Hell's Reach (Galactic Liberation Series Book 6)

by B. V. Larson

  Mara sipped hers and held it in her mouth for a moment before swallowing with an expression of intense satisfaction. “That’s good. It justifies the damning hangover to come.”

  “It’d better be good. It’s older than I am, and I ain’t that young.”

  “Heroics.” Straker slugged his shot back, feeling the smooth burn all the way down. “R-1 was a hero. I salute him.” He said this with a tinge of irony and sarcasm. He wasn’t entirely sure why. The five—seven—eight or nine?—drinks he’d had were coloring his mood. He didn’t often let himself get drunk this way, even less often in public, but today it seemed right.

  “The vortex is gone,” Salishan said sharply. “At least, it’s backed far off and seems to be watching us from a safe distance. That makes him a hero in my book. What else is heroism but keeping the wolf from the door?”

  Straker growled and stared at nothing across the room. “It’s killing the fucking wolf and taking back those he kidnapped. But he keeps getting away... ”

  “We’ll catch him,” Mara replied. That made a weird kind of sense, but it didn’t matter. On his empty stomach, the alcohol was pleasantly overloading his bloodstream.

  For long minutes he floated, while people talked around him, words drifting by like birds on the wing. Carla... Carla...

  Abruptly his mood turned dark. He swept glasses, drinks and beer onto the floor with a crash. Salishan barely saved her bottle. Conversation in the room died as people stared. “I can’t find her,” he said unsteadily, and slammed a fist onto the plastic table, which cracked.

  Mara grabbed his elbow. “Okay, big brother, I think it’s time to take this party somewhere private.” Straker felt himself lifted and guided to his feet, somebody on each side of him, to stumble along a passageway and into his quarters.

  “Carla,” he croaked again as he was guided to sit on his bunk. “I can’t find her. We’re chasing ghosts. No solid data.”

  “We’ll find her,” Mara said, holding his hand. “That’s what we’re all here for.”

  “I shoulda never let her go... ”

  “She’s a big girl. We’re all grownups. That’s life, and shit happens.”

  “Shit happens.” He put his head back and closed his eyes, feeling the room tilt. “Something’s wrong with the grav... ”

  “No, you just haven’t been this drunk in a while.”

  “Set a... bad ’zample. Fer the troopsh. The crew.”

  He felt his sister snuggle, holding his arm and placing her head on his shoulder. “Naw. Just makes you more human to them. Everyone knows about the Roentgens, how you fused, and how one of them sacrificed himself for the ship. You guys kept the wolf at bay. They appreciate it. They’re in awe of you. One more thing to add to your legend.”

  “Thanksh. You know all that stuff I said... ”

  “What stuff?”

  “When I was a kid. About you being a pest... ”

  “I was a pest. Now I’m the best. So what? We’re family. Like Zaxby, and Carla, and every Breaker. And now Roentgen. It’s tough to lose family.”

  “Can’t lose. I must... always... find them... ” He faded, faded, feeling Mara pull his shoes off and tip him horizontal. A pillow appeared under his head, and a blanket settled over his shoulders.

  That was the last he remembered for some time.

  * * *

  Mara Straker locked Derek’s door, confident he’d be fine. The Breaker Bug was proof against all ordinary accidents, such as a drunken slip in the shower, and as much as she loved him, she didn’t want to be his mother. He already had enough mommy issues. It’s what boys did when they lost their mothers young—they tried to fit every woman in their lives into that role. It’s why he fell in love with Carla, his beautiful, powerful boss, and subtly deferred to other strong women, and he didn’t even notice it.

  But that was fine. It wasn’t even a male-female issue—it was just how life worked out. She didn’t think women were inherently superior, but the ones who rose to the top sure were. Derek was a good and a great man, and in another life, if they hadn’t been raised together, hadn’t been sold the lie that they were brother and sister instead of both adopted and unrelated, she might have been his Carla.

