“You have no desire for me to face justice. You want to see me humiliated and suffering.”
“A fitting end for your actions, wouldn’t you agree?” Margaery turned away and returned to the cockpit with both hands wrapped around herself. “Sometimes justice is too lenient and humane. Who knows? If I’m lucky, maybe you’ll be turned over to the Tuathans. Count your blessings if you aren’t. I don’t have a twisted enough mind to imagine what they might be capable of after everything. But I’m sure you do.”
One operative smirked and shoved Winston stumbling toward the boarding tube stretched between starships. He stepped within the narrow aperture as sweltering pinpricks rippled across his flushed skin. An uncomfortable weight settled on his shoulders, impressing on Winston that the walls were closing around him and stealing the breath from his lungs. Only by slowing his exhalations and staring at his shambling feet did Winston manage to cross.
When he landed on Jiaolong weeks earlier, Sima Jiaying inquired about his preference for a human pilot. A living, breathing employee could not be hacked or reprogramed, Winston told her. That remained true, of course.
Though in the end, she was susceptible to betrayal.
*
Blistering anguish pierced Genevieve’s shoulder, igniting a fire through her limb down to the bone. Force exerted from the striking bullet propelled her backward to flop on the deck like a wounded animal. She rolled sideward through a messy scarlet smear and lifted her weapon at the end of a trembling arm. Noam Yacoby sagged on his knees, both shoulders hunched and one hand clutching the gunshot wound in his abdomen. Ashen features slick with sweat regarded her as Genevieve staggered to her feet, his lips crusted in frothy red spittle. Yacoby spoke no words to her, nor she to him.
Genevieve aimed her sidearm and fired a second bullet into her executive officer and trustworthy confidante. Noam slipped away with his face still angry and disillusioned, a twisted mockery of the sympathetic, introspective man Genevieve thought she knew.
She faced the other confrontation, where one courageous crewmember had thrown himself at the marine complicit in Yacoby’s schemes. The ensign lay dead following their frantic and deadly scuffle, leaving the soldier laboring to dislodge himself from beneath his deceased adversary. Betrayed and targeted for death by a man she trusted and a soldier sworn to defend their lives, Genevieve felt no desire to be lenient. Three bullets stilled the marine’s movement and silenced his pained cries.
Genevieve holstered her weapon and stumbled beyond the grisly scene, one quavering hand clasped against her shoulder. Warm blood squirted between her fingers and traced crooked runnels down her sleeve. “Gunnery, do you still have a targeting solution on the Warspite?”
The responding voice was uncertain, each syllable spoken in a stuttering rhythm. “Yes…yes, ma’am.”
“Fire all!”
Brilliant sapphire blossomed from their hull in a cascading salvo toward the Triaxus frigate. Fire and destruction traced across its hull like distant, glowing fireflies.
A schematic representing the Triaxus frigate flashed glaring red at the Sensor Chief’s station. “Kinetic buffers on the Warspite’s ventral hull are failing.”
“Keep hammering,” Genevieve ordered. “Do not let up.”
Enemy Stilettos dueled with Elathan Marauders beyond their bow among a cluster of warring corvettes and gunboats. Bright flashes of blue plasma and torpedo trails radiated from the melee, interspersed with detonating fireballs when starfighters succumbed to hostile strikes.
“And get that damned door to the CIC open again,” she shouted.
“The Warspite is abandoning its engagement against the Sentinel and withdrawing,” declared a sensor technician.
“Not on my watch,” Genevieve hissed. “Flight Control, how many of our Scimitars remain?”
“One pilot is dead and another extravehicular. Two interceptors are still operational.”
“Instruct them to break off their current engagement and reorient on heading one-one-six relative to our position. Arm ionic torpedoes and synchronize with our targeting computers. They’re not to fire until I give the signal.”
“Relaying directions now, Captain.”
“Connect me directly to our pilots.”
A momentary pause answered her orders before one pilot’s voice sounded on the bridge. “Razors Two and Three inbound with weapons armed.”
