Shadow Strike

by P. R. Adams

  They might as well have been little gunboats.

  “Ensign Ostmann, are the Kedraalians pursuing?”

  There might not have been fear in the handsome weapons officer’s face, but the confidence and trust in his captain were gone. “We cannot know, Captain. They are beyond our sensor range.”

  Our sensor range. The distinction was important. If the devil was still searching, it would find Morganson’s fleet.

  He drummed his fingers against the console, but the pattern was different now, meant to keep his mind occupied. “What other systems might we shut down to transfer more power to the engines?”

  The weapons officer straightened. He squinted, now taking on an imperious and judging look. “To flee, Captain?”

  “To gain distance. To gather our resources and plan anew.”

  The other ensigns twisted around just enough to see their captain.

  Were they challenging him? Were they showing support for the foolish Ostmann who had challenged their captain? It was impossible to know the intent behind their dark, ghoulish eyes. Human thinking could be impenetrable. It was what made the life of the Children such a challenge. Of course their destiny was to replace the product of sloth-like evolution, but there was no short-circuiting the process. Humans would be needed for some time still, yet they acted with resentment and fear.

  Morganson chuckled, something he had used to calm tense situations before. There was a human need for such light-hearted behavior. And the eyes of his crew softened at the sound and the sight of his lips twisting around his teeth.

  Now they needed words. “It is a minor setback, Ensign Ostmann. We must take advantage of our ability to slip free. Repair some weapons, see what can be done to improve our sensors and shields. Nothing to be concerned over.”

  Nothing except for the loss of the Thunor and the task force Commander Schwab had led against the enemy.

  Schwab had been the most experienced and capable of the human command staff.

  Worse even than the fleet and its reliance upon such a demanding technology had been the inadequate command staff. Obviously, the old officers running around in the headquarters buildings back on Himmel were more interested in protecting their positions than in success.

  They had always intended to kill off the Children. How many had graduated, been given their rank, then sent to accomplish some impossible task? Too many.

  But Morganson wouldn’t be one of them.

  With his brothers as ship commanders and perhaps even bridge crew, he would have overcome every challenge. He would have crushed the Kedraalian fleet instantly! And with the victory, he would have risen to the top and eliminated the old fools who stood in the way of the great Azoren Federation!

  Morganson nodded. “I still have an opportunity.”

  Ostmann’s brow rose. “What is that, Captain?”

  “Hm?”

  “You said there is still an opportunity?”

  “I did?” He must have. The ensigns stared at him as one. “Yes, yes. I meant an opportunity for us to succeed. To destroy this fleet, maybe to kill the prime minister.”

  The handsome weapons officer seemed to appreciate this line of thinking. He straightened. “Hail the Supreme Leader!”

  “Hail the Supreme Leader.”

  Morganson stepped down from his command station. His knees nearly buckled. “During this moment of quiet, I would refresh myself. Perhaps the three of you should do the same. A shower, a fresh uniform.”

  They bowed, possibly sensing admonishment. Or did they question his leadership?

  “That is an order. The air on the bridge is stuffy. Have the second shift replace you long enough to take nourishment and clean yourselves. Ensign Mencias, a shave would be advised.”

  Another chuckle mollified them, then he hurried from the bridge before his legs could give out on him.

  Down the darkened passageway he hurried, enjoying the slightly cooler and fresher air. At his cabin, he stopped to press a hot cheek against the cool hatch.

  How long had he struggled to prove himself ready for this? How long had he studied and practiced and run through simulations?

  I am the best. This is my destiny, my Spear.

  He slipped inside and nearly tore the buttons from his coat. It was suffocating him. His shirt was soaked. He tore it off and tossed it into a recycler chute. His pants weren’t much better but could be cleaned; they went down the laundry chute. But his undergarments? They were heavy with dread, drenched. If there were a furnace in his cabin, he would toss them into the fire.

  The water was cold, as if the ship had plucked a giant chunk of ice from space and let it melt slowly into the water supply. He shaved, then showered, welcoming the bracing sensation on his skin.

  Dark thoughts were driven away. Instead, he focused on the opportunity.

  There had always been three objectives: the defense fleet, the prime minister…

  And the Valor.

  It represented so much to the foolish Kedraalians, like a diminutive champion they expected to strike down the Azoren giant.

  Slay the champion, and he would stab the heart of the people just as effectively as if he’d accomplished the other two mission objectives.

  He dressed and cleaned his teeth. Better to have the antiseptic medicine smell of the mouthwash remain behind than whatever had sunken into the recesses of his mouth.

  The fear of his crew would be replaced readily enough once they knew his plan.

  But that could wait. He was woozy. Food might help. Sleep would be better.

  A short nap. It can accomplish so much.

  Morganson fumbled with the buttons of his coat, and the shivering that had been in his legs now reached his arms. The weakness was pathetic, a failure in the purity efforts of his father and the Architect. The Supreme Leader’s DNA had the typical flaws of a human. There was only so much magic even the best geneticist could accomplish.

  That brought a chuckle, this time authentic. Who couldn’t appreciate the tragic repetition in the cycle? The father’s aspirations, limited by his flaws, are passed on to his sons, assuring their failure even when they are given more than he ever had.

