“I think you can keep this,” he said. “Karnak Station?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Who attacked you?” Conway asked. “The United Nations?”
“Our own people,” she replied, shaking her head. “About, I don't know, two weeks ago, the fast courier Hermes arrived, with orders that we transfer our best artifacts over to them. Everything we'd worked so hard for was being taken away.” Taking another sip of water, and passing the empty glass to Doyle, she continued, “After we'd finished loading, we were attacked. I watched the commander of Hermes...”
“Who was that?”
“Senior Lieutenant Andrew Blake.”
Frowning, Sullivan said, “Terry's boy? He went into the Fleet, didn't he?”
“He did,” Conway said, shaking his head. “I really hope it wasn't him.”
“I watched that man kill my commanding officer, as well as a good friend of mine, and saw the men under his command massacre everyone on the station.” She looked down at the floor, and continued, “I got out of there. Took an escape pod and made for the surface. Bishop and I...”
There was a long pause, and Conway said, “Your friend?”
“Yes,” she said, tears forming in her eyes. “I knew he had a crush on me, damn it, but I had six years on him, and it didn't...I didn't...”
“Kirk, maybe something…,” Sullivan began.
“No,” she snapped. “I don't want this to go away. Not yet.” She looked up at Conway, and continued, “We found some caves in the side of the wall, carved out for some sort of function. I don't know whether they were storage, religious, or just a whim, but they weren't in our records yet. I figured they'd be a good place to hide.”
Nodding, Conway said, “You were right about that.”
“The Triplanetary Fleet did this? To its own people?” Doyle asked. “I can't believe it.”
“You can believe it,” she pressed.
Rubbing his forehead, Conway replied, “Have you any other evidence?”
She shook her head, and said, “Just that of my own eyes.” Her mouth opened, and she asked, “Don't you believe me?”
“As it happens, I do, but that won't be enough for a court-martial, and we haven't found any other evidence to back that up.” Glancing at Sullivan, he asked, “You've looked at the salvage data longer than I have. What do you think?”
He shrugged, and said, “My best guess, and that's all it is, is that the station was destroyed from the inside. Set charges rather than missile or laser impacts. Though it's hard to tell from the evidence we have. We don't really have the equipment for a proper analysis. If Vlad hadn't foisted that sensor upgrade on us at our last layover, we wouldn't even be able to do this much.” He smiled, then added, “I cursed that bastard's name when he offered us payment in kind instead of cash. I guess I'll have to apologize when I meet him next.”
Looking up at him, Morgan said, “I want them to pay for what they did. They killed fifty-two good people, friends and comrades. They can't get away with it.”
“They won't,” he replied. “Look, we're heading for Belzoni Station next. That's a free port out on the frontier, and I've got a few friends over there who might be able to help. Maybe even sneak you back into the Confederation. Until then, you need to rest up. There's nothing you can do for the moment anyway.”
“I can't just sit here,” she said.
“Of course you can,” Sullivan replied. “This is a small ship. We don't have room for you to run a marathon.” With a smile, he added, “If there's anything else you want picked up from the surface, I can have a shuttle down there in five minutes. A couple of us spent a few days taking as many pictures as we could of the artifacts...”
“All of our records were sent home,” she said. “Assuming they haven't been stolen as well.”
The communicator on the wall chirped, and Conway stepped over to it, tapping the control. “Conway here. What's up?”
“Not sure, skipper,” Dixon said. “Max thinks he might have spotted some dimensional distortion. Could be something heading into the system.”
Wide-eyed, Morgan said, “They're coming to finish what they started.”
“They might find Churchill a harder nut to crack than a defenseless space station,” Conway replied. “Mel, get the engines firing, and set for a course towards the hendecaspace point. Preferably the one our new friends aren't using.”
“I don't know which that is.”
“Then toss a coin. I'm on my way.” Gesturing at the door, he said, “Come on, Mo. They're singing our song again.”
