by P. R. Adams
Dreams. And identity.
As one of the Children, Morganson’s only dreams should have been of the glory of the Supreme Leader and the Federation. Ambition was allowed. Taking command one day was an encouraged goal. It was something Morganson embraced.
Didn’t he?
Through some effort, he was able to trace Voegel’s movements through the ship. She had come to the bridge, then taken him to his quarters.
Then she’d left a little over an hour later.
And he couldn’t remember a minute of that time.
He closed his search. The Grunwald should be approaching its destination. “Ensign Ostmann?”
“Getting updates from the Grunwald, Captain.”
Morganson checked that his buttons were aligned properly, the head of the eagle exactly centered with each one. He could remember the first time he had put the black coat on, the first alignment inspection, the first promotion that had placed a single band of gold frill around his cuffs. He could remember taking his first ship out and engaging in simulated combat. There were even distinct memories of his first actual battle, an almost trivial engagement where he had dispatched a pirate ship inside the DMZ between Azoren and Moskav space.
But no matter what he tried, he couldn’t remember his meeting with the doctrine officer.
And that troubled him.
It’s the gas. The damned gas!
Ostmann snapped his heels together. “It is confirmed, Captain—there are no other ships between the fleet and the shipyards. These six ships are our only obstacle.”
Only six ships. Something was going their way! “And we can get lock-on against them?”
“We can, Captain.”
“Good.” Morganson had been troubled by the ships his fleet hadn’t been able to target, the ones that had showed up unexpectedly in space around Kedraal. There had been assurances that his fleet would be able to get into the system and up onto the Home Defense Fleet undetected by using the shadow technology his people had spent the last two decades mastering.
And then the mysterious force had shown up and ruined everything.
Yet now they were nowhere to be found and barely registered as a threat to him.
Which seemed odd. By all rights, he should be afraid of them.
The captain leaned against the console. “Take us in slowly. Full power to stealth. Ensign Ostmann, be ready to switch all available power to the weapons systems.”
Ostmann blinked. “All available power, Captain?”
“I said as much, did I not?”
“You did, Captain. But then we will not be relying upon our shadow—”
“It is six ships, none more threatening than a frigate. Once we are within optimal range, we have the firepower to cripple them before they can respond to our presence.”
The ensign didn’t challenge the idea, but he did look away. It was the sort of loss of confidence that would trouble any captain. Morganson found himself second-guessing his own tactics. There were six ships. None of them showed any sign of being aware of his fleet. The numbers favored even his diminished force. He had eight destroyers and the Spear.
But Ostmann was a clever young man. Was he right to worry about the plan?
They slowly accelerated toward the ships, which were spread out enough to make missiles ineffective.
The Kedraalian ships weren’t accelerating as they would if they expected battle, but they also weren’t operating as a true patrol.
Morganson wished he’d been given a couple true signals ships. They had sufficient capability to intercept communications. Unless the Kedraalians were communicating using tight beams with heavy encryption, a good signals team would be able to decode message traffic. He would know what they were doing.
Perhaps he could at least know that they were communicating…
“Ensign Mencias, are there signals coming from the Kedraalian ships?”
The fat toad’s head twisted around. “Is the captain requesting communications with the Kedraalians?”
“No, you imbecile. The captain is asking if the Kedraalians are communicating amongst themselves.”
“We have no decryption technology aboard the Spear to know—”
“I ask only if they communicate with each other, Ensign, not what they say.”
Ostmann sneered at the communications officer. “Captain, one minute to optimal targeting range.”
“Thank you.” Morganson cursed the senior staff for manning the fleet with such useless fools. A competent communications officer would have already had the information available. He would have anticipated the request. “Ensign Mencias?”
The top of the imbecile’s bald head grew red. “I have… There seems to be…”
“Speak clearly!”
Mencias blubbered. “I cannot find any indication they transmit openly, Captain.”
The stoop-shouldered helmsman pointed to a few buttons, apparently hoping to assist his comrade, but the communications officer sniffled and nodded testily. The assistance wasn’t needed.
Which meant the Kedraalians were using tight-beam communications.
In many situations, this would have been understandable. After all, these ships would have been warned about an enemy capable of closing and firing without being detected. Would that have been enough reason to cause ships on patrol to rely on communications that were less efficient?
Yes. It made perfect sense.
It seemed absurd to even question the idea. But he was taking risks now, closing in for combat, in command of a vastly diminished fleet. Was the normal level of confidence called for, or did real threat hide just ahead?
Why am I questioning something so simple and obvious? We have them! The shipyard is all but undefended.
Morganson swallowed. An absurd idea began to gnaw at him: These ships he hunted were the actual hunters. They were luring him in. They had the same capabilities as the strange task force that had come from nowhere. His weapons wouldn’t be able to get a true lock-on, and this handful of small ships would turn on his and cripple them, just as the damned mystery ships had.
Ostmann smiled. “Twenty seconds, Captain.”
Twenty seconds! It wasn’t enough time! “How far out is the Grunwald?”
