A Conflict of Orders (An Age of Discord Novel Book 2)

by Sales, Ian

  Lotsman gestured for Tovar and Dai to keep quiet, and bent to listen once again at the wardroom’s hatch. He could hear nothing in the gangway outside, no sentry, no boots against the wooden deck. The ship shook again and he put up a hand against the coaming to steady himself.

  “I’m pretty sure there’s no one there,” he told the others. He straightened and turned round to face them. “They’ll have gone to their duty stations.”

  “Action stations,” Dai corrected. And then scowled.

  “You think this is it, then? The big battle?” He staggered as everything seemed to jerk abruptly to the left. One arm out, as if that would secure his footing, he returned to the table at which Dai and Tovar sat.

  “Oh dear,” said Tovar.

  No sooner had the cargo-master shut his mouth, then the lights in the chamber dimmed and the entire deck vibrated just below the level of hearing.

  “Gun,” said Lotsman and Dai at the same time.

  “That definitely means we’re in a battle,” Dai added.

  Lotsman nodded “We can’t stay here, then.” Uncharacteristically sober, he peered at the cargo-master and ship’s engineer. “Are we decided? We have to make a run for it?”

  “Too bloody right.” Dai folded her arms tightly across her bosom and glowered across the table at the ship’s pilot.

  Tovar put his hands palm-down on the table and gazed intently at their backs. Lotsman followed his gaze but could see nothing worthy of the concentration the cargo-master was giving them. “I,” Tovar said, “think we must.” He lifted his gaze. “We have to tell our masters. They need to know.”

  All three nodded and rose to their feet. The hatch to the wardroom was locked but that was no obstacle. Dai knew enough to subvert the locking mechanism. And should they meet a member of Vengeful’s crew after breaking out… That would not stop them, either. They were men-at-arms in the Order of the Left Hand, they knew exactly how to fight.

  Dai had the hatch battens withdrawn in under a minute. She left the fascia to the hatch mechanism hanging by a single screw and something smouldering deep in its workings. Lotsman swung the hatch open and stepped over the coaming.

  The gangway was empty. He could hear whistles, screeches and shouts. The thuds and roars of distant machinery echoed hollowly along the passage. None of them had ever served aboard a Renown-class battlecruiser—or even visited one until now—but they knew their way about the vessel’s class. Their training had included plans of all the Imperial Navy’s warships.

  Lotsman led the way toward the Port Supply Passage. The wardroom was on the same deck as the boat-bay, so it was a straight run along the passage. Keeping a weather eye open for Vengeful crew, the three made their way along the gangway. They did not meet anyone. There was nothing unusual in this—Vengeful’s crew were at their stations. But to Lotsman the ship felt abandoned, adrift in space with no one but the three of them aboard. Distant clangs and thuds, however, proved otherwise.

  At the junction with the supply passage, they hung back and watched. Here, there were rateds, intent about their business.

  “They know who we are,” Lotsman said.

  His meaning was clear: someone would try to stop them.

  “We’ll make a dash for it,” Dai replied. “Take down anyone who gets in your way.”

  “And when we get to the boat-deck?” asked Tovar.

  “We steal a boat,” said Lotsman, as if it were obvious. He grinned at the look the cargo-master directed at him. “What in hells are you worrying for, Adril?” he added. And barked a laugh.

  “Ssh.” Dai held up a hand. “There’s only a couple of them now. We have to go.”

  And she dashed out into the supply passage. Lotsman shrugged, then sprinted after the pilot. He heard Tovar follow him, moving lightly despite his bulk.

  They had gone no more than ten yards before the first shout went up. A rated moved to intercept them. Dai took him down with a jabbed fist as she ran past. Another rated rushed towards them, hands out to grab. Tovar grabbed a wrist and threw the man at the bulkhead.

  Dai increased her pace. She dropped a shoulder and bowled over a rated foolish enough to step in her way. Lotsman hurdled the fallen man and barged another rated who moved to stop him. She flew backwards, arms and legs wide.

