“Stuck,” he grunted.
“Mine too,” said Webb, banging a shoulder against his own door.
Swearing loudly, McKinney leaned back and kicked at the inside of his door with the sole of a foot. With a shudder, it opened, letting in a draught of hot air. He rolled out onto the concrete, pulling his rifle with him. The others followed by climbing over the seats and coming out after him. The exterior of the car was burning hot and they were forced to move away quickly.
“What now?” asked Garcia in a fierce whisper.
McKinney saw the man’s face as a lighter shape in the darkness, his expression unreadable. Before he could respond, McKinney sensed something in the air above them – something vast and dangerous.
“Get to the bunker!” he said.
They ran from the smouldering ruin of the armoured patrol car, rifles clutched firmly in their hands. The entrance to the building wasn’t far and McKinney hoped they’d make it without being targeted by whatever it was flying overhead. Luck was on their side and the four of them reached the building, where they sprinted through the open double doors.
Behind them, the semi-darkness was dispelled by a thousand plasma blasts, this time centred on the barracks and administrative areas of the base – the place where most of the personnel would be sleeping. McKinney could only watch numbly as further waves detonated amongst the buildings, blanketing the installation in flaming death.
Chapter Three
Fleet Admiral John Nathan Duggan felt as if he was under personal attack. Lights on his desktop communicator flashed to tell him no fewer than eight Priority 1 personnel were trying to reach him. Meanwhile, seventy-three new messages had arrived in his mailbox in the last sixty seconds. As if that wasn’t bad enough, one of his security screens showed him there was a queue building outside the (presently sealed) door to his office.
He looked out of his window, half-expecting to find a carrier pigeon with a note attached to its leg waiting for him on the sill. Instead, there was only the sight of rain falling like a mist through the artificial light, drenching the thousands of buildings which comprised the Tucson Space Corps base on New Earth.
“I’m getting too old for this crap,” he muttered angrily. Duggan was well into his eighties, though medical advances ensured he was physically in decent shape with aches and pains kept to a minimum. Certainly, his mind had lost none of its sharpness.
“Override request on main door from Councillor Dawson,” announced his personal assistant Cerys. Cerys wasn’t a real person - the infuriatingly friendly voice was generated by a node from the base AI, which was assigned purely for Duggan’s use.
“Denied,” said Duggan. “Keep that damned door shut!”
“Request understood,” said Cerys.
“It’s an order, not a damned request,” he replied testily.
The AI was well-enough programmed to realise there was no requirement for it to respond.
“It’s past bed-time. Why are these people still here?” Duggan continued, aware he was becoming what his wife called cantankerous in his old age. To add insult to injury, she took great delight in referring to his old age as dotage. The thought almost - almost - made him smile.
He stalked up and down the considerable length of his office. There was a vase of fresh flowers on a side table, filling the room with their scent. Normally, he’d have appreciated them, but today the smell was cloying. When the going got tough, Duggan preferred the sharp tang of cold metal. For some reason, being close to spaceship-grade alloy concentrated his mind. Not that he got to fly many of the fleet’s warships these days, much to his chagrin.
Duggan was annoyed. He’d underestimated the strength of feeling from Roban and Liventor and the failure didn’t sit well. With a bit more foresight, he could have likely nipped it in the bud by taking steps to prevent the hijacking of the warships stationed there. Admiral Talley – a good man – was already on his way in the Hadron battleship ES Devastator and was currently seventy days into the eighty-day trip.
Aside from that, the Confederation Council were doing the thing they did best in a crisis – squabbling and procrastinating.
Duggan could tell which way things were going; he could smell it like a pile of corpses rotting upwind. The bastards were going to piss around until Duggan took charge. If the outcome was favourable they’d be the ones on the front pages, basking in the glory. If the outcome was bad, they’d do everything possible to blame the Space Corps.
