by Daniel Gibbs
“Understood, Colonel.” Eldred had the message bounced out into the star system in seconds. “Should I copy General Milliken?”
“Colonel,” one of the technicians said. “CSV Marcus Aurelius and four frigates breaking off from Fifteenth Group. They’re on an intercept with the refugee ships at the coordinates where we recorded missile launch.”
“Bloody hell,” Sinclair murmured. “Raise the good general, if you would. Still nothing from 9091?”
“Nothing, but maintaining course and speed, Colonel.”
Then I’ll be damned if I know what their game is at this point, Sinclair mused, except we here must keep General Milliken’s force from playing it. This Leaguer must be one cool customer.
Corriveau hunched over his console. “I don’t understand! I oversaw the final diagnostics myself. They should be working!”
“I hear your words, but what I see are my people attempting to launch missiles, and yet nothing is happening.” Kiel could pity Corriveau for shaking with fear.
After all, Moller did have his hand clamped on the back of Corriveau’s neck, yanking it backward until his head was staring up at the ceiling. Kiel found satisfaction, even though the scene was relayed to him in miniature. “Explain to me why fire control acts like it’s responding, and yet nothing that can destroy other ships is leaving our hull.”
“There must be a breakdown in the command and control linkages. The wiring we installed—”
Moller dragged him from his seat and shoved Corriveau for the hatch. “Get down there and fix it! The boss wants us ready to shoot, and I’m not sending my guys outside to launch missiles by hand!”
Kiel’s pity for the technician subsided as soon as he was gone. A major malfunction in a complex and rushed refit was one thing. This kind of breakdown was another. Too timed. Too targeted. Kiel leaned across his console. “Ferenc? Call up the files on our departed Demir allies. I think Arvid and Haakon have had revenge from beyond the grave.”
Ferenc nodded. “You think they sabotaged the wiring?”
“Either that or Lucy Lee brought us a bad batch, which makes no sense for a smuggler. Perhaps one of our dealers on the other end shorted us. It doesn’t matter now. We’ll discover the cause.” He switched back on the continuous signal to 9091. “Moller? Send down to Engineering that Corriveau will need all the help he can get. You need to fix this immediately.”
“Yeah, I know, boss. I know.”
“You’ll be less blasé about the whole affair when your pay comes back short by twenty percent.” Kiel slapped the console, cutting the signal.
TFC 9091 refused to counterpunch its attacker, even as ships in the vicinity jockeyed for position. Jackson imagined their techs scratching their heads at the problem, at least until they uncovered the substandard wiring—five meters of it—coated to resemble the proper stuff, but the coating was laced with flitters. They would have broken down and interrupted the links after the first few tests.
Jackson hadn’t told Carlos, of course, so he could plausibly deny knowledge of sabotage. No sense in giving the man another secret to hide when he went into isolation.
“Still not shooting,” Brant said. “Nice… our trick worked.”
“Even nicer once we close the gap.” TFC 9091 was near enough Jackson could make out its distinctive sleek lines as a miniature on the main display. Jackson pointed at the screen, magnifying the image using the shuttle’s sensors. “Bring us in on the starboard flank, behind these midline bulges.”
“Aye, Cap’n. Thruster blister,” Dwyer said. “Excellent choice. It’s a blind spot for their sensors at close range. Tight fit, though.”
“Can you make it?”
“Blindfolded, sir.”
“Let me know if you need Sev on the hull with beacons to guide you in.”
Sev snorted.
Jackson clapped Brant on the shoulder. “We’ll have to cut our way in.”
Brant brought up more detailed schematics than the basic hull design Jackson had been reviewing. He highlighted the length of hull behind the blister. “There’s a weak seam on Bulwark-class, here. It’s part of the reason the design bureau greenlit Pikeman-class as a replacement. It’s a good place to peel her open, assuming the Leaguers haven’t also realized the vulnerability and reinforced it.”
“Airlock?” Sev asked.