“Follow information provided by the Constellation’s targeting software and prime torpedoes to launch at single dispersal with a two-second interval.”
“Acknowledged, Captain.”
Forward batteries on their frigate continued to bombard the Warspite as the larger warship sought to retreat with its stern riddled by glowing clefts.
“Gunnery, cease firing,” commanded Genevieve. “Razors Two and Three, launch.”
Plasma cannons ended their barrage mere heartbeats before two Scimitars ascended from beneath the Constellation and followed an identical trajectory. A solitary torpedo rocketed upward from each starfighter and streaked toward the Warspite, exploding against its critically weakened ventral hull and tearing into bulkheads and compartments.
The Scimitars unleashed another volley two seconds after, and this time their torpedoes plunged straight through the gaping hole into the Warspite’s heart. A catastrophic detonation ripped the frigate apart like torn kindling into mangled halves riddled with flames and electrical pulses. The shorn sections drifted almost peacefully within a cloud of wreckage.
Pain flaring on Genevieve’s shoulder seemed to weaken at the sight, replaced by a rush of satisfaction and joy. The principle warship responsible for destroying the corvette Ardent and murdering her crewmembers was gone, its own guilty personnel lost to space. Sixty-one Confederacy staff could rest easier knowing their slayers were brought to justice.
“Captain!” shouted the Sensor Chief. “Warships are dropping from faster-than-light to the rear of Admiral Salamanca’s forces. I’m counting five…eight…fourteen…twenty-three ships of the line in total, accompanied by twelve Stiletto interceptor and Shriek bomber squadrons. Spearheading the formation is the Vigilant-class dreadnought Telesilla.”
Genevieve stared through one viewport as the warped, elongated starfield resolved into battleships. “The Ninth Fleet.”
“Priority communication broadcast from the Telesilla,” announced one technician. “It’s being distributed to all vessels in the system across every frequency.”
“This is Vice Admiral Amaira Baliarsingh, Supreme Commander for the Tasian Sector, contacting all Confederacy Ascendant Starfleet and Triaxus Corporation personnel. You are hereby ordered to stand down at once. Withdraw to a range of at least ten thousand kilometers from all Tuathan vessels and deactivate weapons and engines. Continued hostilities will be interpreted as an act of aggression against the Confederacy and will be met with overwhelming force.”
Admiral Lehua Kalawai’a’s voice boomed among the broadcast like a clap of thunder. “To all Elathan warships of the Maelstrom Fleet, stand down. I repeat, withdraw from active combat and respect the armistice.”
“The Delbaethi Fourth Patrol Flotilla will likewise cease fighting,” added Admiral Gelashvili. “All gunboats and starfighter squadrons are to return to their hangars.”
“This is Rear Admiral Ludovico Salamanca to all loyal Confederacy units.” His voice resonated through the speakers, shrill and bristling with the promise of enmity. “Admiral Baliarsingh does not speak for us and has no authority to enforce her will in the Cessair Sector.”
“On the contrary, I have leave from Parliament and Fleet Command to oversee all Confederacy forces in this sector,” Baliarsingh retorted. “You, on the other hand, were never given permission to depart the Heliades and Neaera Sector. You have disobeyed direct orders to remain at your post and are guilty of subverting instructions given to every warship that has accompanied you here.”
“You’re lying. You’ve chosen to act in contravention of Authority interests. I
accuse you of actively conspiring against the Confederacy and allying with non-aligned worlds.”
“You’ve lost your damned mind, Salamanca. Surrender and stand down before more lives are lost in a pointless confrontation.”
“I will not.”
“Think of your crews, you damned bastard. My orders are to protect the Elathan and Delbaethi fleets from harm, and I will carry out those orders if you test me. You cannot win today. Forcing your crews to continue fighting will cost thousands of lives.”
“All Confederacy forces are ordered to open fire on—”
His tirade ended in a strangled choke as the line became a clutter of crackling distortion and feverish shouts. Stillness soon followed and Genevieve imagined all listeners were left speechless by the abrupt interruption as they awaited a resolution. A woman’s voice broke the silence several long heartbeats later, her intonation unruffled and stoic.