The two of them stepped out of the room, Morgan struggling to get out of her bed and follow them. As the door closed behind them, the engines started to roar, the ship surging out of orbit and fleeing the system. They quickly sprinted down the corridors, racing past a pair of technicians bustling to their own station, through the open doors to the bridge.
As Conway settled down at the helm, he barked, “Report.”
“For a start, I guessed wrong,” Dixon said, moving over to the rear. “Which means we're heading right for...whatever it is. I guess I need a better coin.”
“Want me to bring the launch tube on-line?” Sullivan asked.
“Might as well. Even if it's friendly, we've got a good excuse. Let me know...”
“Here it comes!” Sullivan said, and there was a brief flash on the screen. “Triplanetary vessel. Looks like one of the new Dragon-class Scoutships.”
“Nice design,” Xylander said, racing for his station, his shirt half-open. “I've been wanting to get a look at one of these babies for a while.”
“Maybe the two of you can go out on a date sometime,” Conway snapped. “What are they doing?”
“Too early to tell, but they're moving in our direction,” Sullivan reported. “Though that could either mean an interception course or that they're moving to take a look at the station.”
“Or they're keeping their options open.” Pulling on a headset, he said, “This is Captain Jack Conway, of the Free Trader Churchill, calling unidentified Triplanetary craft.”
A voice crackled through the dark, replying, “This is Captain Frank Dexter, of the Triplanetary Starship Gorgon. What are you doing in this system?”
“We were conducting a speculative trading run to Karnak Station. On arrival, we found that it had been destroyed.” Glancing at Sullivan, he continued, “I'm happy to transmit over all of the data we've gathered about the incident, as well as the hull samples we picked up.”
“Hull samples?”
“I figured someone would be starting an investigation. We were heading to Komarov Station…,” he gestured at Xylander, who quickly loaded the dummy course into the computer, “to report what had happened here.”
“Did you find any survivors?” Dexter asked.
Conway paused for a half-second, then said, “No.”
After a moment, Dexter replied, “We have evidence that this station was destroyed by a saboteur, working in the pay of a foreign power. Ensign Nicola Morgan.” Conway glanced at Sullivan as the voice continued, “There is a substantial bounty for her capture, Churchill. Two hundred thousand credits, should you co-operate.”
“Gorgon, I don't see how we can co-operate more than we already are.”
“Are we on a secure channel?”
Flicking a switch, Conway said, “We are now.” Behind him, the door opened, Morgan stepping through, looking darkly at the ship imaged on the viewscreen. “You can speak freely.”
“She's wanted for murder, Captain. I can understand that you might have been offered a lot of money to get her to safety, but given your service record, I believe that you will do the right thing and turn her over to us. As well as all the information you've gathered.” He paused, then added, “As well as the bounty, I'll overlook anything else you might have salvaged from t
he wreck. I don't believe for one moment that you were heading for Komarov Station.”
Conway looked at Morgan, who said, “Don't do it.”
“They've got four missile tubes to our one,” Sullivan said. “And a lot faster, a lot more agile. Even if we were running for the other hendecaspace point, I don't think we'd get there first.”
“Don't make this official, Captain,” Dexter said, crackling over the channel. “Right now, we can handle this quietly and quickly. I don't need to mention that you were ever here.”
With a sigh, Conway pulled out his pistol, leveled it at Morgan, and said, “We're on the way. Stand-by for shuttle transfer when I give the word.”
“No,” Morgan said. “No.”
“It's how it has to be,” Conway said. “Churchill out.” Placing his pistol back into its holster, he continued, “Now that we've got that little bit of theater out of the way, let's get the hell out of here. Dirk, I want a course for Belzoni Station back into the computer, ready to go as soon as we hit the hendecaspace point. Mo, if that bastard twitches, I need to know instantly.”
“On it,” he said. “I have a firing solution if we need it, on theoretical incoming missile tracks.”
Morgan asked, “What was all that about?”