  In fact, he was such a great man, she had to protect him at all costs—mostly from himself. Great men were seldom brought down by external forces. They seeded their own destruction from within. Every Achilles had a weak heel somewhere. The ones who maintained their greatness surrounded themselves with trusted friends and family, and didn’t let that greatness go to their heads.

  And oftentimes, those friends and family had to shield the great man from himself, without his knowledge or approval.

  She found Zaxby alone in his lab, which just happened to be one deck directly above her own infirmary and the med-lab she’d set up. It made things quite convenient, especially when she’d unlocked an access hatch between the two spaces, and installed a ladder.

  “How’s our Derek Straker?” he asked as he worked on an obscure device clamped to his workbench—some kind of scanner, it looked like.

  “He’s fine. The drinking was a little surprising, but not entirely out of character. Healthy enough, I’d say. He’s had a few shocks lately, and not enough fights to keep him focused.”

  “He does need something to fight. It allows him to compartmentalize. Also, without either Loco or Carla in his orbit, he’s adjusting to a different support system—you, me, Mercy, Roentgen. I, in fact, am his most constant companion. I’ll keep him sane.”

  “Rah, rah, go Zaxby. Do you think he’ll hold up?”

  “I think he will, as long as he needs to. Each experiment teaches us.”

  Mara sat across from Zaxby, put her elbows on the cluttered workbench, and sighed. “Do you ever have doubts? I mean really?”

  “Of course I have doubts. It would be irrational not to. I pride myself on cold-eyed rationality rather than the emotionalism to which most of you humans seem prone. Utter certainty is anathema to the truly scientific mind. One must always have doubts in order to recognize new truths.”

  “Yeah, but you’re retreating into weak self-justification. I mean doubts about what we’re doing, and what it means when he finds out.”

  “Of course. But Derek Straker has endured several fundamental shifts in his understanding of reality in his life. That the Hok menace were not aliens at all, but an inimical human regime. Finding out you and his parents were alive. That he’d been lied to all his life. That part of his life had been lived in a shared VR matrix, and that his brainchips routinely altered his view of the world based on government network overlays. Once he broke free of those illusions, he found out aliens had been infiltrating and manipulating humanity for decades, possibly centuries.”

  “Yeah... he handled it all pretty well, but this... this is likely to be a lot more personal.”

  Zaxby put down a tool, picked up another. “I have confidence. Look at how he adjusted to Terra Nova. He refused to label all humanopts as evil. He held fast to the high moral principle that people should be judged by their merits, their character and their actions, not their origins or external characteristics. He was able to make peace with bitter enemies. In fact, he was too high-minded, too willing to forgive—but that bodes well in this case. I believe he will adjust to this new paradigm when the time comes. In fact, I can’t think of anyone else more fit for this experiment.”

  Mara stood and drifted toward the wall panel. “Yes. The stakes are too high to do otherwise. It took Carla’s kidnapping to make it obvious, and it forced our hand. It was only ever supposed to be a contingency option.”

  “Now who’s retreating into weak self-justification?”

  “I know. And Zaxby... if I didn’t say so before, I’ll say so now. The Thorian fusing idea was a master stroke.”

  “I have my moments.”

  “It opened Derek’s mind to the concept of fission being natural and good, resulting in two identical beings. At least, identical to begi
n with. Later, the beings diverge and become individuals, of course, but he needs to get well-and-truly accustomed to the idea, before he has to deal with the reality.” She placed her palm on the panel and it slid out of the way, revealing a hidden room.

  Inside, rows of rejuvenation tanks hummed softly, glowing.

  Chapter 18

  Mechrono-7, aboard Cassiel.

  Loco flipped up the chaff-and-flare dispenser’s cover and readied his finger over the button. The count showed 24 of the reloaded pods. He leaned over and opened the control on the blinding module as well. Mechron hadn’t destroyed them the first time due to its use, so hopefully the strange machine wouldn’t care this time.