“It will be within optimal range in eighty-three seconds, Captain. But with the firepower we have—”
“Hold fire. Decelerate. Give the Grunwald time to close.”
The smile faded from the weapons officer’s face. What had the man’s records indicated? High potential? A little judgmental? Not a good deal of emotional intelligence? Of course he would have intolerance and disgust for his fellow bridge officers. He was much more like his captain.
But judging his own captain? Judging one of the Children?
That would reflect poorly on the young ensign. When the time came.
Morganson gnawed on a knuckle. It was an odd thing to do, an odd sensation. They were pacing the Kedraalian ships. Once the Grunwald was in range, they would have more firepower than most intact fleets could hope for.
Yet…
“Grunwald in range, Captain.” Ostmann sounded disappointed.
How could the young man not see the risk the fleet was facing? The enemy had outfoxed them. It had drawn them in with promises of vengeance and retribution. Then it had turned on them…
There was a test of his theory, of course.
“Captain?”
“One moment, Ensign Ostmann!” Morganson ached at the way the young man flinched. It couldn’t be helped. Patience was called for. The fleet might not be quite so superior as it seemed.
The captain brought up the sensor scans again. There were no obviously superior ships among the group. The gunships were small, probably barely capable of Fold Space travel. The frigates weren’t much more impressive. They each probably had two batteries of laser weapons, a couple railgun turrets, some point defense capabilities. Nothing screamed countermeasures or stealth in the profiles, yet…
“Ensign Fr
ancisco, adjust course to put us parallel to the lead frigate.” Morganson tapped the sensor readouts to make clear exactly what he meant. “Ensign Ostmann, prepare missiles for launch.”
The weapons officer seemed ready to question the order—mouth open, brow furrowed. Something caught in the young man’s brain, though, and he nodded.
Morganson squeezed the rail cover as the Spear maneuvered.
“Missiles online, Captain.” Ostmann didn’t turn around. “The rest of the fleet is asking for targeting information.”
“I want this frigate turned into radioactive dust.”
“Just this—” The weapons officer bowed his head. “Yes, Captain.”
“When the missiles launch, we transfer power as I said—everything to the weapons arrays. Frigates first, then those gunships.”
Ostmann’s eyes narrowed.
“You have questions, Ensign Ostmann?”
“I am confused, Captain. We could save the missiles for the attack on the shipyards. Why—?”
“We can destroy the shipyards and the Valor with our regular weapons.”
“But it will take longer.”
“I would rather we take longer than fall prey to some deception we have yet to detect, Ensign.”
“Yes, Captain.” The weapons officer stared at his station. “All missiles ready for launch.”
Six ships. Nothing else in the area. Nothing between them and the shipyards and the ship the Kedraalians had spent billions to build and refit time and again. Maybe the ship would have been an equal to the Spear of Destiny. But no one was aboard the Valor now. Its weapons were quiet. And the shipyard had no meaningful defenses.
It was the right decision, wasn’t it? He was on the edge of success.
Ostmann’s eyes said time was running out. Time to prove that the Supreme Leader hadn’t made the wrong decision appointing his captain. Time to show that the great Azoren Federation was ready to assume the mantle of the greatest of the powers that had been birthed from the old Earth home world.
Morganson’s stomach twisted. “Launch.”
The giant display tracked the trail of the missiles accelerating to their targets. Flashes of light presented crude representations of weapons fire. Ostmann’s eyes jumped from his console to the display.
Speak, damn you! Tell me that we have destroyed them!
An unwelcome and unnatural heat returned to the bridge, as if the life support systems had failed. It seemed as if the lights followed, flickering before settling into a dimmer state. Morganson was sure a tremor ran through the bridge deck.
But his console didn’t show damage control reports. The giant display didn’t show returning weapons fire.
Ostmann raised a fist. “Direct hits, Captain! The frigate is destroyed.”
Morganson sucked in fresh air. It wasn’t hot after all. The air was cool and fresh. His knees shook. “And the weapons fire?”
“Hits, Captain. The frigates are seriously damaged. The gunships accelerate away.”
“Destroy them. No one escapes.”
“Switching targets.”
Lines flared on the display. There was more power to handle such trivial systems with the shadow technology powered off.
The weapons officer grunted, and a broad smile spread across his handsome face. “Gunships destroyed, Captain. Returning focus to the damaged frigates.”
Mencias coughed. “They transmit surrender, Captain Morganson.”
Electricity shot through Morganson’s body. He’d done it. He’d faced the enemy and succeeded. “Destroy them. All of them. Then make full speed to the shipyard.”
“They…” The communications officer shivered. “Their transmission will reach the shipyard before us. The shipyard has a Fold Space transmitter.”
He worries that our lack of mercy will have meaning. “You have your orders.”
Morganson connected to Voegel. “Commander Voegel.”
She stared at him with ice-cold eyes. “Captain Morganson. How may I help you?”
“Why not join us on the bridge? You may want to see the display.”
The doctrine officer smiled. “You have success to report, Captain?”