“They don't have any intention of letting us leave this system alive. No Fleet officer would just allow us to depart without a through check, and the fact that they knew you were here clinches it. They're involved in the conspiracy.” Turning to her, he said, “If I had any doubts about your story, all of them are gone.”
“Why the gun?”
“I needed you to be convincing.”
“Convincing?” she asked, and he flashed her a smile in response before turning back to his station.
“Four missiles to our one,” Xylander repeated. “Damn, if I only had a single interceptor, I'd show that bastard how to fight.”
“Holding course for the moment,” Conway said. “Nice and slow until we're close to docking, then I'll give it everything I've got.” Tapping a control, he said, “Chief, get down to the reactor room and pull out all the safeties. On my signal, I want all the power you can spare to the engines.”
“You're out of your mind,” Cruz replied. “You aren't the one who has to clean up the mess.”
“No, I'm just the one who has to make sure you're alive to get the chance.” Switching over to the general channel, he continued, “Now hear this. All hands to combat stations. Damage control teams to their stations. Secure all blast doors, and brace for potential missile impacts. That is all.”
“You know what you're doing,” Morgan said, sitting down at the vacant communications station. With an accusing frown, she continued, “You aren't just a freighter captain.”
“Time enough for us to exchange life stories later.”
The two ships slowly cruised towards each other, Churchill sweeping towards the egress point, trying to escape the system. He didn't dare show his hand too soon, not without risking Dexter launching an immediate attack.
“Shuttle launch,” Sullivan said. “Docking in three minutes.”
“Why haven't they attacked us already?” Dixon asked. “They're in range..”
Shaking his head, Conway said, “They want our guest alive, and they want to see what we've salvaged from the station. That shuttle's probably full of troops.”
“Maybe we could…,” Xylander started, but Sullivan shook his head.
“Who will probably be considered expendable if we try something like capturing them. These people haven't shown much in the way of mercy so far, and I don't think we can assume they'll suddenly find a conscience now.”
“Six minutes to egress,” Xylander reported, glancing up at his panel. “Course locked into the computer. Ready to go on your command.”
“Good,” Conway said. He glanced down at his panel, a series of red lights flashing on. Cruz had done her work well, and any second now, Captain Dexter was going to get the surprise of his life. “Countermeasures on my mark. Where the hell is McGuire?”
A door opened at the side of the room, and a scraggly-haired old man lumbered through, rubbing his hands on his trousers, wearing a pair of old-fashioned cyber-glasses over his eyes. He looked down at Morgan, flashing her a wink, then collapsed into a chair.
“Call of nature, boss.”
“Get on the e-war suite. We're going to have a lot of hell heading our way in a minute, and I'd rather not get the paintwork damaged. Or the hull breached.”
With a sigh, the aging hacker settled into his console, his fingers like lightning as they danced over the controls, bringing his customized software packages on-line. Conway turned back to his panel, checking over his course one last time, hovering his finger over the control. There was no finesse here, nothing fancy. Just one long run for home.
“They're on final approach, Jack,” Sullivan warned.
“Hold on, everyone,” Conway replied, lightly tapping the control. The roar of the engine turned to a raging torrent, a nightmare of vibration and acceleration that pushed him back in his chair. Warning alarms blared across the bridge as the hull stress sensors reacted to the unexpected thrust, and he silenced them with the flick of a switch. He flicked up a sensor display, and shook his head as four more tracks appeared on the screen, their trajectories locking onto their rear.
“Mark Ten Missiles, on a collision course,” Sullivan confirmed. “The shuttle's swinging away, out of the action.”
“Can I join them?” Xylander asked. “It's getting crowded out here.”
Conway danced around the console, feeding the power overload where it would do the most good, trying to keep everything in balance. Behind him, McGuire was humming to himself, planting fingers on the keys as he threw intrusion programs at the approaching missiles, trying to throw them off balance. The ship rocked back for an instant, and a fifth track appeared on the screen.