  “Thank God for orbital mechanics,” Chiara muttered from the pilot’s seat as she tweaked the ship’s outbound trajectory.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Rounding a planet isn’t like dodging an asteroid. Gravity, atmosphere, and orbital momentum... they’re in the worst possible position I could put them in, vector-wise. It’ll take them twenty minutes to get lined up and start pursuing, and Mechron keeps them from using beams. Railguns have zero hit probability against a small maneuvering ship like Cassiel. But that leaves... ”

  “Missiles.” Loco checked the plots on the display. “Damn, those are nuclear shipkillers. They aren’t interested in disabling and capturing us anymore, I see.”

  “I think they’re willing to forgo sucking out our brains. We’ve made so much trouble, they just want us dead.”

  Loco stuck in his comlink. “Raj, you on the tail gun?”

  “Roger, sir. I see the two inbounds.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Two minutes forty seconds to impact. That’s two minutes and twenty seconds until I have even a small chance of a hit with this archaic twenty-millimeter. I think we’re in big trouble unless I can use the point defense laser.”

  Loco grunted. “Only if it’s absolutely, one hundred percent do-or-die. Mechron destroys every weaponized laser that gets used, as far as we know—and some more innocuous ones. I’ve got the chaff dispenser, and the blinding module just in case.”

  “One small point of good news, sir—the shipkillers are sluggish. They’re either low-tech versions, or they have some features shut off—impeller vectoring, for example. If we’re lucky, their terminal guidance and fusing will be substandard as well.”

  “Luck ain’t a plan, but thanks. Loco out.”

  The ship rumbled with maximum fusion engine power—over maximum, Loco saw as the plenum temperature rose into the red. He wasn’t the savviest pilot, but he knew Chiara was trying to give Raj as much time as possible before the shipkillers overtook them, stretching out the engagement.

  “What else you got in your bag of tricks?” he asked.

  “Not much. No asteroids, and the moon is out of position for a skim-by. No help, no allies... not unless Mechron intervenes.”

  “How do we get him to do that?”

  “In the next two minutes? No idea.”

  “Do you have any missiles or probes? Drones?”

  “No missiles. One Keymark 900.”

  “Which is?”

  “Commercial observation and relay drone. Size of a volleyball, but it uses impellers, so Mechron will destroy it as soon as it maneuvers.”

  An idea tickled Loco’s brain. “Where’s the launcher?”

  “Dorsal. Oh, you mean on the console?” Chiara did something, and an application popped up on one of his displays. “Configure, launch and control.”

  “Right. Do you have a brainlink port you haven’t mentioned?”

  “You kidding?”

  “Just asking.” Loco activated his brainlink anyway and put it into forced diagnostic mode. Immediately, the expected headache manifested as his chipset vainly tried to connect with a nonexistent suit. The side effect of this, though, was a time sense boost of about triple, a cheap-and-dirty way to make two minutes into six. It was an unauthorized emergency technique known to every mechsuiter.

  It took him about four minutes in his head to figure out the application and do the work, leaving forty actual seconds on the clock.

  Fortunately, the cheap commercial drone used standardized control protocols. He quickly configured it for direct radio control and telemetry and set the launcher for pneumatic ejection, zero thrust. The sphere would puff gently out into space, and then be left behind as Cassiel continued to accelerate.

  But would it survive passing through the fusion exhaust?

  “Chi, when I tell you, cut thrust to minimum.”

  “Why?”

  “Trust me.”

  “Okay. I can cut it entirely... ”

  “No, I need you to leave the drone behind, and I need it to end up in our wake... right where the missiles will overrun it.”

  “For what? It’s not a space mine, and they won’t target it.”

  “Impeller.”

  Understanding dawned on Chiara’s face. “Might work.” She throttled down and rotated the ship so the dorsal launcher was facing directly aft. “Set it to max thrust launch and go, now!”

  “Uh, sir... ” Raj comlinked, but Loco ignored him as he changed his intentions once again, ran the launch thrust up to max, and fired the drone.

  Chiara immediately shoved the throttles to the stops, and piloted the ship in a looping curve back on course.

