Outriders

by Ian Blackport

  “Put it through,” Genevieve directed.

  A screen materialized above one terminal and displayed Vice Admiral Baliarsingh. A smile spread across her face when she glimpsed Genevieve. “Captain Letourneau. I’m glad to see you’re still with us.”

  “Only by the slimmest margin, Admiral.”

  “You can give me a full report later. For now I’m boarding the Odysseus to oversee Admiral Salamanca’s transfer and ensure the terms of surrender are obeyed. And to find out just what in the hell that traitor told his crew.”

  “I’d be interested in hearing that as well, ma’am.”

  “That’s why I’m contacting you. I’m requesting you join me.”

  “I’m honored, Admiral. But also confused. I’m only a frigate captain.”

  “Don’t belittle your contributions and capabilities. You played a considerable role in liaising between hostile worlds, ending the Tuathan War and apprehending the culprits responsible. Not to mention the reckless stunt you just pulled to ensure the ceasefire remained. You’ve earned your place at this meeting. I’ll expect to see you in the primary docking bay on the Odysseus in thirty minutes. Dismissed.”

  The admiral offered a parting grin before her face disappeared and the screen dimmed. Genevieve released a weary breath, wondering when she might finally be relieved from duty, and turned around.

  “Flight Control,” she said, “ready a shuttle for me.”

  Chapter 34

  Genevieve descended the boarding ramp from her shuttle with two marine escorts trailing and stepped into the Odysseus’ hangar. Stiletto interceptors and Shriek bombers, many battle-scarred or barely functional, hung from the cavernous ceiling attached to launch racks. Others in more desperate conditions remained on the Flight Deck nearby, their hulls tarnished with scorch marks or fractures while mechanics and engineers tended to those that could be salvaged.

  Vice Admiral Baliarsingh awaited Genevieve’s arrival with two dozen marines arrayed in protective guard detail rather than as casual escorts. The officer was evidently taking no chances aboard a warship with questionable allegiance.

  “Welcome aboard, Captain,” Baliarsingh announced.

  “Thank you, Admiral. Though I’m still not convinced I belong.”

  “I could promote you to commodore if you believe a captain isn’t senior enough for this gathering. Put an end to your doubts right here and now.”

  Genevieve offered her superior a lighthearted grin. “Now you’re mocking me, ma’am.”

  “Not at all. You distinguished yourself well during this campaign, reacting in a decisive, professional manner and earning a promotion in the process. I’d wager Starfleet brass is eyeing you for command of a flotilla.” Baliarsingh beckoned toward an elevator and walked alongside Genevieve between flanking rows of marines. “Wipe that sheepish expression off your face, Genevieve. You’re a respected officer now. Stunned silence doesn’t suit you.”

  “I’m honored you think of me so highly, Admiral.”

  “And I’m not the only one who does. Remember that when—”

  Baliarsingh interrupted herself when she glanced sidelong at Genevieve and caught sight of her left arm. “You’re bleeding, Captain. Are you okay?”

  Genevieve looked down at her sleeve and glimpsed a reflective sheen of ruby seeping through the uniform beneath her shoulder. She changed the bloodstained uniform worn during her confrontation with Noam before departing the Constellation, though her bandaged wound must have opened. Without enough time to receive adequate medical attention, she elected for a hasty and temporary measure that was evidently insufficient.

  “I was shot before you arrived in the system. A medic wrapped my arm as best he could, but I wasn’t willing to let him conduct a thorough treatment. Though he did assure me the bullet passed clean through. I’ll live.”

  “Wait, you were shot while on the bridge of a warship? How did you manage that?”

  “My XO turned on me and ordered my frigate to stand down. I don’t know if he was allied with Salamanca or Triaxus, or if he had other motivations.”

  They boarded the elevator and ascended successive levels on the battlecruiser. “What happened to the man?” Baliarsingh inquired.

  “I killed him. To be honest I didn’t have other options for resolving the situation while also protecting my bridge crew. But I would’ve ordered his death regardless. There’s only one sentence for mutiny during an active battle, and I was in no mood to commute his punishment.”