“Success.” A chuckle bubbled up from his throat. “And the beginning of the end for the Kedraalians.”
“I am on my way. Hail the Supreme Leader, Captain.”
“Hail the Supreme Leader.”
At that moment, the salutation seemed personal, an acknowledgement of Morganson’s success despite everything. Destroying the shipyard would only magnify that. Nothing would stop his fleet now.
His saliva took on the subtlest hint of maple syrup, a strange sensation he couldn’t quite understand.
Perhaps it was a sign of things to come, something meant for a Supreme Leader.
Something meant for him.
22
Varudin should have been a bright diamond from the altitude the shuttle maintained, but Benson could make out mere flecks of light in a sea of black. Somewhere in the skies above, the Home Defense Fleet and whatever ships had made it back to Kedraal in time patrolled space with skeleton crews. Were those people even aware of what they were doing?
Stiles pressed back in her seat as the engine whine changed and the shuttle banked. She looked so much less intimidating in the gray jumpsuit and slippers she’d rescued them in. “That’s the hospital ahead.”
Benson leaned forward, wishing she could have switched to a flight suit. The dress uniform left her feeling clumsy and slow. “I see it.”
A small circle of light resolved into a medevac landing pad—white, with a red cross in the center. What was visible of the building was ghostly white, blocky, maybe five stories high, and surrounded by a sprawling, walled yard. As they drew closer, a snaking driveway became visible.
Benson checked the assault rifle she’d taken from the SAID assassin. The magazine was at half capacity. “This stain on the door, do I even want to know what it is? I can smell detergent…”
“I was able to get the urine and feces cleaned out after replacing the broken windows, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Ugh. It wasn’t. I guess it is now.”
A magazine slapped home in the dark behind her; then Halliwell exhaled. “What floor do they have her on?”
The shuttle leveled off over the building, then Stiles descended rapidly. “The top.”
“That’s convenient.”
“I don’t think they’re expecting anyone to try for her.”
There was a stinging subtext in the GSA officer’s voice—Sargota Benson wasn’t really relevant. It was something that might have hurt the politician more than her daughter, but Benson still had a small sense of pride over her mother’s accomplishments. Or maybe it was over her dignity.
They set down on the roof with a feather-light impact. The doors popped, and Stiles hopped out, pistol low and ready as she jogged toward the rooftop access; Benson followed, once again favoring her healing leg. As they approached the door, the lock clicked.
Stiles turned her head slightly. “That’s me. Security system down.”
Good to know.
The lieutenant was quiet descending the stairs—much quieter than Benson could manage with her boots. Pale amber light reflected off well-maintained concrete steps covered with textured, hard rubber.
At the landing, the younger woman held up a hand: The lock on the door flashed red.
Someone must have reset or disabled it.
“One second.” Stiles holstered her gun and pulled out her tablet.
Red flashed to green, then back to red.
The tablet went back into its pouch, and Stiles frowned. “They know we’re here.”
Benson moved to the opposite side of the steel door. “They?”
“There must be guards.”
“Will they kill her?”
“They would’ve done that already. They’ll try to kill us, though.”
“Sort of a given.”
Stiles g
lanced down the stairs. “Stay here.”
“Wait. Where are you going? Down?”
“Down, then up.” The GSA officer pulled her communicator out and pressed it against the back of her hand. “I’ll let you know when I’m up here.”
“Okay.” Benson pulled her communicator out and pressed it against the front of her left shoulder.
With little more noise than their whispers, Stiles padded down the steps and out of sight. Benson wasn’t even sure she could hear the other woman once she couldn’t be seen. Not knowing where she was made things worse.
Steps scraped on the stairs above; Benson dropped into a crouch until Halliwell came into sight. He had Grier cradled in his arms.
Benson drifted toward him. “Is she okay?”
His eyes hardened. “Breathing.”
That would have to do. “Stiles is—”
Gunfire erupted on the other side of the door, and it sounded like a couple rounds cracked against the near wall. The metal of the door deformed where a bullet failed to penetrate.
Benson brought her weapon up, but it was quiet again. The door opened, and someone said, “Clear.”
After a brief heart skip, Benson realized it was Stiles.
Halliwell hurried through the door, and the commander followed, glowering as she passed the agent. “You told me you’d let me know when you were up here.”
The lieutenant nodded toward the three leaking bodies slumped against the walls on either side of the hall. “I didn’t have time.”
“I could have helped.”
“They had the door covered, so you did in a way.”
Benson couldn’t help rolling her eyes. “Where’s my mother?”
“Down here.” Halliwell had already found the room; he disappeared inside.
It was private accommodations and actually quite nice if small. Sargota’s chest rose and fell slowly. Her head was wrapped in a heavy bandage, and her arms were encased in green, plastic casts. Her vitals were stable but low.
They needed a doctor, but the floor was empty except for a few rooms with patients. It felt to Benson like time was slipping away. “Where are the doctors?”
“Hiding. They were sent to the lower floors.”