“Locked onto one of the missiles,” Sullivan said. “I don't like the idea of firing on a Triplanetary ship, but knocking down a warhead is another matter.”
“Four minutes to egress,” Xylander said. “Mo, am I reading this right?”
“Looks like they've got a freaky engineer as well,” the gunner replied. “”Gorgon is coming around, and they might even get another salvo up before we leave.”
“Max, now would be a good time for you to show off,” Conway said.
“An artist seeks perfection.”
Shaking his head, Conway said, “Not today. I'll settle for 'good enough', thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” he replied, tapping another control. Three of the dots vanished from the screen, replaced with rapidly expanding clouds of debris, and the fourth rapidly attained mutual annihilation with its counterpart from Churchill. Ostentatiously, McGuire leaned back, running a hand through the remnants of his hair, and continued, “No problem.”
“Just get ready to do that again,” Conway replied. “Three minutes and counting.”
Churchill and Gorgon were partners in a celestial ballet, dancing through the stars. He was driving the transport towards the departure point as quickly as he could, wincing as the power flow began to falter, overloaded relays and components burning out from the unexpected load. Behind them, Gorgon was pushing itself beyond the limit in a desperate attempt to catch them in time. With less than sixty seconds to go, they launched their second missile salvo.
“Max…,” Conway muttered, but the old hacker shook his head.
“They're on shotgun. We can avoid them if we maneuver.”
“If we do that, we'll miss our target,” Xylander said. “We'd be an hour spinning around for another pass.”
“Time to impact?”
“Fifty-one seconds,” Sullivan said. “If I've got this right, we'll be leaving the system half a second earlier.”
All eyes on the bridge looked a
t the sensor display. Nothing else they could do would influence events now. Churchill's engines competed against those of the approaching missiles, a race that they could never win in the long-term, but just might in the short-term.
“Ten seconds,” Xylander muttered. “Eight. Seven. Six.”
“I have the call,” Conway said, holding his hand over the hendecaspace control, slamming it down as they crossed the threshold. The comforting blue light basked over them, and the starfield faded out, the engines finally silent as they fled into hendecaspace.
“That was close,” Sullivan said, wiping his forehead. “Too close.”
“Let's just hope we get a better reception when we emerge,” Conway replied. He rose from his chair, turning to the exit. “Mo, you've got the bridge. I'll be in my quarters.”
Turning to his friend, Sullivan asked, “Are you alright?”
“Fine, except that I've got to work out how to break this to Vlad,” he lied. “See you later.” Walking into the corridor, he quietly walked back to his cabin, glancing at his watch. No one passed him as he made his way along the deck, no one to disturb his reverie, though a part of him longed for such a distraction. He stepped through the doors, sitting down at his desk, the datapad holding the last message from home still displayed on the screen.
“She doesn't want to see you, and neither do I,” it read. “Leave us alone.” A one-line message, save the garbled jumble of the transit coding, relayed from Abydos Base to Belzoni Station. He glanced up at a faded holoimage on the wall, a picture of a man holding a baby in his arms, a woman standing next to him, the two adults wearing their best dress uniform.
“God, I was so young back then,” he muttered, reaching into a locker and pulling out a full bottle of vodka. “So damned young.” Pouring himself a liberal glass, he raised it in salute to the picture, and said, “Happy anniversary, honey,” before draining it in one swig. He looked at the bottle for a long time, shook his head, and muttered, “Every damned year,” before pouring himself another shot.
Chapter 5
Morgan pushed out of the storage module, sliding closed the hatch behind her, and kicked down the corridor towards the elevator. She glanced down at her datapad once again, shaking her head. Even reconstructing the list of artifacts from memory, more than half of the collection was missing, and much of what remained had been damaged in the destruction of the station. Those relics had rested in the dust since before recorded time, only to be shattered by their excavators. A waste.
Starfighter (Strike Commander Book 1) Page 5
