War Without Honor (Halloran's War Series Book 1)

by J. R. Geoghan

  “Show me the four destroyers detached to the Prime on the screen,” he ordered the Prax working that station.

  The Thyaxdon-class vessels approaching Earth were powerful despite their small size. Xylan could imagine their captains conferencing on narrow-band comms right now, organizing their approach to the atmosphere. He hoped they would accomplish their mission quickly and return to aid in the mopping up once his fleet defeated the humans yet again and drove them back to their red planet.

  Captain Mila awoke to find herself collapsed against the bulkhead, a stinging pain in the back of her head. Her legs splayed out in front of her, arms limp at her sides with hands resting against the cool metal grating beneath. As she slowly regained awareness, the first thing she noticed was the silence. Lifting her head took some effort but she could see most of the bridge from where she was. Nothing moved within her line of sight. Bodies were strewn everywhere, some no more than lumps of cloth and red-streaked flesh. A display screen at the far end of the compartment still operated, catching a rather beautiful view of the Earth’s blue -white orb. They were as close as anyone in the Fleet had gotten to the homeworld in many years.

  But the pressure in Mila’s chest required attention. Breathing was difficult. And her ship was badly wounded; that much she was aware of. The slow-roll indicative of stabilizer loss was setting in and would only increase unless she got through to Engineering to find out what could be done. The bridge deck had taken a full broadside of electro-gun projectiles, Mila remembered sluggishly. Artigrav remained, however.

  She tried to focus on the compartment again, to call out to anyone still alive in there. But her voice was missing and only a croak escaped her lips. Nobody rose or moved to respond to her entreaties.

  Must. Focus. She tried to rise but found no power in her legs. Looking down, she noticed the source of her immobility.

  A half-meter long section of bridge railing was embedded in her upper abdomen, effectively nailing her to the bulkhead. It was thick, and slick with her blood. From the angle it’s sticking out, I bet my spine is broken, she noticed with professional interest. Before taking her Captaincy, Mila had cut her teeth as a med-tech apprentice in the Fleet. She’d spent half her adult life on either the deck of a ship or the underground levels of Mars Command. All spent trying to help humanity return to their rightful homeworld.

  Mila found herself thinking of Kendra. Wondering if this was what she had felt, knowing that her ship was doomed and unable to stop it from happening. Her friend was likely on a transport even now heading out-system.

  She looked up again up but the monitor displaying Earth was now dark. She thought she heard voices but couldn’t ascertain from where they were emanating.

  Mila closed her eyes and tried to focus on conserving her energy until someone came to the bridge to recover her. If only Kendra had been available to captain this ship, she thought with a touch of bitterness. But the gripe passed as she worked to clear her mind of the pain.

  Part Five - Imani

  Chapter 30

  Underneath Rat City

  The pilot expertly flew the ship down the narrow tunnel, the walls seeming to almost graze the outer edges of the hull. Halloran had strapped himself into what must be the copilot’s seat, and from that vantage point he kept one eye on the onrushing tunnel and the other on the man Djembe into whose hands he had just placed the safety of his remaining crew members.

  “Hang on,” Djembe announced as he let go of his control stalk to push a button somewhere on the other side of his seat.

  Halloran heard Antonov’s gasp behind him from where the Russian was strapped into the jump seat. He looked forward to see what the issue was.

  The tunnel sloped down and widened dramatically. At the end of the run was a dark wall of water; their escape was blocked.

  Alarmed, Halloran grabbed at Djembe’s elbow next to him. The man shook it away. “Leave off,” he snarled, refocusing on his flight toward what looked like certain doom.

  Halloran was feeling the fury rising again. “You’re flying into a wall of water.”

  “Yes.” The pilot dismissed him as he studied his instruments.

  “Budyet interesna,” Antonov said under his breath. Halloran knew that Antonov had taken one of the translator devices as they boarded the ship. His brain heard Pyotr’s comment in English, even though his ears caught the Russian language leaving the Captain’s lips.

