“Four direct hits!” the Tactical Officer crowed in an uncharacteristically emotional outburst as the Alexander’s icon winked in response to the surprise attack authored by the nimble, powerful warship.
“The Alexander is venting trace gases from multiple rents in its hull,” the Sensor operator declared with savage glee.
“Pour it on her,” Kotcher spat viciously.
“Captain,” the com-tech said with a mixture of disappointment and surprise in her voice, “we’ve received priority orders from the Zhuge Liang. I’m forwarding them to your feed, sir.”
Kotcher ground his teeth so hard that one of his canines snapped. He didn’t even need to read the message to know its contents, and a quick glance confirmed his suspicions.
“Belay my last,” he growled, “re-focus fire on the secondary units; target the smaller warships and coordinate with the rest of the Corporate Security Fleet to do likewise.”
“The Alexander is breaking off, Captain,” the Sensor operator said with obvious bewilderment, “this is our chance to take them out, sir!”
“You have your orders,” Kotcher seethed, knowing that he too would prefer to end the Alexander—and with it President Blanco—rather than deal with the smaller support ships.
But he also knew that his orders were tactically appropriate. Even in the unlikely event they managed to destroy the Alexander—which was essentially the mobile command center for the illegally formed Union Fleet—the end result was one which would quite probably nullify the entire purpose of this engagement.
“Yes, Captain,” the Tactical Officer said sourly. “Re-prioritizing targets.”
The various Corvettes and Destroyers which he had been instructed to target were from several different Star Systems which had declared for President Blanco’s so-called ‘Union of Stars,’ whereas the Alexander and the rest of the heavy hitters in the Union Fleet were exclusively from the Virgin Star System.
By focusing their fire on the smaller warships and leaving the Virgin warships free to flee, the Allied Fleet could deal a significant blow to Blanco’s attempt at building a coalition centered on his own substantial military might. If they killed Blanco here and now, history suggested that one of his subordinates would rise up to claim his spot and press forward with his tyrannical ideology with, if anything, a short-term increase in momentum.
Kotcher knew that letting Blanco escape was the right move—at least, it was the right move at that particular moment—but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
The Virtu-Plaza fighters, having avoided all but a handful of losses due to what looked to the naked eye like completely random maneuvers en route to attack range on the picket ships of the Union Fleet, descended on those smaller warships like a plague of hornets. The few dozen fighter craft which the Union Fleet had kept in defensive positions were quickly overwhelmed by the automated fighter craft, which were guided wholly by Virtu-Plaza’s state-of-the-art distributed intelligence architecture.
Captain Mohrmann’s Fusi-Corp ships broke from the Gonfaloniere’s formation with perfect timing as they drove toward a pair of Union Destroyers. Those Destroyers had become separated from the rest of the Union formation due to the Alexander and other heavies coming about and making for the Phase Threshold. Mohrmann’s Destroyers focused fire on the outermost enemy vessel and quickly knocked her engines offline.
The Virtu-Plaza fighters continued pecking away, with a dozen or so fighters having swarmed each of the smaller warships assigned to provide the Virgin warships with protection. Meanwhile, the Alexander began to slowly pull away from the engagement, leaving the smaller warships hounded by the swarm of fighters—fighters they had not even suspected might exist prior to the Huang Gai’s launching of them.
“Engines are back online at 20% power, Captain,” an Engineering rating reported. “Forward shields have been restored as well.”
“Give me a count,” Kotcher ordered, swiveling his chair to face the Tactical Officer.
“Of the twenty seven Union warships that entered the system, twelve are breaking for the Phase Threshold,” the Tactical Officer reported, “nine have been rendered inoperable or destroyed, with six more engaged by our ships.”
“And our side?” Kotcher demanded.
“The Rationem SDF is down to six warships,” the Tactical Officer reported promptly, “with the rest having been irreparably damaged. The Corporate Fleet still has one Ghost Tech, two Hadden, three—make that two Fusi-Corp vessels,” he reported as the icon of Captain Mohrmann’s own warship flickered and went grey on the tactical display, “making a total of five Corporate Fleet vessels still operable.”