  “Betrayal from those we place our trust in is the worst offense. I know the feeling, and I’m sorry you endured it today.”

  “I’ll be fine, Admiral. Given all that awaits us and needs to be addressed, I don’t have the luxury to be otherwise.”

  “At your age I’d never known loss or faced combat. Allow yourself the necessary time to grieve and process what happened. We can’t afford to lose you now.” Amaira quieted while the elevator slowed and smiled when the doors opened. “On the plus side, I doubt a Purple Heart will be the only medal you collect for what you’ve done today.”

  A junior officer waited in the hallway to serve as their escort to the bridge. If the man was discomfited to be surrounded by Baliarsingh’s marines, he showed no outward signs. The officer merely introduced himself and guided them down various hallways.

  Their route led them beyond subsidiary weapons and communication stations and observation rooms, before eventually reaching a Combat Information Center staffed by more than one hundred personnel. The Constellation’s entire bridge and CIC could fit inside this one chamber and still have enough room for vaguely comfortable working conditions. Genevieve noticed a nervous apprehension suffusing the CIC while she and Admiral Baliarsingh strode through, with more than one person sneaking an anxious sidelong glance when they believed Genevieve was not looking. Deliberate or not, those serving aboard the Odysseus were complicit in Salamanca’s crimes, and each one now felt the weight of that awful realization.

  The bridge awaited beyond a narrow access corridor connected to the CIC, the better to isolate one chamber from the other in times of a security breach. Genevieve followed their escort through and found the cruiser’s captain waiting on the command walkway.

  Captain Dvorakova straightened to attention and performed a smooth, respectful salute. “Vice Admiral Baliarsingh. I’d like to begin by issuing a formal apology on behalf of the Odysseus, its crew and our entire fleet. We never knew about Salamanca’s machinations or his dealings with Triaxus Corporation. He showed me orders from Fleet Command regarding our mission in Magh Tuireadh supporting the Triaxus forces. I realize now those orders must have been forged.”

  “At ease, Captain,” Amaira responded. “I don’t hold you responsible for this debacle. In truth, were it not for your actions on this bridge, the fighting may have continued. Thousands of crewmembers dispersed across several fleets owe you their lives.”

  “Pardon me, ma’am, but I don’t feel at all heroic.”

  “Far be it from me to criticize an officer I’ve only just met, but you’re wrong. It required a tremendous deal of courage to order the arrest of your superior, even knowing the crimes he’d committed. Most members of a bridge crew would never dare go against their admiral. I know this for a certainty because you’re the only one who did. No other warship in Salamanca’s fleet deactivated their weapons systems until you ordered it be done. Any other captain could have refused his commands and followed mine. None chose to take that chance.”

  “That’s kind of you to say, Admiral. Especially since I share some burden of responsibility for not acting sooner.”

  “Where is Salamanca at the moment?”

  “Under guard in our brig, ma’am. He won’t be released or spoken to until placed in your custody.”

  “I’ll have my marines collect him after our time here has concluded.”

  “Of course, ma’am.” Ilona paused when a lieutenant approached and relayed information to her. She waited for him to depart and
then inclined one hand toward the CIC. “Our other guests are arriving now, Admiral.”

  Genevieve turned and spied Admirals Kalawai’a and Gelashvili approach the command walkway with their own soldiers as escort. Once introductions and formalities concluded, Lehua Kalawai’a faced Genevieve.

  “A pleasure to see you again, Captain. You acquitted yourself well during the battle.”

  “Thank you, Admiral. Though I fear your Sentinel took the brunt of attacks and suffered greater losses.”

  “We’re able to bear the punishment. Quasar heavy cruisers are known for their resilience. As are Confederacy frigate captains, I’ve discovered. A fortunate thing your quick wits are a match for your audacity. Placing yourself between a wounded enemy vessel and the warship determined to inflict death and destruction is a moment I’ll long remember.”