  Halloran gripped the rails of his seat, wishing for something to diffuse his anger. “Hmm?”

  “This is going to be interesting.”

  Halloran fought the urge to close his eyes as the ship hit the water. The shock of the impact was strangely muted and the water immediately closed around them. “What did we just do?”

  “One moment,” answered Djembe as he stared into the gloom, keeping one eye on the instruments in front of him.

  Everything was silent for another minute as Halloran tried to see anything outside the ship. The water color suddenly lightened by several orders of magnitude and took on a dark greenish tint.

  “We’re out now.”

  “Out of what?” Antonov asked.

  Djembe pushed the control stalk away from him and it locked into a position. He leaned back and stretched his hands in front of him, looking relaxed. “My hiding place was an old hangar dock that opens into the Medsea. Now you’ve gone and blown that for me,” he added bitterly.

  “Why would a hangar open into an underwater environment?” Halloran wondered aloud.

  “Perhaps a sub pen?” answered Antonov.

  “What is a ‘sub pen?’ This complex of underground facilities is very old, from the dark years.”

  “The dark years?”

  Djembe checked his displays. “We are moving north, away from the city and the Prax headquarters. The Imani stays undetected as it travels under the water, but we must launch into the atmosphere at some point. I find that launching over the wilderness works best—many fewer Prax patrols there.”

  “Okay.” Halloran wasn’t entirely sure what all that meant, but the pilot seemed competent and knew what he was planning to do. It seemed obvious that ‘Medsea’ referred to the Mediterranean.

  “What are the dark years you speak of?” Asked Antonov.

  Djembe looked over his shoulder, making eye contact with the Russian. “It is many years ago, many before I was born. The time the sky was dark and people lived under the ground and water. My grandfather’s father was part of the generation who returned to the surface, to Rat City.”

  “Why do you keep calling it rat city? Isn’t it called Cairo?”

  “Rat City.”

  Halloran shifted in the seat, finding that his tall frame didn’t fit very well. “So for some reason they changed the name of Cairo to ‘Rat City’ and it grew much bigger than it ever had in our own time. Plus, they went underground for a period.” He found himself watching the nearly-black water outside the viewport. “How deep are we?”

  “Descending to one thousand meters. Prax sensors not good at penetrating water—good for me in my business.”

  “Smuggling,” Antonov said.

  “Shipping. I bring items of need to the humans living under Prax occupation.”

  “And funnel said items to local “businessmen’ like Deacon.”

  “Whatever, as long as he can get us out of here,” observed Halloran. “I just wish we hadn’t needed to leave Chandler and the others behind.”

  The cockpit was silent for ten minutes as Djembe ignored them and concentrated on his ship. Neither Halloran nor Antonov had anything to add, so they kept quiet. The crew in back, for their part, were silent as well. Several of them were still wounded, Halloran knew, but they’d been patched up as well as could be managed and had to tough it out until they reached proper medical care. Halloran guessed Deacon was back there somewhere watching everyone closely.

  He took a moment to assess the ship they were “flying” in. The interior was spartan but not overly cramped. In many
ways it resembled the interior of a C-130 Hercules, which he’d had the opportunity to travel in. Packed avionics and sound deadening pads jammed in every nook. Jump seats strapped along the perimeter. This vessel was longer—probably twice as long as the plane he was thinking of.

  The big difference was the fact that this ship was current traveling in Halloran’s own domain—underwater. At a thousand meters, no less. Apparently pressure differentials weren’t a problem in this time, he grimly noted. The Bonhomme Richard herself had a MOD (Maximum Operating Depth) of seven hundred meters with a crush depth estimated at around eleven hundred. Yet this little transport made short work of nearly that much ocean pressure. “Impressive,” he found himself muttering.

  “What is?” asked Antonov.

  “A thousand meters.”

  “Yes, yes it is. Your vessel?”

  Halloran cocked a thin grin at him. “Classified.”

  The Russian’s bushy right eyebrow went northward.

