope,” Watson said, her hand resting on the release controls. “Check your restraints, everyone. This isn’t going to be a soft dock.”

  Mitchell smiled as the shuttle closed on Endurance, the familiar shape growing on the viewscreen as they approached. He’d calculated on the arrogance of Fitzroy, allowing them to approach, his adversary confident that he would be able to destroy the incoming ship before it could close. Normally, he would have been right, but Mitchell wouldn’t have made that assumption, no matter how favorable the odds appeared.

  The seconds ticked away, thoughts racing through his mind. The Captain dead at Fitzroy’s hand. No wonder he’d been unwilling to concede command. He’d need to hold onto it if he was going to prepare a good cover story, and probably wipe out any witnesses at the same time. The worst of it was that he had an excellent chance of getting away with it. They were a long way from home, Endurance filled with people deemed expendable. If they completed their mission, secured Atlantis for Martian control, Fitzroy would be a hero, and one with the breeding to escape censure. They’d probably pin a medal on his chest, promote him up the ranks.

  There would be no justice for the dead, unless he gave it to them personally.

  “Ten seconds,” Watson said. “Coming around.” She fired the thrusters, spinning the ship, then tapped another control to finally release the second stage, firing another pulse to follow it in as close as she dared. The particle beams fired, lancing
through space, bolts of energy hammering into the dead stage, allowing the shuttle to drift through while the systems recharged.

  “Docking port ahead,” Mitchell said.

  “I know, I know,” she replied. “Two seconds. One.” With a loud clang, the shuttle locked into position, the bolts jamming into place one after another. Watson took a deep breath, wiped the sweat from her forehead, and said, “Contact.”

  “Lock’s jammed, sir,” Pope warned.

  “Blow it,” Mitchell said, and Pope slammed a tiny charge into position, ducking back behind his couch as the explosive erupted, smoke filling the air as the magnetic locks disengaged, opening the way onto the ship. Pulling his pistol from his pocket, Mitchell quickly unbuckled his restraints, following the soldiers into the corridor as they rushed to the crossroads. He could hear footsteps in the distance, their pace increasing rapidly, moving towards him.

  “Cover!” he yelled. “Don’t fire unless you are fired upon!” He raced past Pope, pulling up a maintenance hatch and lying behind it, pistol in hand. Mizrahi moved forward, a gun trained on DeSilva, using her as a human shield for his advance.

  “Don’t move,” Mizrahi said. “Or she’s dead.”

  “What in God’s name are you doing, Midshipman?” Mitchell yelled. “Drop your weapon at once!” As the rest of Mizrahi’s group moved around the corner, rifles in hand, he added, “And that goes for the rest of you, as well! Disarm at once or I’ll have you all up on charges!”

  “We’ve got orders from Captain Fitzroy to secure the ship,” Mizrahi said, looking at the soldiers following Mitchell. “If you drop your weapon, I’ll take you to him. Otherwise, I’ll have no choice but to execute my prisoner and…”

  Taking a deep breath, Mitchell rose out of cover, walking calmly towards Mizrahi, and said, “You’re not going to shoot me, Midshipman, and you aren’t going to shoot her. I am the lawful commander of this ship, according to every regulation in the book, and you, kid, are taking orders from a murderer. A murderer a dozen times over, from what I hear. Is that who you are?”

  “One more step, Lieutenant…”

  “You will address me, Midshipman, as Captain.”

  The young man was wavering, his gun uncertain, and Mitchell reached out to take the weapon. Mizrahi shook his head, tightening his grip on the firearm, then DeSilva hammered her elbow into his chest, knocking him back, diving out of the way. Mizrahi reacted quickly, turning his pistol on Mitchell, red fury on his face. Time seemed to slow down, Mitchell raising his gun to fire, knowing that he would be too late, that he’d given his opponent an easy shot. A bullet fired, the crack echoing from the walls, and Mizrahi tumbled to the deck, clutching at a wound in his chest, while DeSilva rolled on the floor to cover the others.

  “Drop your guns, right now, or you’ll be going after him,” DeSilva said. Belatedly, Hayashi and the others tossed their weapons to the floor, and Pope raced forward to secure them, handcuffs at the ready. Mitchell knelt by Mizrahi, his body wracked with spasms as he took his final breath, holding the young man’s hand for a moment before passing his palm over his eyes to close them.

  “I’m sorry, son,” he said, shaking his head. “Fitzroy killed you too. As surely as if he’d pulled the trigger himself.” Looking up, he added, “Nice shooting, Pope.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Pope replied. “I couldn’t take a shot.”

  Mitchell turned to see Thiou standing in the corridor, pistol tight in shaking hands, her eyes wide. He moved over to her, gently taking the sidearm away, and she looked up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “I killed him,” she said. “I killed him.”

  “You did what you had to do, and you saved my life. All our lives.”

  “He was just a boy,” she replied.

  Nodding, he said, “And that made him more dangerous.” He took a deep breath, and said, “You’ve got to hold it together, Doctor. We’ve got to secure the ship, and I’m going to need everyone I’ve got to pull it off. You can fall apart later, but right now, I’ve got to have you on my side. Can you carry on?”