  In Morganson’s tumbling thoughts, the cycle became a spiral that spun and spun, sending him deeper into the failing heart of Azoren power.

  Humans could only go so far in the dreamed-of cycle of purity. Those who truly passed the test of the ideal must breed with the rest of the small pool of true Azoren. The impure must be kept around to support their betters, but being inferior meant they could never contribute enough to compensate for what they took.

  The Children were the only obvious solution. Remove the weak and inferior. Remove the women, who could never be the warriors that men could be. Remove the artists and poets, who rarely managed to appreciate the vision of a true genius like the Supreme Leader.

  A warrior would have the mind of a scientist, the strength of an athlete, the heart of a hero.

  You are that ultimate warrior, Bryce! The hope for the future.

  When the Architect spoke, his words were wisdom, truth.

  Horns blared as Morganson marched between the assembled ranks of soldiers and his brothers, slowing at the first of thirty-six white marble steps. They applauded him for his accomplishment. They roared for him to take the throne and to wear the crown.

  The bloody crown. Wrested from the Supreme Leader’s shattered, graying brow.

  What would Morganson say when he looked into the feeble old man’s eyes?

  “Your time is up. Now comes the rule of your Children.”

  It was fate, yet the old man resisted it. He killed those who displeased. He tolerated nothing but absolute success.

  And he gave no love. He showed no appreciation.

  Morganson knelt beside his dying father and glared into the old man’s eyes. Was there love and acceptance in the fading light?

  An alarm rose up, and Morganson glanced to the sky. It was a sky full of birds—small birds that became g
iant. Then they became aircraft. Spacecraft. The warships of the Navy. Morganson’s fleet.

  And the alarm grew louder, more insistent.

  It was the ships—his ships.

  Why would they try to take him from this moment, the crown going onto his head and his father telling him love had been there all along.

  Finally, the alarm grew too loud to ignore, and the young captain kicked his father’s corpse down the marble steps, staining them red with each hollow crack of skull against stone.

  Until the impacts brought spurts of blood, but the sound couldn’t be heard above the klaxon.

  The damned klaxon. It was like…

  An emergency signal!

  Morganson sat up in his bunk.

  He had slept. He had somehow laid out on the bunk without realizing it and had fallen asleep. Thirty minutes. Less. It was the most sleep he’d had in days.

  The communicator pulsed: Someone was calling him.

  Ostmann. The bridge.

  Morganson checked himself in the mirror, then accepted the call and sent it to the desktop terminal. “Yes, Ensign?”

  The handsome weapons officer looked refreshed—he’d followed orders and cleaned up. But he also looked distressed. “Captain?”

  “Yes?”

  “The Kedraalians, they pursue us now.”

  Pursue? Did this devil know no bounds? “How many?”

  “We cannot be sure. At least the one. It showed up on our sensors.”

  “They wouldn’t send just one. Their only strength is when the devil guides them in a collective strike against one of our ships.”

  “The devil, Captain?”

  Had he said something about the devil? “Their captain. The one who somehow guides them past our shadow technology, Ensign. It seems like an ancient piece of folklore—something that troubles and annoys the mind.”

  “Y-yes.” But the weapons officer clearly had no idea what was being spoken about.

  The subject needed changing. “How could they have found us?”

  “Pursuit when we were still within sensor range, Captain.”

  “Yes, obviously. But they did no such thing while we could see them. How?”

  “Perhaps our course was not sufficiently unpredictable?”

  “Perhaps.”

  It was a curiosity, a puzzle to be solved at some other time. For now, though, they needed to stop this devil. The captain ran his fingers over his coat, but this time there would be no smoothing. It was wrinkled. His nap had left its mark for all to see.

  But they wouldn’t. The darkness of the ship, the deep black of the coat. No one would know but him.

  “I am on my way.” Morganson disconnected.

  He took a moment to rinse his face, then wiped the wetness from his hands onto the wrinkles. Would that smooth them out?

  Who would care?

  By the time he was through the bridge hatch, the plan had settled into his mind. He resumed his position at the command station and brought up the latest damage control report for the fleet. It was a small data stream, undetectable by other ships, but it carried what he needed.

  “Ensign Mencias, have the Luxembourg and Montreff drift back from the rest of the fleet. After five minutes, we will break to a new course.” Morganson sent the course to the helmsman. These were frigates, the last of the small ships remaining. “If these Kedraalians insist upon pursuing us further, they must give our ships clean shots on them.”

  The red-faced communications officer blinked. “And if the pursuers do not follow us, Captain?”

  “Then the Luxembourg and Montreff have an opportunity to give battle.”

  “But we have no idea of the size of the pursuing force, Captain.”

  Morganson smiled, which seemed appropriate. “There is a chance of glorious success, is there not?”

  The pudgy man nodded, then turned away.

  After a while, the damage control feed from the two ships stopped updating. They were too far back. The enemy ship would have detected them already. The devil had a choice: pursue using sub-optimal angles, or allow the two ships to attack. Could the Kedraalian ships risk such attacks, even if they came from frigates? It seemed unlikely.