“Those fighters turned the tide,” Kotcher said grimly, silently hoping that Captain Mohrmann had survived the destruction of his ship but knowing from personal experience that mere survival was nowhere near the victory it may at first seem to be, “but we won’t be able to play that card again.”
The icon which the Sensor operator had labeled as the Zhuge Liang went dark, disappearing from the tactical overlay as quickly as it had appeared on it. As it did so, Captain Kotcher could barely contain his anger at having been denied his chance for vengeance against President Blanco.
But orders were orders, and he would be damned before he disgraced his forebears by refusing to carry out those which had been given him—no matter how much he disliked the reality of doing so.
“Begin broadcasting our acceptance of the enemy crews’ surrender, and inform them we will afford any lawfully surrendered crew every right provided by the Sector Conflict Charter—which is more than the Union did for us back at H.E. One,” Kotcher said, snapping back to the present as thoughts of the massacre flooded his mind. “And tell them to be quick about it; I don’t want to spill any more blood today than is needed.”
At least in that regard, President Blanco had been right: much as Mike Kotcher thirsted for vengeance, he had no wish to kill those who were merely following the orders handed down by their superiors.
“We’ve reached maximum altitude for these babies,” Eve reported, and it was all Masozi could do to keep from looking down. “Looks like we need to throttle down to about twenty percent and wait for pick-up.”
Masozi did as Eve suggested by subtly manipulating the control levers on the upper portion of the suit’s breastplate. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she said, finally giving in to the urge to look down at the world below them.
“It’s pretty crazy,” Eve agreed, “but it looks like we won’t have to sit here for too much longer. I’m seeing the Zhuge Liang’s transponder inbound; they’ll pick us up in about forty seconds. Adjust our heading to ninety degrees, babe.”
Following the digital compass built into the suit’s fully-enclosed helmet, Masozi complied and saw the flashing icon representing the Zhuge Liang come toward them on the suit’s HUD.
She risked one more look down at the planet Rationem, which seemed deceptively serene from her vantage point. She could make out the cities along a small continent’s coastline as she seemed to float directly above them, but there was no visible indication of the turmoil which now plagued their citizens.
“Ok, Soze,” Eve said, “max out the throttle; we’re getting a hot pick-up.”
Masozi twisted the throttle sticks and felt her head snap back inside the helmet as she did so. A few seconds later, the bow of the Zhuge Liang seemed to slide gently over her head with eerie silence.
“Cut the throttle on zero, Sis,” Eve said, “three…two…one…zero.”
At the exact moment Eve reached the countdown’s end, Masozi twisted the throttle sticks to the off position and felt her armored body fall to the deck with a clatter.
The doors before her slid shut, and Masozi staggered to her feet to see a pair of crewmen on the other side of the transparent window of the shuttle bay’s control room. They gave her a gesture to indicate all was clear, and she nodded as she slowly, stiffly, clomped her way toward the door which led to their station.<
br />
She couldn’t hear it through the cumbersome suit’s helmet, but she assumed that breathable gases were being pumped into the shuttle bay and that assumption was validated a few seconds later when the door to the control room slid open and Lisa Steiner came out with Hero at her side.
Without a word, the two helped Masozi get out of the bulky suit. “Thank you,” Masozi said as she went to the suit’s rear and opened the small cargo compartment where Eve’s core unit was stowed.
“You need to sit down,” Steiner said seriously, “you’re drenched in sweat.”
“No…I’m ok,” Masozi tried to assure her, but before she knew what had happened she felt herself sway dangerously to the side and nearly fell to the deck; only Hero’s stabilizing hands under her armpits prevented Masozi from collapsing.
“Let’s get you to sickbay,” Hero suggested, looping Masozi’s arm around his neck.
She wanted to protest, but before Masozi knew what had happened she was in sickbay—with Eve’s core unit clasped firmly against her chest.
“It’s ok,” she heard Eve say through the wrist-link’s built-in speaker, “we’re back.”
“Are you…ok?” Masozi asked as she fought to blink away the haze which now hung over her mind.