  Halloran shrugged. “I wonder what space will be like.”

  “I have no wish to find out.”

  “It’ll be the opposite of what we’ve dealt with our entire careers, Pyotr. Vacuum instead of tons of hull pressure.”

  “My cousin, he was part of Russian space program.” Antonov looked over his shoulder towards the cargo compartment, as if checking to see if they were overheard.

  “Oh?”

  “He was killed in 2026. The Mir Three accident.”

  Halloran nodded slowly. The space station had taken a hit from a rogue meteorite shortly after completion. “I’m sorry.” No one had survived the explosive decompression after the impact and subsequent re-entry of debris.

  After that, the two Captains sat silently and watched the pilot alternatively monitoring his instruments and the moving mass of water around them. Every few minutes, the ship would jolt slightly. Halloran guessed it was the passing of thermal layers, which played havoc with sonar and ship’s trim at times.

  But there was no ship. The USS Bonhomme Richard was drydocked in an enemy stronghold; most likely undergoing a shameful deconstruction. And the missiles…Halloran hoped and prayed that the security lockouts would slow the bad guys down. These red people seemed very adept at manipulating technology, however. He glanced uneasily back toward where the defector Axxa sat, squashed into a human-framed jumpseat and looking sour. They were overlords of his planet. The thought of it made Halloran’s blood boil.

  Finally, Djembe sat back and stretched. The guy was definitely older—perhaps even in his sixties—but clearly was an able pilot and experienced in the ropes.

  “We almost there?” Halloran offered.

  “We will exit the Medsea and take a flat trajectory over the dark regions. I have used this route many times without detection by the planetary sensors used by the Prax.”

  “This ship must be fast.”

  Djembe looked at him with obvious pride in his vessel’s capabilities. “It is.” Then, “What was your name again?”

  “Halloran. Captain Thomas Halloran.”

  Djembe tilted his head to one side. “You name is a long one; Tomasalloran.”

  “It’s two names. Thomas, and Halloran.”

  “Why two names?”

  Halloran glanced at Antonov, and saw that the eyebrow was up again. “Everyone has two names; a familiar name—Thomas—and a family name. Halloran is my family name.”

  Djembe nodded and returned to his gauges. “I understand. We have no family here. All are alone. No ‘family name,’ then.”

  “Don’t you have a father? Mother?” asked Antonov.

  “Of course. They are long-dead, though. Never knew them. I was taken by the military from the place where I was educated. Today, even those places are gone under Prax rule.” He spit out the foreign name as he said it.

  “You are African. Djembe is an African name.” It was more a statement than a question.

  Djembe twirled a dial and took the control stalk in his hand. “I am human. Earther. Prepare for ascent.” He flipped a switch over his head and Halloran heard a tone sounding in the cargo area.

  Just in case, he leaned himself back and called down as loud as he could. “Get strapped in, people! We’re ascending!”

  Suddenly the ship angled upward and increased speed, vibration setting in. The decking beneath Halloran’s feet began to tremble as the water lightened by degrees.

  “Five hundred meters,” Djembe noted several long moments later, not taking his eyes from the information in front of him.

  Halloran realized he was holding his breath and consciously exhaled.

  Then, “breaking surface in three…two…one.”

  The last few ticks of clock saw the green sea color lighten and then light burst in through the viewscreen. Halloran’s eyes took several more ticks to adjust to the new surroundings, and the first impressions he had were of low-hanging clouds and wind-tossed wavecaps.

  Then the ship lifted away from the surface and tilted over on itself at something like two hundred meters in altitude, accelerating. No one said anything as they settled on a new course and Djembe pushed the ship even faster. Water sped along beneath them for a minute, the cloud cover just over their heads thick as dirty cotton balls laid in a solid sheet. It looked stormy, but no drops splashed the glass in front of them.

  Land came up in the distance. The dark smudge quickly resolved itself into a blackish line cutting across the horizon. For a moment Halloran fancied himself a Navy fighter pilot; this must be what it feels like. He reveled in the power of the ship and the speed with which they pressed forward through the air.