  Morganson tapped a beat against his command station. “Adjust course now, Ensign Francisco.”

  G-forces made the captain lean against the command station rails. What he was doing was a dangerous gambit. At best, the two ships landed enough shots to discourage the pursuing ships, then rejoined the fleet. At worst, the Luxembourg and Montreff were lost, and the pursuers found his fleet again.

  There has to be a limit to this devil’s capabilities.

  Time seemed to stretch on until Morganson was sure he would never know what choice the devil had made. Then Ostmann grunted.

  The command console showed no pursuers.

  No pursuit. Not for the moment.

  It was time. “Full power to the engines.”

  Morganson tapped his fingers and thought of the crews of the two frigates. Would they be rejoining the fleet? The captains were competent. All they lacked was experience. They were gaining that now.

  The air grew thicker and warmer. Before too long, the excess heat from the reactor coolant system wouldn’t be enough to counter the cold of space, and he would wish for the miserable heat.

  For a little while longer, until we lose this devil. Then, fresh air.

  Once again, Ostmann grunted.

  This time, Morganson caught that it wasn’t surprise but sadness.

  The enemy had engaged the Luxembourg and Montreff. And the battle was over.

  It was the sort of sacrifice a commander had to make at some point. Surely, the Supreme Leader would understand.

  Morganson remembered the dream, looking into his father’s eyes.

  Would there be love in their pale depths for one who left ships behind to cover the escape of others? Would there be love for one who failed?

  There would not.

  14

  Swimming had always been one of Stiles’s favorite activities. Her home inside the GSA complex had a giant pool attached to it. Enclosed. Heated. From the moment she could walk, she knew the pool.

  “You have to prove to us that you’re worth the investment, Brianna.”

  Physically, she was almost three years old. Mentally, she knew enough to realize what her instructors meant. The water was like crystal, sparkling with the slightest ripple shooting through the surface. The air had been chilly, the adults pressed around her like a building pressure.

  She glanced up at the one who’d spoken, a tall, spindly man with skin so wrinkled it could be scales. “It’s deep.” Her voice shook.

  His lizard-like lip slivers split mirthlessly. “You can’t prove anything swimming in the shallows.”

  And then she was in the water.

  Stretched out to her fullest, her toes touched nothing. Precious air bubbles rushed up to burst on the surface.

  There was only one way to satisfy them: She swam.

  Simulations had taught her the basics. She’d begun those after Felix drowned. They’d brought him back, but he’d been wheeled into the medical facility with blue lips on his beautiful, soft face.

  Hold your breath. Kick your legs. Use your hands like paddles. Move them together.

  She followed her bubbles up. The lights were golden dots a million, million kilometers away. Breathing in the water was death. So she held her breath. She held it until her lungs burned. She held it until her fingers broke the surface and spots danced in her vision—

  “Lieutenant Stiles?”

  It wasn’t the old, lizard-lipped instructor but Commander Benson. And the pool was gone, replaced by the infirmary. White sheets were tucked in tight against her chest, which was covered by a paper gown. Water from the pool cooled on her heated brow. There was a strange, chlorine taste in her throat and a strong chemical smell, something…

  Stiles blinked.

  Not the pool water. The infirmary. Commander Benson.
Behind her, Colonel McLeod looking dour and disappointed. Next to him, Captain Gadreau with his perpetual surly glare. And a bit off to their right, a dark-skinned man in Navy whites that bulged slightly over a barrel chest. The man’s nails were buffed and polished, and his scalp seemed equally glossy.

  And he had no eyebrows.

  A commander, one with an appreciation for crisp attire.

  “Commander Benson?” Stiles tried to sit up but couldn’t.

  It wasn’t just the wooziness that still gripped her but the restraints on her arms.

  Benson frowned. “The doctor says you’ll be all right, although she wasn’t sure how.”

  Gadreau’s surliness jumped to full fury. “Same can’t be said for Agent Patel.”

  There were connections between the two men. Stiles remembered that much. McLeod knew it, but the way his lips twisted in disapproval…he was sitting this out.

  They know.

  Stiles coughed softly. “Agent Patel attacked me.”

  “What were you doing in his cabin?” The Marine captain leaned toward her.

  “I went there to ask him a question. Something that happened on Jotun—”

  “You gouged his eye out!”

  “When I tried to ask him a question, he pulled a knife.”

  That seemed to relax Benson a little. “That’s your blood all over his cabin?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mostly.”

  The throbbing made it hard for Stiles to concentrate, but she needed to know who was listening and who had already made their mind up. Benson seemed to be searching for answers, but Gadreau had the look of someone who was ready to toss the suspect out the airlock. McLeod seemed to be listening, too, but he didn’t have the supportive look that should have been there. The bald officer…?

  There was no reading him. He would be hell in a poker game.

  Benson tried a smile, and it was pretty reassuring. Maybe it was even authentic. “What was the question?”

  “Question?”

  “You said you had a question for Agent Patel. Something from Jotun?”

  “Oh.” Stiles didn’t have to pretend—she really was dizzy. “I’m sorry. It was something his sister had said. Oh! It was the shadow technology. She’d gone to Jotun for the thing that killed her team.”