The trouble for the rebels was, there’d been no fewer than three solid Gallenium discoveries from the fleet’s prospectors in the last six months. Soon, the Confederation would be awash with the stuff and the reserves on Roban in particular would no longer be so important.
If it wasn’t for the loss of face involved in front of the Ghasts, there’d be no pressing reason to prevent the secession. The Ghasts probably didn’t care either, Duggan thought sourly. All-in-all, it was a problem the Confederation neither wanted, nor needed and one to which the only acceptable outcome - whereby Roban and Liventor re-joined the political union - would lead to years of unrest on those two planets.
“On the plus side, it can hardly get any worse,” he said. Duggan wasn’t a superstitious man, but he was wise enough to know when he was tempting fate. “It can hardly get much worse,” he corrected himself.
“Priority 1 communication – Admiral Carl Murray,” announced Cerys.
Duggan hadn’t blocked everyone’s ability to contact him. His admirals were amongst the few exceptions to the temporary lock-down he’d imposed on his communicator.
“I will speak to Admiral Murray.”
A voice crackled through the speaker. “John? It’s Carl. Something bad is happening.”
It was immediately apparent that Murray was worried. More than worried – petrified. Murray was one of the most competent officers in the Corps and Duggan had never once seen him flustered. A coldness seeped into his bones.
“What’s the matter?”
“We’ve completely lost contact with Atlantis. All of the local fleet warships have gone offline and dropped off the network.”
“How reliable is this information?”
“I’m seeking corroboration on the specific numbers.”
“Clarify that for me. You’re looking for verification of the details, but not whether we’ve actually lost contact with an entire planet?”
“No. That is a known fact, sir.”
Duggan had a sinking feeling and memories from forty years ago came flooding back. “They’ve finally come for us.”
Murray didn’t need to ask questions. “What are we going to do?”
Duggan had no immediate answer to give. Only moments ago, the frontier rebellion had been a major issue, completely occupying his thoughts. Now the problems in the Tallin sector had become little more than a distinctly unwanted distraction.
On the bridge of the Crimson Class destroyer ES Determinant, Captain Charlie Blake took a deep breath. “Powering up the engines. Lieutenant Pointer, please confirm we have clearance to depart.”
“Yes sir!” she replied, her voice eager. Pointer made a few gestures across her console. “We have clearance codes from the Juniper’s flight AI. The hangar bay doors should open at any moment.”
Blake closed his eyes for a brief second, wondering what he’d done to deserve having Caz Pointer as his comms operator for a flight as long as the coming one. He glanced across, taking in the expression of triumph on her face as well as the skin-hugging tightness of her uniform. He looked away quickly.
At the console to his right was 2nd Lieutenant Gabriel Rivera, an officer whom Blake had never met until just a few minutes ago. Rivera was of average height and build, with dark hair and a brow which stayed permanently lowered. Blake was sure the man was skilful enough with engines – the Space Corps usually weeded out the incompetents pretty quickly.
Commander Cain Brady made up the last of the destroyer’s standard crew of four. Brady was tall and slim, w
ith the features of a fiftieth generation New Earther.
Blake hadn’t met Brady before today either. Some captains in the fleet were senior enough to insist on having their own crew. Others, such as Captain Charlie Blake, had to make do with a random selection from the personnel pool.
“Calculating journey time to Roban at maximum lightspeed,” said Rivera. “Eighty-nine days.”
Blake couldn’t even pretend he was happy. “Nearly three months at lightspeed. Maybe the rebels will come onside before we get there. It’s a long way to go for a simple show of strength.”
“How many others are they sending?” asked Pointer.
“I don’t think Admiral Murray knows himself. This is a last-minute job to make it seem like the Space Corps is actually doing something. I’ve been told to take orders from Admiral Talley on the ES Devastator when we arrive. Maybe it’ll all be sorted out by then.”
“You were specially chosen though, sir.”
“Yeah.” Blake didn’t tell her he fully believed he was chosen simply on the basis he was on the Juniper when news of the rebellion came in and because he was the most familiar with the Crimson Class – not because he’d caught the eye of high command.