  The supply passage stretched the length of the superstructure. The three of them had entered it near the fo’c’sle. Now they were approaching the hatch to the boat-deck. Feet thundered on the decking. Scattered shouts chased after them. Lotsman put on a burst of speed and passed Dai. He dived through the boat-deck hatch, hit the decking and rolled.

  A rated stood not five feet away, a half-coiled hawser in his hands, his mouth open. Lotsman sprang to his feet, leapt and kicked the gaping rated in the head. The hawser flew out of his hands and unrolled across the decking.

  Dai and Tovar were through the hatch now. Tovar spun back and shouldered it shut. He dogged it and shoved a latch bar through the brackets.

  Lotsman gestured: the other hatch! on the starboard supply passage!

  The cargo-master hurried to obey.

  Dai had knocked out another rated and was now squared off against a pair wielding billy-clubs. Lotsman left her to it and scanned the chamber for more crew. A pair at the end of one jetty. The pilot ran lightly across the boat-deck. He leapt over the dock, his trajectory abruptly flattening as he moved out of the influence of the chargers. And then just as suddenly dropping to the jetty on the other side as its chargers seized him. He landed on one knee, a hand to the deck to steady himself.

  The two men looked at him and then at the jetty across the dock. One, a petty officer, turned and gazed out through the slot giving entrance to the boat-deck. Through the force-curtain could be seen something of the battle taking place about them. Dark shapes moving across the black of space. Silent bursts of flame puffing into existence. The bright lances of main-guns.

  Lotsman rose to his feet and strolled forward. Navy rateds were brawlers, but these two had just seen three prisoners, crew-members of a data-freighter, take out half a dozen Navy in short order. The worry was plain on their faces…

  The last petty officer hit the deck with a thud. Lotsman clapped his hands. “Right,” he said. “That’s that. Now let’s get a boat and get off this bloody ship before she gets blown to pieces.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  After twenty minutes of restlessness, Ormuz made his excuses and took the elevator down to the main deck. As he sank from sight, the Admiral gazed at him and thought once again how very like the Duke of Ahasz he was.

  Nature had caused the similarities but nurture had led to differences. For that, she was glad. She liked this “different” Ariman umar Vonshuan. Ormuz did not possess the education of the duke but he shared his sensibilities. And his eagerness to please, tempered by an almost palpable fixity of purpose, made him much the better companion. The Admiral had enjoyed their nights together. She planned to enjoy more before this war ended.

  Lieutenant-Commander Voyna was more than capable of commanding Vengeful while they waited for the enemy to regather his forces, so the Admiral retired to her suite of cabins. Prompted by her train of thought on the Captain’s Bridge, she entered her day cabin. Kneeling before the sideboard, she opened its door and reached in amongst the papers and books stored within. These were private items, nothing to do with the running of Vengeful, and so rarely brought out from storage. It was a moment before she found the item she sought: a large book, a foot square, of dark brown leather polished and aged to a rich lustre. Remaining on her knees, she laid the book on her lap, bent her head and opened the volume.

  Mementos and photographs. Echoes of a life in pictures. Her life. There were no photographs of her childhood in this volume. In fact, there were none aboard. Parents take pictures of their children and treasure them; children do not capture their own image for posterity.

  The first page, the first photograph: a bar in Groot, capital of Podbo
i; Princess Flavia umar Shutan, blonde hair loose about her face, philosophically pondering a glass of beer. From the posters visible on the wall behind her younger self, the Admiral recognised the bar as one she had frequented with the members of the Society of Gold. Part of a shoulder to her left was likely the Society’s charismatic leader, a man she had loved at the time but now despised. She had met him once, many years later, at Imperial Court. For all his student-days anti-establishment rhetoric, he had graduated with high honours, became the dutiful son and now occupied a seat in the Electorate, where he consistently voted along conservative lines. The meeting had exorcised whatever ghosts had haunted the Admiral from her time at Swava College Annex.

  She kept the photograph as a reminder. On the day she had been arrested by the proctors, she had lost her innocence. He had told her he had charmed her only to protect himself from reprisal; and her antics had led directly to her expulsion a week later.

  Ignoring the other photos, she turned the page. Here she was in a midshipman’s uniform, having just joined the Imperial Navy. Her blonde hair was now dyed black. She had done that because of the Society of Gold. And kept her hair dark until turning renegade. Then she had shaved her head.