“They’ll expect a boarding party at the front door, so we break in through the roof.” Gina tightened the straps on her suit. It was a modified version of the one she’d used infiltrating Salvatore’s garage and the League consulate, only hardened against vacuum and threaded with a passive life-support system. A slim pack on her upper back held the air reserve as well as the propellant tank for embedded thrusters fitted to the waist and wrists. The whole suit was black with gray panels and laced with a sensor-reflecting mesh.
“She’s right. A hull breach will be a surprise,” Jackson said. “Of course, it will set off the structural integrity alarms, which is where Brant and his skills come in.”
“The sooner I can patch into their security network, the better.” Brant ticked off points on his fingers. “Internal and external cameras, motion sensors, life sign scanners…”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Jackson helped Gina with the last catches on the back of her neck then turned so she could do the same for his suit. “Ready?”
“I’m never not.” Gina smiled. “Though, it’d be nice to hear encouraging words from Brant, something other than happy sensor readings.”
Jackson nodded. “Lead on, Lieutenant.”
Brant leaned his elbows on his console and made the sign of the cross. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our deaths…”
Sinclair paced the control center until he was certain he would wear ruts in the decking.
“Incoming hail, Colonel,” Eldred said. “General Milliken on a secure channel for you.”
“Main screen, if you please.”
Milliken’s scow filled the monitor. “Colonel, I’m not in the mood for interruptions. Clear this channel, and we can both get on with our missions.”
“I’m afraid, General, it would be the wrong mission. I’m speaking of the profiles we sent you not long ago.”
“Good stories, those. I’m waiting for the proof instead of spook fairy tales.”
“Sir, the missiles fired are the proof.”
“My TAO tells me the refugees have taken to lobbing projectiles at TCFE corvettes. I’m on my way to discourage them from a repeat.”
Sinclair shook his head. “The trajectories can be unclear when viewed from the wrong vantage point. So many transports clustered like grapes make it difficult to determine who fired what, but Tuscon informs us the stealth freighter they’ve been pursuing has finally made an appearance. Major Mancini is investigating as we speak.”
“You expect me to stand back and not remind those rejected Leaguers whose space they’re barging into? This is the Terran Coalition, Colonel, not some neutral backwater world. These people need to respect order. I won’t have a single ship taking potshots at our people, CDF or TCFE.”
“I understand, General, but rash action is precisely what our enemy longs for us to commit. This is their scheme. I’ve already advised TCFE command in the region to stand down while we assess the situation.”
“Yes, I’ve seen your ‘advisement’ and am still contemplating a formal complaint up the chain of command, except I’m not sure how far up it would get.” Milliken smirked. “To your credit, I think it would land on General MacIntosh’s desk.”
“If not the Oval Office. Sir.”
“You can’t send further orders like you’re a flag officer, Sinclair. That’s my role, and I won’t see it usurped.”
“With respect, I do carry flag rank for this operation.”
“For what, your spook tub and a stealth boat? Don’t split hairs with me.”
“General Milliken, I must insist,” Sinclair said sternly. “Thrustin
g Fifteenth Group into this situation will only lead to the worst of outcomes. If you fire upon the refugee transports, the League wins. Period. All the news networks will show are a state-of-the-art cruiser leading warships they have seen defend our territory for decades and firing into the masses of victims desperate to reach a new home. The divisions among our people over this issue will only deepen. Partisan infighting will dissolve any chance for meaningful compromise, and through our inaction, our enemy’s influence will grow.”
Milliken’s frown deepened. Whatever he was thinking, it wasn’t translating to action. Marcus Aurelius and her escorts continued their new course toward corvette 9091 and the transport fleet. Sinclair hazarded a glance at the tactical display. No reaction yet from TCFE besides raising shields and pulling their vessels away from the refugee ships—which could either mean moving themselves out of potential danger or clearing lanes of fire.
“Open missile doors on five corvettes,” Tamir said.