“This is Captain Ilona Dvorakova of the Odysseus to all Confederacy warships formerly under the command of Admiral Salamanca. According to Starfleet Provision 91-F relating to the mental wellbeing of officers, I have declared him unfit to remain in his position. Consequently, I’ve removed him from authority, placed him in custody and assumed control. We will honor Admiral Baliarsingh’s commands and power down all active systems. On my orders, the Odysseus will fire on any Confederacy or Triaxus vessel that does not comply with the ceasefire.”
The Constellation’s Sensor Chief relayed information from her consoles. “Triaxus and rogue Confederacy squadrons are retreating to their capital ships. Captains are confirming their compliance and weapons are powering down across both fleets. No vessels are showing hostile intent.”
“Good,” Genevieve replied. “Helm, prepare to—”
“Wait. Ma’am, a Delbaethi cruiser is altering course, bringing the vessel away from its designated ceasefire position.”
“Put the warship on screen and identify it.”
“The Firebringer, captained by Roan Anderson. The new heading is on a trajectory with the Triaxus Scythe-class destroyer Turan’s Child, located beyond the edge of the combat zone.”
“Has the Turan’s Child surrendered to our authority?”
“Yes, Captain. Their ship was disabled and began drifting. They’ve deactivated all offensive systems as ordered in exchange for aid and are obeying our terms.”
Genevieve felt a hollow knot writhing in her stomach. “Are the weapons systems on the Delbaethi warship active?”
The Sensor Chief consulted her terminal. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Communications, open a channel now. This is Captain Letourneau of the CSV Constellation to Captain Anderson aboard the Firebringer. Power down all engines and weapons and state your intentions. I say again, deactivate your propulsion core and explain what in the hell you’re thinking.”
An anxious, prickling sensation of helplessness seized Genevieve in response to the silent communication. Doubtless Captain Anderson was hearing from other fleets as well, his bridge flooded with calls from disparate ships and officers. Yet as she watched one holographic terminal representing the vessels involved, Genevieve could plainly see the Firebringer was not to be dissuaded and continued advancing.
“Captain,” said the Sensor Chief. “The Delbaethi frigate Wayfarer and Confederacy destroyer Arbiter are moving to intercept.”
Genevieve surveyed the convoluted map of warships displayed on consoles throughout the bridge and calculated relative distances separating each. “They won’t reach in time. Helm, all engines full speed ahead. Place us directly between the crippled Triaxus warship and the Firebringer. Tactical, bring all defensive protocols online but do not, I repeat, do not activate weapons.”
Deck plates and bulkheads throughout the Constellation shuddered as the frigate accelerated to its full velocity, heedless of safety regulations. Stationary warships observing the armistice disappeared from view until only the disabled Triaxus destroyer and its assailant remained onscreen. Genevieve bit her lip and watched the distance indicator decrease.
Another communication channel opened on their bridge, this one originating from the Telesilla. “Remain where you are, Captain Letourneau,” Admiral Baliarsingh directed. “That’s an order.”
“With all due respect, Admiral, I can’t,” responded Genevieve. “Ours is the only vessel capable of reaching the confrontation in time.”
“What do you hope to accomplish?”
“The ceasefire rests on a knife’s edge. I can’t let it unravel.”
“You captain a frigate, Genevieve. You’ll be ripped apart by that cruiser.”
“We have to try.”
Baliarsingh’s answering sigh of resignation was audible over the frequency. “Then Godspeed, Captain. Help is coming, but might not arrive in time.”
“I understand, ma’am.” Genevieve closed the channel and faced the viewport, her hands clenched behind her back. “Status?”
“One minute to intercept,” responded a technician.
“Firebringer has reached maximum effective range for its primary armaments,” reported the Sensor Chief.
“Get us there now,” Genevieve demanded.