  A pained expression came over Gelashvili, his dark eyes holding a measure of regret. “My apologies that your action was necessary in the first place. I’ll file the charges for insubordination against the captain responsible once we finish here. The least that will happen is a demotion and the loss of his ship and command, though I anticipate a dishonorable discharge.”

  “Nothing came of Captain Anderson’s brash attempt to pursue a misguided vendetta,” replied Genevieve. “We can put the incident behind us and instead focus on building a lasting peace.”

  “Ever the diplomat. It’s a wonder your superiors haven’t transferred you to consular and intergovernmental duties.” Gelashvili spread his hands in a questioning gesture toward the others. “To business?”

  “Of course,” agreed Baliarsingh.

  “To begin, I’ve been instructed by Delbaethi High Command to arrange a public apology from the Authority of Confederate Systems for its role in this conflict.”

  “You know I cannot offer an official apology or acknowledgement of wrongdoing on behalf of the Confederacy. I’m not at liberty to even recognize the need for an apology.”

  The corners of Gelashvili’s mouth curled upward in a knowing, entirely unsatisfied manner. “Naturally. Though the Delbaethi Commonwealth will be petitioning your Parliament for a formal apology and acceptance of responsibility.”

  “You have the right to do so.”

  “Admiral Kalawai’a and myself are also in agreement on one further point. Though the Confederacy played a hand in this war, the principle blame belongs to Triaxus Corporation. Both Tuathan governments will present your Parliament with a demand that substantial fines be levied against Triaxus. The money will then be given to us as reparation for damages caused during the conflict. We will not be expected to cover the extensive cost of our own recovery. Those who sought to profit from our ruin will do that instead.”

  “I cannot comment on your recommendation or deliver notice of it to my superiors,” Baliarsingh said. “Truthfully, I can’t even officially acknowledge you spoke to me regarding this.”

  “I didn’t expect you to. We merely wished to inform you of our intentions. Out of respect for your role in ending hostilities, if nothing else.”

  “What will happen with the Triaxus warships?” questioned Kalawai’a.

  Baliarsingh glanced beyond her fellow admirals toward the bridge viewport and its vista of waiting vessels. “They’ll be disarmed and remain under the close watch of the Ascendant Starfleet, each with a complement of marines aboard to ensure compliance. Let the politicians decide the eventual fate of those vessels. Though I cannot imagine Parliament will be in favor of releasing every warship back to Triaxus, neither can I envision the wholesale scuttling or confiscation of their entire fleet.”

  Gelashvili responded to her answer with an expression of distaste. “More likely the civilian politicians will debate the matter for months while nothing is done. Better if we remove all Triaxus crewmembers and scuttle their warships now. Leaving Triaxus incapable of threatening any world again is preferable for all parties.”

  Admiral Baliarsingh cleared her throat. “Whether prudent or not, the choice isn’t ours to make. Their warships also happen to currently be under the protection of the Confederacy navy. Should you happen to be tempted by the prospect, I’d not recommend opening fire on any Triaxus vessel. Our response would not be pleasant from your perspective.”

  “My colleague meant no veiled threat,” asserted Kalawai’a, one hand raised toward Gelashvili in a calming gesture. “Only that we’re understandably averse to granting all judgment to your courts. It was Elatha and Delbaeth that suffered most at Triaxus’ hands. To leave the verdict and sentencing to Confederacy lawmakers, those who never witnessed their own cities and facilities reduced to ruin, is a mockery of justice.”

  “You have little to fret over. Your ambassadors will strenuously petition my government for a role in the forthcoming tribunals. A desire to earn goodwill and undo animosity might convince Parliament to offer both your planets a seat. Regardless, there is nothing we can achieve while standing on the bridge of a warship. I invited the leaders of each fleet here so that we may formally bring this lamentable episode to an end.”

  “And once we’ve done that?”

  “You’re encouraged to withdraw from Magh Tuireadh and begin the long process of rebuilding your home system.”

  “How long will the Ninth Fleet remain here?” Kalawai’a questioned.

  “Only until we’ve placed crews on the Triaxus warships and recovered damaged vessels,” replied Baliarsingh. “We’ve no interest in claiming this system, if that’s your concern.”