Sinclair nodded. “Maintain our watch, Captain.”
Milliken let out a breath. It reminded Sinclair of an old grizzly rumbling in the woods. “All right, Colonel. Let’s take a closer look at your data. I’m not afraid of rolling the dice, but I also won’t put my people in harm’s way over League refuse. I’m instructing our ships to take up shepherding positions—to show we mean business—but to keep their outer doors shut and firing solutions frozen until my word.”
“Thank you, sir.” Relief flooded Sinclair.
“But if those buckets so much as toss a ballistic round and chip the paint on a single CDF vessel, no amount of politics will save them from retribution. Marcus Aurelius out.” Milliken’s face vanished, replaced by the starfield outside.
“Get me Major Mancini,” Sinclair ordered. “I want that stealth ship reeled in and Master Chief MacDonald boarding it.”
“And the corvette?” Eldred asked. “Captain Adams has already redirected his shuttle.”
“Jolly good. Let’s make his initiative an order, shall we?”
Jackson pounded his fist on the console. “We’re up, people. Warrant, park us. Gina, Sev, stand by at the hatch. Lids down and locked. We’re cutting life support.”
“I can jam their comms as soon as we’re down, Captain, but to short-circuit their internal systems, you’ve got to get me hardwired in.” Brant’s voice was tinny through Jackson’s suit helmet. “I need about twenty seconds.”
“You heard the man.” Jackson checked his pistol then secured it in its holster. “Head for the auxiliary control room. It’s marked on your deck plans.”
Gina hefted the plasma weapon, the strap weighing down her shoulder. “Do you boys always bring Saurian battle rifles, or was this special ordered?”
Dwyer cracked a grin. “Better to be prepared than wishin’ for what you don’t have. Hold on, kids. We’re coming in quick. Might feel a jolt.”
Jackson tried not to watch their velocity relative to the corvettes, but the jolt as the shuttle rapidly decelerated was enough to send pain through his elbow as he clung to a handhold in the bulkhead. A second, bigger jolt almost put him on his knees. Gina rebounded off Sev.
“Down and grapples locked!” Dwyer hollered.
The hatch flew open. Gina and Sev fired the red beams at the hull, digging black trenches as air hissed into space. Metal plating brightened, bubbled, and instantly cooled.
Jackson glanced at his wrist unit. Dwyer joined him, ready with his rifle and a string of explosive devices riding on his belt. Dwyer tapped the side of his helmet and gave him a thumbs-up. Jackson returned it, not mentioning he was trying not to think about what would happen if the shuttle were spotted before they got aboard. He had no desire to be scraped off the hull.
25
TFC 9091
Aphendrika Solar System—Terran Coalition
1 August 2464
The new set of alarms battered Corriveau worse than any damage Moller could inflict. “What’re those? What are you fools doing up there?”
“We have a hull breach, Deck Four, behind the starboard thrust blister.” Moller sounded bored. “I’m sending a damage repair team. It’s probably junk that hit us when the missiles exploded.”
They were too far away for any such damage. Corriveau knew his calculations had been accurate. Of course, he thought he’d figured correctly when the wiring was installed, and look how that had turned out.
“Keep me informed of everything, Moller. Vasiliy is depending on us.” Corriveau removed his goggles. “Try this one.”
The technician ten meters away in the cramped conduit access crawlway held his diagnostic tool at the nearest junction. Green lights flickered. The tech gave Corriveau a salute.
“Good.” Corriveau sighed. Only seven more to check.
The alarms cut out. Corriveau worked his jaw so his ears would pop. “About time, Moller.”
“That wasn’t me. We’ve had a malfunction in—”
“Stop talking to me about malfunctions!” Corriveau shimmied backward out of the conduit. “You said you were sending people. Fix the problem!”
He expected the bumbling oaf to demand punishment for him, but at the moment, Corriveau didn’t care about threats from Moller or even Kiel. This was his child. The project had consumed his waking hours—and those when he was supposed to be sleeping—for months. He would not let inferior workmanship end his care, not when they were so close to triggering a grand incident among the capitalist scum.