  For half an hour, the Admiral leafed through her photo album. The pictures of herself and Ahasz she found herself regarding with fondness, as if she were confusing her memories of the duke with the young prince.

  At last, putting the book away, she rose to her feet and crossed to the nearest ship’s pipe. She asked a footman to bring her a coffee. Once she had her drink, she settled in one of the armchairs facing the day cabin’s arched windows, her mind lost somewhere in the past. Six years ago, she had mutinied, had taken her battlecruiser Imperial Respite and renamed her Vengeful. Her motives at the time had been mixed: anger at her superior officers, a recognition that Ahasz planned to move against the Imperial Throne and yet no one seemed willing to prevent him, a need for revenge against the duke…

  She had fought him twice now. No longer was she coming out from her hiding-places, striking some small blow and then running away. Two battles. Battles! Admittedly, the one about Piorun had been nothing. Marinarkë was a fool, unfit to command a boat. But this last battle, the First Battle of Geneza as the history books would doubtless call it… that had been much more the thing. Her tactics had won the day, as she had known they would. Ormuz’s intelligence had been invaluable. How else would she have known where to focus her attack? From him she knew the ships which would face her. And knowing their captains…

  That Baalscourge would break first had been no lucky guess. Her captain, Taksil, was a coward. His retreat had led directly to Pride of Slaskib’s destruction. In her mind’s eye, the sight of that battleship falling to earth, sinking, burning, throwing up great sheets of flame, was superimposed over the view from the windows.

  They would remember this battle for a long time. They would remember her for a long time. She smiled grimly and toasted Ahasz silently with her cup of coffee:

  Thank you, my duke; thank you for giving me this, thank you for giving me what may come.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Since Tempest’s bow was pointed towards Geneza, the view from the bridge was limited. Rinharte could see the planet, clouds floating serenely across the oceans—but not the battle raging about her. She crossed to the bridge’s rear bulkhead and stepped onto the ladder leading up to the station-keeping blister. At the ladder’s top was a small platform, with enough room for a viewfinder. Rinharte settled onto the stool. Now she had an excellent view, both fore and aft, over the top of the fo’c’sle. Using the hand-rail beneath the cupola’s rim, she pulled herself through three hundred and sixty degrees. She could see…

  Ships killing and ships dying.

  As she watched, a frigate trailing flames fell past, slowing as she hit Geneza’s upper atmosphere. Her plummet arrested, she seemed to sit there, burning, appearing to shrink as she was consumed by the flames. Flaming debris suddenly scattered in all directions trailing smoke. Rinharte did not know if she had been one of their ships, or an enemy.

  Over there, the hull of a destroyer slowly spun about her long axis. A great tear down one side of the hull had opened her interior to space. Parts of her superstructure were blackened, damaged by flash-fires.

  Something dark and vast moved into view above Rinharte, occluding a segment of Geneza. She looked up and saw the hull of a ship—not close, just huge—slide slowly and massively overhead.

  A battleship.

  She switched on the caster beside the viewfinder. “Romi,” she said. “Who is that?”

  “Victory of Oliva, ma’am.”

  Rinharte frowned. “No, I mean the battleship. Victory of Oliva is a cruiser. And one of ours.”

  Puzzled, she swung herself through three hundred and sixty degrees. She could see no cruiser. Frigates—Szhen, of course—and destroyers. A few corvettes. But the Admiral’s capital ships were all to the planetary north of Tempest, stopping a second enemy attack.

  Or so Rinharte had thought.

  “Ma’am,” came Maganda’s voice from the caster, “it’s Tukki Fire. One of the enemy’s!”

  Dear Lords. How had she broken through the Admiral’s line?

  She saw the enemy battleship ponderously pitch through ninety degrees, until she appeared vertical in relation to Tempest. Rinharte now spotted the cruiser Victory of Oliva, approaching quickly on the attack. The cruiser, however, was out-gunned, and given her velocity it was unlikely she had sufficient power for her own main-gun.