  “The thought may have crossed my mind.”

  “Lingering mistrust is understandable given our recent history.”

  “And a Confederacy penchant for expanding its border at the expense of independent worlds,” countered Gelashvili.

  “Peaceful co-existence and beneficial trade relations are what we’re striving toward. You can argue the sincerity of that goal later.” Baliarsingh faced Ilona Dvorakova, who waited patiently at attention to one side. “Captain?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Admirals and Captain Letourneau, please follow me. I’ve arranged a conference chamber to be used for signing the temporary ceasefire between our governments until a formal armistice can be written.”

  Dvorakova swiveled on her heels and led the Tuathan officers away, though Baliarsingh placed a hand on Genevieve’s shoulder. “One moment, Captain.”

  “Admiral?”

  She reached into one pocket and retrieved an unadorned, black case. “My earlier suggestion wasn’t said in jest.”

  Genevieve accepted the box in one tentative hand and unclasped its hinge, opening the lid to reveal a rank shoulder board bearing a single gold star under crossed sabers. She felt her heart quicken and hoped an expression of surprise and anxiety did not show on her face.

  “Congratulations, Commodore.”

  “Thank you, Admiral,” Genevieve responded. Her mouth felt too dry to form words and a persistent scratch clawed at her throat, yet she forced herself to speak. “I…I hope I don’t disappoint you.”

  “You earned the promotion and I have no doubt you’ll serve well.” Baliarsingh nudged her head toward an entryway across the bridge and regarded Genevieve with a stern visage. “Though in future I’d stress observing naval decorum more closely. Bloodstained uniforms are frowned upon.”

  Genevieve grinned as the Supreme Commander turned and strode the deck. She glanced down at the case held in her palm and closed its lid, tightening her grip while following the other woman.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Chapter 35

  “Magellan disengaging and returning to orbital holding pattern above Orna.”

  Clara stepped on a rust-hued outcropping and watched the transport climb on thrusters through the helmet of her flight suit. “I read you, Magellan. Remain in contact while I descend into the canyon.”

  “Understood, Flight Lieutenant. Holler if you need our assistance or scanning equipment. Good luck.”

  Clara reached the edge of a jagged crevasse splintering
the moon’s pockmarked, desolate surface. The charred remnant of a formerly colossal rock formation called Buarainech Watch was visible in the distance, its impressive height brought to ruin by a volley of torpedoes launched from Clara’s starfighter. A tragic end to one of the few natural wonders on this bleak moon, though its savage destruction allowed her to evade hostile pursuit long enough to survive.

  She scuffed the ledge with one boot, knocking dirt and stones tumbling down toward the waiting abyss, and then stepped off into a free fall. Clara plunged into the fissure a bare meter from the serrated wall, hearing gusts howl through her helmet until she triggered the suit’s maneuvering jets and felt warm currents ripple down her backside.

  Eroded ground crunched underfoot as Clara touched down in a controlled landing. She surveyed the canyon floor and enabled a tactical display on the visor to pinpoint her destination in the Cineth Basin. Clara trundled along the lifeless gorge and followed adjoining rifts, narrowly wedging through one tapering cleft that emerged among a field of uplifting formations resembling stalagmites.

  A strange, unwelcome sensation took root in her stomach, roiling like a storm lashing the horizon. She feared what emotions might be unveiled by returning to this haunted world where she failed and lost her friends. The ache tore at her heart in a place left hollow and empty since that day, one she feared might never again know love and happiness.

  Clara turned down the wide mouth of a passage and stopped at the sight awaiting her. A single-seat ElaCom-22 starfighter rested on extended landing struts, the cockpit canopy and wings strewn with copper dirt. Barely discernible beneath the dust and grime was its blue and green paint and the insignia for Elathan Starfighter Command: three Marauders rising skyward on a matte gray background with comet tails extending from their engines.

  Clara opened the communication channel linked with the shuttle. “Magellan, I’ve found my Marauder. I’m transmitting the location.”