Their frigate hurtled through space, shrugging aside the littered remains of vaporized and derelict starfighters. Clouds of twinkling, frost-ridden detritus scraped and impacted against the hull. Without decelerating, the Constellation wrenched into a stomach-churning veer and placed its flank across the bow of the damaged Triaxus destroyer Turan’s Child, shielding the grander vessel from harm. Genevieve grasped a railing and held tight as the floor shifted and their frigate’s artificial gravity labored to compensate.
“All engines full stop,” she commanded. “Defensive systems at maximum. Helm, hold our position steady and do not break for any reason.”
Targeting alarms howled through the bridge and Genevieve stared through encircling viewports at magnified images of the Delbaethi warship as it drew inexorably closer.
A response from the open communication channel finally echoed on the bridge, the sharp inflections dripping malice. “This is Captain Anderson to the Constellation. Withdraw from your position at once.”
“I won’t,” retorted Genevieve. “Stand down and return to your fleet.”
“This is a Delbaethi matter. Interference will not be tolerated.”
“The fighting is over, Captain. No one else needs to die.”
“I promise we’ll carve through your frigate. Don’t sacrifice your crew to defend a hateful, warmongering Triaxus warship.”
“Destroying us will waste more time than you have to spare. The Wayfarer and Arbiter will reach us before you could reduce my frigate to charred pieces. I know you’re angry, I know you hate the ones responsible for this war and are looking to make them suffer as you have, but this is a senseless act. Don’t place your personal drive for vengeance above all those who worked for a hard-earned peace.”
“I won’t be denied my revenge!”
“You will be,” Genevieve declared. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“Move!”
“No.”
An anguished, pitiable scream of frustration poured from the open channel, an almost unhuman wail in its desperation and cracking pitch.
“The Firebringer is not altering course and continues to hold us in a targeting lock,” announced a sensor technician. “All weapons remain live.”
“They’ll stand down,” Genevieve affirmed. “He’ll see reason.”
The Sensor Chief looked up from her station to report. “Wayfarer and Arbiter are within intermediate weapons range and all targeting systems are focused on the Firebringer.”
“Please see reason,” whispered Genevieve, her skin tingling and palms clammy with sweat.
“Firebringer weapons charging to maximum and orienting for a lethal strike.”
“Don’t force us to fire.”
The Delbaethi battlecruiser was now close enough to discern by eyesight alone, its sweeping wings shifting into forw
ard-facing attack formation. Cannon batteries mounted on the angular, tumblehome hull swiveled with deadly intent to join the primary long-range armaments already facing the Constellation.
Genevieve held her ground and gazed at the formidable warship, proud beyond measure to know her crew stood alongside, unflinching and professional in the shadow of a battlecruiser far grander than their frigate. Their willing service and self-sacrifice were inspiring, and Genevieve felt fortunate to witness this truth firsthand.
They were a worthy crew, and she could only hope each one felt a similar respect for their commander. Genevieve’s desire to do right by the Confederacy conflicted with her concern for crewmembers who placed their trust in her, since serving the Ascendant Starfleet to the fullest meant placing her frigate and its personnel at grave risk. Yet judging by the faces of those around her, they all understood and held no regrets. She was honored to serve with these brave men and women.
“Firebringer is disengaging!” Palpable relief was visible on the Sensor Chief’s face beneath cropped copper-gold hair. “I say again, the Firebringer is withdrawing as instructed. All weapons and offensive protocols are going offline.”
Genevieve closed her eyes and slumped against the rail. Exhausted beyond measure, her wounded shoulder and arm twisted skeins of flaring misery, she wanted to collapse and drift away into a slumber where no one counted on her to weigh the value of each life. Where the fate of individuals she had never even spoken to did not rely on her snap judgment.
Instead she inhaled air reeking of cloying blood and opened her eyes.
“Helm, take us away from the Turan’s Child and put us on course for the Ninth Fleet. We’re finished here.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Ma’am,” said the Communications Technician, “we’re receiving a private transmission from the Telesilla.”
Outriders Page 47