“In the meantime, there’s the flight to look forward to,” said Pointer. “A long, boring flight.”
“A long, boring and vitally important flight,” he corrected her.
“We won’t need to shoot anyone, will we? I mean, they’re going to back down as soon as the Devastator drops into orbit?”
“Anything can happen in situations like this,” Blake replied with a grim smile. “Fighting is what you signed up for, isn’t it?”
Pointer’s look of confidence faltered. She talked the talk but wasn’t long out of training and she hadn’t encountered anything more dangerous than a malfunctioning food replicator. Neither have most of us, Blake thought to himself. Peace has its downsides.
Minutes passed and the last remaining personnel cleared from the floor of the hangar bay. The red warning lights continued to strobe and the bay doors remained closed.
“Why haven’t they opened?” asked Rivera. “It’s taking too long.”
Blake agreed. “Lieutenant Pointer, kindly ask someone why we’re sitting here waiting.”
The answer wasn’t long in coming. “Erm…our permission to depart has been rescinded, sir.”
“That’s not what I expected. Please confirm.”
“I can confirm our permission to depart has definitely been rescinded,” said Pointer.
“This is the part where you tell me why, Lieutenant.”
Pointer’s face fell at the rebuke. “I’ll check, sir.”
Not so tough after all, thought Blake, taking little satisfaction from the discovery. He gave her a few seconds. “Well?”
“There’s a Priority 1 hold on our departure, sir.”
“What the hell? Only Admiral Murray has the authority for that. He’s the one sending us on this mission in the first place. You’ve overlooked something, Lieutenant – find out what it is and do it quickly.”
Pointer looked miserable. “I’m sure that’s what this code means.” Something lit up on her console. “It’s Admiral Murray, sir. He wants to speak to you – in private.”
This wasn’t expected. Blake put in his earpiece. “Sir?”
The tension in Murray’s voice was unmistakeable. From his tone it sounded as if someone had his balls wired to a high-voltage generator and were threatening to flip the switch. “I’m changing your mission, Captain. You’re no longer going to Roban – your new destination is somewhere far more dangerous.”
“Where are we going, sir?” he asked, not caring if the others of his crew overheard.
Murray didn’t answer directly. “We’re under attack, Captain and have lost contact with Atlantis. We’ve been taken by surprise.”
Blake opened his mouth while his brain raced through the possibilities. He could only think of one and he spoke it before realising it was surely wrong. “Is it the Ghasts?”
“No, not the Ghasts! Our alien cousins are keeping up their side of the peace treaty admirably. If it was the Ghasts, I might not be so angry.” It sounded as if Murray wanted to hit something or someone.
Blake hated to appear stupid, but he’d been backed into a corner and given no alternative. “Then who?”
“That’s where you come in. We think it’s the Vraxar but have no way to confirm. It seems likely they’ve finally come for us.”
“Have they…” It was hard to say the unthinkable. “Have they destroyed Atlantis, sir?”
“No. We don’t think so. We’ve lost contact with the planet, nothing more.”
“No contact at all, sir? How?”
“It’s happened to us before, Captain.”
Blake racked his brains, trying to recall what he’d learned about the brief Estral wars forty years ago. Admiral Murray wasn’t in the mood to allow him thinking time.
“There’s been a change of plan,” he said. “The rebels will have to wait for the moment. As I mentioned - you have a new destination, details of which I’m sending to the Determinant’s navigational system.”
Blake felt something clench in his stomach. It was an unfamiliar feeling and he couldn’t decide if it was fear, excitement or both. “Are we going to Atlantis?”
“You will be joining a fleet of other Space Corps vessels – Response Fleet Alpha. We don’t have many warships out here in the Garon Sector – we only have a few plus the Juniper. This orbital won’t be taking part in the action.”
“I understand, sir. Rendezvous with Response Fleet Alpha and then take appropriate action once we reach Atlantis.”