The lights in the corridor were red—unsurprising, given they’d experienced a hull breach. Corriveau tapped his comm to pester Moller again but heard nothing but static. Intolerable! Basic communications shouldn’t be affected.
A crewman in a full vac suit rounded the corner, lugging his torch. Corriveau planted his hands on his hips, bringing the man’s stride to a halt. “You! Don’t pretend like you’re more than a glorified hired hand. We have political prisoners toiling in our mines who serve society better! I am the oversight engineer for this project, and you will come with me so we can fix this wiring. Now, Get me the bridge on comms!”
The man cocked his head. He raised the torch, the heated plasma singeing the front of Corriveau’s coveralls. The man’s finger rested on the trigger.
“What…? Stop it!” Corriveau held out his hands—and wondered why the man was dressed in all black. None of their vac suits were so sleek.
“Engineer,” the man grunted through his helmet’s tinny speakers.
A slimmer, shorter man and a lithe woman joined him.
“Good catch, Four. Two?”
“Engine compartment is thirty meters ahead and down a deck.” The voice, though muffled, sounded oddly sweet. “Isn’t that right, oversight engineer?”
Corriveau was far too aware of the pulse pistol she had trained on his abdomen—and the massive Saurian rifle too. He lifted his hands. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Then be a darling and escort us,” she said. “We could use the company.”
Which was an easy task to fulfill. All thoughts of Vasiliy’s anger, even when he had Ferenc shoot those cartel brothers, vaporized in the face of the immediate threat from the intruders.
Jackson took the engineer’s comm. He made sure the man stayed away from any access panels as they made the rest of the trip to Engineering. There he hoped and prayed they would snag a tech to do their dirty work. The guy could be an even better prisoner.
They paused before the double doors to the engineering compartment. “Avoid killing anyone if you can help it,” Jackson told Sev.
“Sure.” Sev lugged the Saurian rifle like he was hefting a whole person. It wasn’t his only weapon by far, but he didn’t seem to want to waste it since he’d carried the device all that way.
“Mind the clock,” Brant said into Jackson’s receiver. “They’re locked out of comms, but it won’t take long for them to figure out it’s a physical problem.”
“We’re on it, Home,” Jackson said. “Trust me, none of us want this bucket incinera
ted.”
“I might, but only after we’re away.” Gina took aim with her pistol.
“I thought that was implied.” Jackson motioned for the engineer to move. “Open it.”
“If you want to trigger a reactor breach, you’ll be doing us all a favor.” The engineer’s hand was poised over the door panel. “Our employers terminate those who disappoint them.”
Gina nudged the back of his head with her pulse pistol. “I don’t suppose this helps you decide, does it?”
“One would be quicker.”
Jackson shook his head. “No time for this.” He pressed the engineer’s hand to the panel. The hatches parted.
Sev barreled between them before they were a meter apart, brandishing the plasma rifle like a club. The first tech to turn around went wide-eyed for one second before Sev clobbered him. The second shouted but wound up with the butt end buried in his stomach, forcing him to his knees.
The other two men were built like cartel enforcers. Jackson had seen plenty of their ilk back on Aphendrika. Their stance and the way they were standing around while the other two techs had been working told Jackson plenty—that and the ease with which their hands dropped to the pistols on their belts.
“Leave them!” Jackson pushed the engineer forward, arm on the man’s shoulder. “Leave them, or he dies.”
The men glanced at each other. Jackson scrutinized their body language, tried to ascertain what they were calculating. He realized too late when the first one’s tension fled his face.
“Down!” Jackson pushed the engineer toward the deck and fired.
The leftmost of the two men squeezed the trigger. Plasma flashes ripped across the compartment, heat washing over Jackson. His shot went wide, catching the one who’d fired in the shoulder. Gina’s found the center of the man’s head.