  A line of eye-searing brightness shot from Tukki Fire’s prow. It hit Victory of Oliva to the rear of her superstructure. Rinharte saw twisted hull-plates spin silently off into space. The cruiser continued to close. The next shot to hit her would surely cause greater damage.

  “Mr Yul,” said Rinharte, “helm to one hundred degrees yellow. Romi, find Mahzan and tell her to take her post in the fire-control turret. I want a solution on Tukki’s Fire.”

  It was ten minutes before Rated Mahzan reported over the caster that she was in position. Rinharte pulled herself around to face aft, and saw the fire-control turret extended from Tempest’s hull. She shook her head in wonder. A troop-transport with a main gun.

  Tukki Fire and Victory of Oliva were now directly forward. The battleship had fired a second shot and it too had hit. The cruiser was venting atmosphere and one drive-tube ended fifteen feet from the hull. She would not survive another shot.

  “Mahzan, have you got a firing solution yet?” Rinharte asked urgently.

  “Nearly, ma’am. Another few seconds.”

  “I want a shot that counts.”

  “Middle of the superstructure, ma’am?” replied the rated. “Do the most damage.”

  “Good. Carry on.”

  Less than a minute later, Mahzan sang out, “Firing!”

  Tempest seemed to buck. Her hull groaned as it flexed. Lights flickered and dimmed. A line of incandescence hurtled from her prow… to strike Tukki Fire’s superstructure amidships, just aft of the conning-tower.

  Rinharte could not help herself. She laughed. She put a hand to her mouth in surprise but another laugh escaped. Her troop-transport had just inflicted damage on a battleship!

  Unbelievable.

  Damage, yes. But not enough. Some compartments had blown out. There was a hole in the superstructure, the hull-plates surrounding it bent out like the petals of some carnivorous flower. But the battleship was not badly hurt.

  “Romi!” Rinharte said. “Get us out of here!”

  Tukki Fire was rolling, swinging her bow round as she did. The pressure was off Victory of Oliva, but Tempest could not survive a hit from the battleship’s gun.

  Rinharte left the station-keeping blister, dropped down the ladder onto the bridge and ran forwards to the windows. She watched as Tukki Fire seemed to pitch away, while still changing her aspect towards the troop-transport. Faster, she willed her vessel. It had bee
n minutes since the battleship had last fired her main-gun; she would have power for a shot as soon as she brought it to bear.

  “Ma’am,” called out Romi, “Victory of Oliva has moved into a higher orbit and is dropping astern.”

  Good. The cruiser had escaped.

  Rinharte stared down the barrel of Tukki Fire’s main-gun. The battleship was some thirty miles away but the aperture of that barrel loomed large in her mind’s eye.

  Tukki Fire would not miss.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The middle of a space battle, reflected Lexander Lotsman, was probably not the best time to steal a launch and escape. The volume about Vengeful roiled with the energies of torpedoes imploding, with warships falling prey to the incandescent beams of main-guns. Seething vacuum threw the launch about and Lotsman was glad for the belt holding him into the pilot’s seat. This was much worse than the Divine Providence’s crash-landing on Bato.

  Lotsman, Tovar and Dai had not thought much beyond escaping from Vengeful. There had been no guarantee they would even find a boat to steal on the battlecruiser’s boat-deck. Happily, there had been; and the rateds present had been no obstacle.

  A boat, however, was only good for in-system travel. None of the three wished to be stranded on Geneza. Ormuz had offered to maroon them on the world weeks before and they had refused. So they needed a ship, a ship with a topologic drive.

  Now they had picked one.

  It was an enemy sloop. For whatever reason, her captain had kept her far to the rear of the Serpent’s fleet. Perhaps he had been tasked with taking word of the outcome to Ahasz on Shuto. Lotsman did not care. The sloop was hundreds of miles away from the nearest enemy corvette or frigate. She was perfectly placed for their needs.

  Lotsman brought the launch up from Geneza. There had been no way through the battle—it was too dangerous. Instead, they had flown under it, entering Geneza’s atmosphere and then flying around the planet like an aerocraft. As flames roared past the flight-deck’s scuttles, Dai had complained at the rough insertion. It had all been part of Lotsman’s plan: the launch would be taken for just another piece of debris falling to earth.