“That’s exactly what you’re going to do, though in this case appropriate action means blow the crap out of the alien bastards. Captain George Kang has seniority and he’ll be in command.”
“Sir.”
“Now get to it. At high lightspeed you should reach the rendezvous point in less than four hours. I’ve had the Juniper’s AI upload some additional details to the Determinant’s memory arrays. Make sure you become familiar with them.”
“Sir.” Another thought came to Blake. “What of the Ghasts? Will they help us?”
“Leave the Ghasts to us, Captain. Goodbye and good luck.”
The connection ended and Blake removed his earpiece. The others looked at him, their faces as pale as his. There was little privacy on the bridge of a warship and there was no way they could have failed to get a good idea of what was going on.
“We’ve got clearance again,” said Pointer.
The Determinant’s front sensor feed showed the external doors in the Juniper’s hull retracting into the space station’s thick alloy walls. The process took less than a minute, with huge Gallenium-drive motors hauling the countless tonnes of metal into their recesses.
“I’ve got the details of our new destination,” said Rivera. “Planet Atlantis, with a stop-off a short distance out.”
Blake nodded in response. He activated the Determinant’s autopilot and the spaceship rose silently from the bare-metal floor. The vessel’s gravity drives thrummed and the smell of hot metal drifted in through the bridge air vents. The ES Determinant flew smoothly out of the hangar, emerging high above the surface of Nesta-T3.
“Loading up the fission drive for a jump to Atlantis,” intoned Rivera.
Ten seconds later, the destroyer – an eleven-hundred-metre sleek wedge of near-solid metal – launched into lightspeed. The crew onboard were aware of the transition as a passing sensation somewhere between giddiness and nausea which was rapidly suppressed by the life-support modules.
“Two hundred and thirty minutes to our destination, sir,” said Lieutenant Rivera.
“This is it, folks. We’ve been thrown in at the deep end. Lieutenant Pointer, we’re carrying a standard contingent of forty-two soldiers who are in their quarters below, wondering what the hell is going on. Please advise them where we’re going.” He grimaced. “
If this is the Vraxar, they’ve picked a bad time to come and say hello.”
Pointer nodded dumbly in response. The enormity of the situation and the dangers ahead had evidently sunk in.
While Pointer passed on the message to the troops below, Blake lay back in his seat, finding it hard to get comfortable. The Determinant’s data arrays had been populated with information relating to the upcoming mission, as well as the few details known about the alien race Vraxar. What stood out most for Blake was the lack of numbers in Response Fleet Alpha. Seven warships, he thought. Four of them destroyers. It looks like Captain Kang has a Galactic – I suppose that’s some good news.
Whichever way he tried to spin it in his mind, the inescapable conclusion was that a tiny fraction of the Space Corps fleet was expected to take on what was surely an advanced, hostile alien foe. In the circumstances death seemed likely, if not certain.
Chapter Four
“How long will the batteries powering these lights work?” asked Manoj Ramprakash, looking about the room as if the answer was to be found etched into the ceiling or the walls.
“We should get a few weeks out of them, Ramps,” said Larry Keller.
“Can’t we divert some power to the doors or something?” asked Debbie Nelson, with her eye pressed to the gap between the south exit door and its thick frame. She thumped the door with the palm of her hand, hardly producing a sound from the thick, unyielding alloy.
“What do you think we’re doing over here?” said Francis Akachi. He crouched over an access panel in the floor, next to Keller. They were studying something and Keller had a battery-powered diagnostic tablet in his hand.
“I don’t like it,” said Nelson. “There’s something seriously wrong – I know it.”
“It’s just a power failure, Debbie. A bad one, but still just a power failure.”
A few metres away, Lieutenant Reynolds was standing at Lieutenant Maria Cruz’s shoulder, leaning in a little too close. “How are you getting along, Maria?” he asked softly.
Negation Force (Obsidiar Fleet Book 1) Page 3