  “Now we ascend. Prax defensive grid will be strongest at altitude.”

  “Why don’t we feel the gee forces?”

  “Dampeners.”

  Halloran nodded for no reason. Djembe pulled on the stalk and the ship—The Imani, Halloran remembered—leapt up at an extreme angle into the cloud bank.

  Moisture swirled around them for long seconds as the force of the climb held them against their seats. Then, suddenly, the encompassing shroud fell away and the ship flew into clear air above…hell.

  Something was wrong. Halloran leaned out to see better. The position of the cockpit allowed those in the command seats to see almost 180 degrees, including toward the surface. With no cloud to mar his view, Halloran saw what must be central Europe. The peaks of the Alps rose to their starboard side, but the landscape before them was black, lifeless. He grabbed Antonov’s sleeve. “Europe should be right there, yes?”

  With a slightly worse vantage point, the other captain leaned forward. “This is Europe, correct? What has happened here?”

  Halloran stopped the other’s hand from grasping at Djembe. “Djembe, explain.”

  The pilot spared him a short glance. “This is the dark region - the wilderness. Some live here but most is unlivable. The land has poison in it.”

  Halloran got one more long look at the undulating, mottled black/brown hills stretching far into the distance before the pilot spun the craft inverted and nosed toward the upper atmosphere. At the same time, a series of pleasant-sounding beeps went off in the cockpit.

  Antonov had sat back, his face white as a ghost. Halloran felt queasy and tried to distract from the nausea. “What’s that sound?”

  Djembe looked serious. “Targeting lock. Sensors say at least two Prax destroyers have us. We evade them now.”

  Halloran gulped, his flash of what was left of Europe forgotten. He heard the splatter of someone behind him puking. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Chapter 31

  Prax Sol Center

  “Human vessel detected exiting the lower atmosphere, Lord,” announced someone at communications.

  “Excellent. Do the destroyers have them in firing range?”

  “Not yet, Lord.” The Prax listened to his channel to the lead interceptor. “The two assigned to the northern hemisphere report that the vessel is maneuvering rapidly and staying within the Earth middle atmosphere
…making course for the northern pole.”

  The Prime was tense. He got out of his chair and strode to the communications panel, pointing. The tech thumbed the button indicated.

  A voice filled the air. “…and the vessel is traveling at a high rate of speed for a human transport. Moving to box him in now.”

  The Prime leaned in. “This is your Prime. You are to destroy that vessel, but not until you have verified that there is a Praxxan aboard.”

  “Lord? A Praxxan…aboard that ship?”

  “You have your orders. Report back to my command once you have ascertained the presence of a Prax.” He added a growl. “Is that clear?”

  “Ye-yes, Lord.”

  Earth - Above the Northern Hemisphere

  “The Prax will try to box me in, but they’re afraid of entering the atmosphere,” Djembe explained. “I use this to my advantage.”

  “Can’t they just wait up there until we emerge and fire on us?” asked Antonov.

  “I choose when that happens.”

  “Are there normally two of these ships chasing you?”

  Djembe glanced over. “No.”

  Halloran groaned. Of course, the Prax knew who was in the transport and wanted them back—or dead. Halloran didn’t want either.

  “But—”

  “No talking now. I fly.”

  Djembe spun the ship this way and that, the G-force now overcoming the dampeners and moving Halloran’s stomach into his throat several times. At one point they passed through a dense cloud that shook the ship from stem to stern. A violent snowstorm.

  The pilot suddenly turned the ship directly vertical and pressed the stalk forward, his eyes glued to the instruments. Within moments they leaped from the top of the storm-head and all Halloran saw before him was the black of space. “Holy…”

  The ship rocketed away from the planet and Djembe was adjusting a variety of controls across the instrument panel. Halloran had the sudden realization that all sound had ceased outside the hull—the rushing of water or wind he had grown accustomed to over the prior hour was missing.