“I’m fine,” Eve assured her, “just relax and let the doctors have a look at you.”
“Ok…” Masozi agreed before slipping into darkness.
Chapter XVI: An Interrogation and Submersion
“We’re running out of fuel, Jay,” Shu said tightly as Jericho finished with the last of his preparations for the Cox interrogation. “And, unless my eyes are deceiving me, there’s nothing but empty water all the way to the horizon.”
“Just keep to your course,” Jericho said mildly as he drew a stick of smelling salts from the inner pocket of his coat, “you’ll see our landing spot before we run out of fuel.”
“This is crazy,” she muttered as Jericho held the stick beneath Cox’ nose, causing the bound and gagged man to snap to alertness and his eyes to fixate on Jericho as he silently processed his surroundings.
“I thought you wanted the whole ‘secret agent’ package,” Jericho quipped as he replaced the stopper on the salts stick and tucked it back into his vest. “What’s the matter, is this not dramatic enough for you?”
Cox made a muffled sound of protest, and Jericho undid the ball gag from his mouth. A long trail of drool fell away from the other man’s lips as he drew a deep gasp of air through his teeth. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice considerably less shaky than his situation seemed to warrant.
“I’m Jericho,” Jericho replied before gesturing to Shu in the pilot’s seat, “and that’s Shu.”
“Where are you taking me?” Cox asked, looking pointedly out the window as raindrops splashed against the helicopter’s transparent, bubble-shaped pod.
“That’s a good question,” Jericho nodded, “but an even better one would be: what are we going to do with you?”
Before Cox could retort, Jericho withdrew the Mark of Adjustment for Cox’s case from his pocket. The man’s eyes immediately landed and stuck on it as his previously irritable demeanor gave way to the first signs of fear—always a good sign for a pending interrogation’s chances of success.
“Good,” Jericho nodded in satisfaction as he placed the Mark on the seat beside Cox, “that will save me some time.” Jericho flipped through a data pad which he’d had Shu prepare for the occasion, and turned the screen toward Cox after he had selected an image of the now-deceased Obunda, “What do you know about him?”
Cox tore his eyes from the Mark and looked blankly at the image of Obunda on the pad before shaking his head slowly, “I’ve never seen him.”
Judging by his body language, Jericho was inclined to believe Cox on that particular count. So he flipped to another image—this one of Chief Investigator and current New Lincoln Vice Mayoral candidate, Adewale Afolabi—and said, “What about him?”
Cox’ brow furrowed and he shook his head firmly, “I’ve never seen him before—what’s this about?”
“You’d be wise to refrain from asking questions, Mr. Cox,” Jericho said with a piercing glare—one which had the desired effect—and while he searched Cox’ features, he could find no indication that the man was being less than honest. After holding the man’s gaze for several seconds, Jericho pulled up a list of names and aliases and said, “Take a look at this list and tell me which names you recognize.”
Cox’ eyes scrolled down the list before catching on a name, and Jericho saw the other man hesitate briefly before saying, “I recognize that one.”
Jericho nodded in satisfaction. He knew that Shu had already corroborated that Cox had indeed been in contact with one of Obunda’s many dozens of aliases in the weeks and months before Obunda’s death at Jericho’s hand. Now he needed to figure out how Cox was associated with Obunda.
“Hadron166,” Jericho mused, “what were your interactions with him?”
“Him?” Cox blurted in surprise. “I thought she was a woman?”
So far, so good, Jericho thought as he kept his features an unreadable mask. “Just answer the question,” he said shortly.
“I, erm…that is…” Cox stammered before sighing, “we had a…virtual relationship.”
Jericho snorted softly, “When you say ‘relationship,’ you mean…?”
Cox’ eyes burned with indignation, but he stuck his chin out and said, “There’s nothing wrong with that sort of thing; I refuse to be—“
Jericho cuffed him hard on the back of the head, cutting his words off before they could reach his lips. “How often did you engage in this ‘virtual relations;’ how long did they last; and where were you when you had them?”