  “I think so, sir,” she said, gulping. “I never even thought…”

  “When it came to it, Doctor, you did the right thing. Hold onto that. Hold it tight. And remember that if he’d fired first, I’d have been dead. And you would have been next. You saved your life. That’ll do for now.” Turning to DeSilva, he said, “What’s the story, Spaceman?”

  “Fitzroy and his people have secured the Bridge. We’ve got the hangar deck, engineering, sickbay, life support.” She paused, then said, “The crew’s in a state of mutiny, and…”

  “That would only be true if he was the rightful commander of this ship. He isn’t.”

  “I doubt anyone else will see it that way.”

  “That doesn’t matter, not for the moment.” Turning to Pope, he said, “We’ve got to take the bridge. That’s the cornerstone of everything.”

  “We’re ready, sir.”

  “DeSilva, you and Thiou head down towards the hangar deck and engineering. Contact anyone you can, arm the crew, and secure all critical areas. We’re heading to the bridge.”

  “Sir, you should know that Fitzroy has moved to arm at least one of the satellites.”

  “And we’ve still got interceptors heading up,” Watson added. “Intercept in fifteen minutes. It looks like we’re in the middle of a race, and no matter who wins, we lose.”

  “We’re not done yet!” Mitchell said. “On your way, Spaceman.”

  “What about Fitzroy?” she asked.

  “Leave him to me.”

  Chapter 35

  “This way,” DeSilva said, gesturing for Thiou to follow, then running towards a maintenance hatch. “We can’t trust the elevators. Even if they’re actually working, it’ll make it too damned easy for Fitzroy to see where we’re going. And send us somewhere else, maybe.” Ripping open the hatch, she crawled onto the ladder, and looked up at the still-trembling Thiou, saying, “Focus, damn it!”

  “I killed…”

  “And that’s a terrible, terrible thing, and we can talk about the ethics of saving your own god-damned life some other god-damned time! Do you read me, Doctor?”

  Thiou nodded, following her down the ladder, and replied, “I thought I was a senior officer.”

  “I think we’re rewriting the rulebook today.” She paused, then said, “Tell me about Wagner.”

  “One of the most brilliant sociologists of our time.”

  “And a rebel, and a traitor. He sold us out to the Coalition.” Shaking her head, she replied, “I thought I knew the guy. I guess I was wrong about that.” Looking up at Thiou, she continued, “He really had us all fooled.”

  “You were working with the rebels?” Thiou asked. “But…”

  “None of that matters any more. One way or another, the rebellion on this ship is over. Fitzroy made certain of that when he shot Captain Ikande in the back on the hangar deck.” Swinging around a corner, she said, “This is the fastest way down to Engineering.” Gunshots echoed around, and she said, “How much ammunition have you got?”

  “Er…whatever I had, less one round,” she replied.

  Shaking her head, DeSilva said, “You really don’t know much about this, do you?”

  “It’s my first boarding action.”

  “I wish I could say the same.” She slid down the last three rungs of the ladder, landing just above a hatch, and reached down to the control panel. “There’s fighting right below us. That means some of our people are in trouble. We’re the distraction. Dive for the corridor and fire blind. Shoot at the ceiling if you want. We just need to make maximum noise.”

  “What if we drop onto our own people?”

  “Details, details,” DeSilva muttered, working the release. The hatch slid open, and she dropped down onto the deck below, firing three shots into the floor before rolling to cover, almost knocking over a stunned Khatri. She looked up to see a group of crewmen from the hangar deck at the far
end of the corridor, a pair of bodies on the ground between them, both writhing in agony.

  “Cease fire, damn it!” she yelled. “You’re on the same damned side!”

  Khatri stepped forward, looking at his counterparts, and said, “They fired first.”

  “You fired first, damn it!” Zhao replied.

  “I’ll fire last!” DeSilva said. “At the next one to so much as reach for their trigger. This battle is over.” Turning to Khatri, she asked, “Do you recognize the command of Lieutenant, I mean Captain Mitchell, or are you sticking with Fitzroy?”

  Shaking his head, Khatri holstered his pistol, and replied, “You don’t need to ask twice. If Mitch is in command, that’s good enough for me.” Looking up at Zhao, he said, “Medical’s already on the way to deal with the wounded.”

  “Who the hell did fire first, then?” Zhao said.

  “One of Fitzroy’s loyalists?” Schneider suggested. “He’s probably still got friends on the lower decks.”

  “I bet they’re keeping a damned low profile, though,” Zhao replied.

  “It was Chief Nguyen,” one of the engineers volunteered. “He joined us as we left Hydroponics.”

  “Damn him!” DeSilva said. “He’s one of the traitors, Chief.”

  “Traitors?” Khatri asked. “I thought….”

  “Wagner attempted to shoot President McGuire. That’s what brought all of this about. The resistance wasn’t planning a mutiny, wasn’t planning anything like this.” Turning to the engineer, she said, “We won’t just sit down and wait to die, though. If we must take this ship to save our lives, we will!” Zhao and the others from the hangar deck cheered her words, some of the engineers joining in.

  “Captain Mitchell might have some ideas about that,” Khatri said. “Anyone see where Nguyen went? He must have realized at some point that his plan wasn’t going to work.”

  “I think he was heading down towards the sensor decks, Chief,” one of the drive technicians replied. “He said something about getting some reinforcements.”