  Loco was worried for a moment, until he saw what she’d done. The high-velocity pneumatic drone launch had sent the little plastic ball backward, and the high-speed ship thrust was directed out of its way until there was enough separation not to matter. Now, her course brought the enemy missiles, the drone, and the ship all back into a precise line. He felt the firing of the tail gun as its hammering vibration was transmitted through the hull.

  “We lost about ten seconds doing that, so it better be worth it,” Chiara snarled as she gripped the controls.

  Loco didn’t answer, concentrating on the timing of his next instruction to the drone. He factored in control lag, transmission lag, control lag on the other end, and a guess at how quickly a bubble would show up.

  He sent the instruction.

  Three seconds before the first missile overran the Keymark 900, the drone activated its impeller and all its transmitters, aiming directly at the missiles.

  “Three... two... one... ” Loco counted.

  Just as the missile reached the drone, a bubble appeared as if by magic. In the vacuum of space, it could move at unbelievable speeds—half lightspeed, by all reports, too fast to see its approach except as a faint streak of superheated hydrogen atoms.

  “Come on, come on,” Loco chanted.

  Now, how discriminating would the bubble be?

  The drone and the missile, within meters of each other, both disappeared in a combined flash of vaporized plasma. As he’d hoped, the drone’s impeller had attracted the bubble, which had destroyed the offending machinery and the missile with it.

  Then the bubble was gone.

  “It worked!” Loco crowed. “One down.”

  “Good job... but it ain’t over.”

  The second missile, unaffected, flew through the expanding gas and re-acquired Cassiel with its radar. Raj’s tail gun hammered at it, tracers visible as they reached in a long stream for the shipkiller. The weapon corkscrewed in response, slowing its overtaking, but avoiding destruction. Loco could hear the badger cursing in his own language in a low, sustained monotone as he fought to put the bullets onto the nose of their impending death.

  “Ten seconds,” Chiara said. “Chaff and flares.”

  Loco started punching the button in threes and fours, but the missile ignored the distractions.

  “Five seconds. Blinding pod!”

  Loco took a deep breath and mashed his finger on the control. The missile drifted off course in a smooth curve, led astray by the countermeasures—and then the displays whited. He waited for a shockwave, but even nuclear weapons had surprisingly small blast radii in vacuum, with no medium
to transmit the energy.

  “Its proximity fuse triggered—too far away,” Chiara said with a relieved sigh. She throttled back to fifty percent power and checked her displays. “We’re out of range, and they can’t catch us now. We’ll make it to flatspace.” She reached under her seat for a flask and took several swallows, and then handed it over to Loco without looking at him.

  He downed a slug of what turned out to be something peppery and alcoholic, noticing Chiara shoving shaking hands into her armpits. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine, fine. Just adrenaline. You got the ship.” She stood up, reaching into her tunic as she turned toward the door.

  The cockpit door opened and Belinda peeked in brightly. “Can I get you anything?”

  Loco waved a no, his mind still on the tactical situation.

  As Chiara squeezed past her and out, Belinda stepped inside and shut the door. She put her butt on the pilot’s seat and began to stare at Loco.

  He tried to keep his mind on his work, and he avoided looking at her—but it was difficult.

  “You all right?” she asked.

  “More or less. Just trying to figure some stuff out.”

  “Stuff?”

  “Things... ”

  “About Chiara?”

  He turned to face her at last. “You have no filters, do you?”

  “Of course I do,” she said this with no trace of bitterness. “But I know a lot about relationships. In theory, anyway. In practice... I know it’s hard.”

  “I never thought of myself as straitjacketed or controlled by my upbringing…” Loco said, “but I’m having trouble adjusting to... ”

  “To the Middle Reach? Chi told me about human space. About your law-and-order Republic, and your wars. It must have been weird and exciting.”

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  “And no Contractors!”

  “Not exactly, but there’s oppression, underclasses. Gods and monsters, none of it’s like here, though. It pisses me off. I want to bring fleets and mechsuits and smash these crimorgs and governments that turn a blind eye to all this exploitation, and those that profit from it. Nobody should be treated the way you and Chiara were treated. Or your brother.” He reached across to hold her hand.