“I don’t see how any of this—“ Cox began defiantly, but Jericho clouted him again—this time behind the ear with enough force to cause the man to double over and retch violently while his inner ear recovered from the unexpected blow. Thankfully his stomach contents were few, and most of it ended up on the man’s own clothes.
“This will go a lot smoother if you just answer the questions,” Jericho said casually, prompting Cox to shoot a hateful look in his direction. Jericho knew that hate was good since it clouded the higher functions of the brain, and when those functions were compromised it became harder to fabricate responses. Jericho had no real intention of killing Cox, but if this man had answers regarding Obunda’s agenda—or if he could lead Jericho to those answers—then it was worth getting his hands a little dirty.
“I thought Hadron166 was a woman,” Cox spat defiantly.
“You thought ‘she’ was a fourteen year old,” Shu snapped over her shoulder with a look that could melt tungsten. “You’re sick, buddy.”
“There’s nothing in the law—“ Cox began, but Jericho popped a stiff right cross against his jaw before he could finish his protest.
“Can you at least conceptualize,” Jericho sighed, “that if we wanted you dead, you’d already be so? I thought you had information for me, but if I was mistaken I can accept that; I’ve never been one to throw good money after bad, Kid. I have little issue adjusting in new circumstances.” His choice of the verbiage and mild grammatical gaffe in that last sentence was intentional and, judging by the pale hue of Cox’ skin at hearing it, Jericho’s intended effect had been achieved. “So you like to play with kids—hence your chosen online alias? Personally I think that’s disgusting, and the courts would probably consider castration a viable punishment since Virgin is a zero tolerance world when it comes to hebephilia, but I’m an Adjuster—I don’t deal with low-rent filth like that. What I do care about is your wasting of my time, so unless you’re a really good swimmer,” he looked down pointedly at the ocean below them, “you’d do well to start telling me what I want to know: how often, for how long, and where did you engage in these ‘virtual relations’?”
To add the proper incentive to the query, Jericho popped the door nearest Cox open and placed a b
oot beneath the man’s ribs. Panic entering his eyes, Cox stammered, “Twice a week! Twice a week!”
Jericho dug the heel of his boot into Cox’ ribs, forcing the other man to struggle just to keep from being shoved out of the helicopter as the aged Adjuster shouted, “How long, and where?”
“Twenty minutes!” Cox cried. “I have a data-scrambled link so it’s impossible to trace where I—“
Jericho made a knife-hand and chopped into Cox’ left eye, eliciting a scream of pain from the man. “Keep it simple, jackass: where?”
“Home…and work,” Cox stammered.
“Shu?” Jericho asked, prompting the operator to nod affirmatively.
“That would be enough time…if Obunda had built a military-grade wireless jack into the link,” Shu said with conviction.
“Enough time? What are you talking about?!” Cox asked fearfully.
“Where did you get your scrambled link?” Jericho asked calmly.
“From a grey market purveyor I’ve sometimes dealt with in my official capacity,” Cox replied quickly. “It was a comp; there’s nothing wrong with accepting if I file its value on my tax—“
Jericho slapped the other man hard enough to split Cox’ upper lip over his incisors, and leaned forward to growl, “The name of the purveyor, Cox!”
“I don’t have a name,” he said anxiously, “all I’ve got is a virtual address and alias.”
Jericho produced a data slate, “Put it down.”
A few seconds of fumbling with his bound hands saw Cox finally input the information onto the slate. “That’s all I know,” he said anxiously before asking, “What happens now?”
“Are you sure we can’t Adjust this guy, Jay?” Shu asked tersely. “His incompetence at providing the soldiers who depended on him with proper body armor cost hundreds of them their lives!”
“He’s just incompetent, Shu,” Jericho said with an overtly sour note in his voice, “we don’t Adjust for incompetence.” The truth was that Jericho suspected Cox was firmly in the grey area, since Tyrannis Adjustments rarely—if ever—took motive into account. But since much of Cox’ evidence packet had been forged, Jericho decided that he would err on the side of caution—a rare choice for the experienced Adjuster.
Sic Semper Tyrannis: The Chimera Adjustment, Book Two (Imperium Cicernus 5) Page 22
