The Long March (The Exiled Fleet Book 2)

by Richard Fox

  “Why keep that from me? Then why bother with this?”

  “To see if you were clever enough to realize the enemy’s mistake. You disappoint, as ever. I came here for this one.” Tiberian gave Barlow a kick to the stomach that doubled him over.

  “He will prove most useful.”

  Chapter 13

  Wyman jumped into his cockpit and strapped himself in as the launch bay doors opened ahead of him. He did a double take at the lava flows on one of the nearby moons.

  His crew chief tapped him on the top of the head twice and his canopy lowered. Wyman threw his helmet on and sealed it shut.

  “They want us to fly through that?” Ivor said through his helmet. “The brass understand that fighters moving at high velocity hitting all that crap in the void is a bad thing, right?”

  “Set forward heat shields to maximum. That’ll clear out most of it.” Wyman’s hands danced across his control panels and brought his fighter online and ready to launch.

  “‘Most’ being the operative word,” Ivor said.

  “Cobras,” the squadron commander, call sign Marksman, came on the air. “Daegon assault ships are within the fleet’s perimeter. Weapons free. Negative on fighters, but stay frosty out there.”

  A crewman raised a pair of lit batons in front of Wyman and his Typhoon rattled as the catapult locked onto his landing gear. He braced himself against his seat and the electronic rails beneath his fighter shot him forward and out into the void.

  Firing up his engines, he sped forward, feeling the impacts of tiny particles against his wings. A spider web crack the size of his palm appeared at the edge of his canopy.

  “Like flying through a hailstorm.” He powered up his forward heat shields and the rattling stopped, just before his canopy HUD went berserk, threat icons appearing and disappearing all around him, and an error message flashed.

  “Freak, did your HUD just shit the bed?” Ivor asked.

  “Roger, Briar, too much interference for the computers to handle. We’re going to have to do this by eye.” Wyman deactivated his HUD.

  “I take back everything I said about Marksman when he sent us through the sims to do analog drills,” Ivor said. “Bogies to our three o’clock. Four by my count, moving on the Orion.”

  “I see them.” Wyman flicked the safety off his cannons. “Engaging.”

  ****

  Wyman dove behind a Daegon assault craft, and it jinked from side to side, throwing off his shot. He did a barrel roll to dodge the ship’s rear cannons and dove down, the prow of the enemy ship snapping open into four pincers as it closed on the Ajax’s hull.

  Retro thrusters fired from the assault ship and it slowed down as it began final approach on the Albion warship, where it would latch on and disgorge its payload of Marines into the battle cruiser. Wyman pulled up and opened fire.

  His cannons stitched across the void and hit the Daegon ship just ahead of the engines. The tail kicked up and it went tumbling end over end…heading right for the Ajax.

  Ivor cut across Wyman’s nose and hit the assault ship twice, blowing it into an expanding cloud of hull fragments and tumbling bodies.

  “Mine,” she said.

  Wyman banked aside and watched as what was left of the vessel spattered against the Ajax.

  “Freak, Briar,” Marksman came over his helmet. “Got a priority-one mission from the Orion. Find the life pods from the Carlin and escort them to bay alpha. How copy?”

  “Order received.” Wyman looped over and saw the remains of the Carlin. Flipping a switch on his commo panel, his fighter cycled through known distress frequencies. “Come on…damn pirates.”

  “You got them?” Ivor asked.

  “Negative. I don’t know if they’re not broadcasting a mayday because they’re surrounded by Albion ships and are used to hiding, or if they think the Daegon will shoot them even though they’re in life pods.”

  “Maybe both. We can—wait—two o’clock by five. I think I see them,” she said.

  Wyman changed course and cut his velocity as he looked around, careful to check his six in case any of the Daegon had lost their narrow focus on boarding the Albion ships. Ahead, he caught a glimpse of maneuver thrusters.

  Seconds later, he’d pulled alongside a painfully slow escape pod just ahead of another pair. The pods were long and narrow, like oversized torpedoes. Wyman wagged his wings next to the cockpit and waved to the pirate in the glass-covered nose.

  The pirate looked at Wyman and extended the middle digit of his hand.

  “Positive contact made.” Wyman made an exaggerated gesture toward the Orion. The pirate switched his upward finger to his thumb.

  “Never thought we’d see the day.” Ivor fell in on the other side of the leading escape pod. “Please come aboard my warship, you pillaging, murdering bunch of Harlequin bastards. Hungry?”

  “Pay attention now, implications later. Maybe they’ll be so grateful, they won’t steal everything they touch.”

  “You going to leave your footlocker open?”

  “Nope.”

  They crossed the distance to the Orion in minutes.

  “Freak Show, this is landing control,” came from the Orion. “Had an emergency landing just now. Have the escape pods slow.”

  “Control, this is Freak Show. I don’t have radio coms with them. How long until the pad is clear?”

  “Unknown, have them loop around and await further instructions.”

  “Negative, control, they—crap.” The lead pod accelerated forward as the finish line of the open bay came within reach. Wyman sped his fighter forward, waving frantically at the pilot, who kept his eyes glued on the bay. He wagged his wings again but got no response.

  “I tried yelling at them on every freq, no joy,” Ivor said.

  “I’m done being polite.” Wyman fired across the nose of the leading escape pod.

  The pirate at the controls gave Ivor a glance but didn’t slow. Another pirate, a woman with a felt cloth across her forehead and small coins attached to the edges, stuck her head into the cockpit and started yelling at the pilot.

  “Freak Show, the pad has emergency personnel all over it. Abort landing! Abort!”

  “Damn pirates.” Wyman sped ahead of the escape pod and cut his velocity. Keeping a hand on his throttle, he looked over his shoulder, watching the wide-eyed pirate as he got closer and closer.

  “Freak, what the hell are you—”

  The escape pod veered to the side.

  “Other one! Other one!” Ivor shouted.

  Wyman steered his fighter out of the way as the second and third life pods bore down on him, their landing thrusters blazing. He danced out of the way and the two pods slipped into the hangar. They slammed against the deck and came to a screeching halt, sparks flying.

  Inside, the emergency crews cowered next to the bulkheads and against a fighter crumpled against the back.

  “Well done, Freak Show,” control sent. “Got the crews clear. Have the last one land, then return to base.”

  “Control, request alternate landing assignment.” Wyman flew back to the last void-born escape pod and directed it back to the Orion. Several pirates were looking at him from the cockpit, and none seemed pleased to see him.

  “Roger, Freak Show…bay two.”

  ****

  Gage stood on the periphery of a group of sailors clustered around a half-wrecked Typhoon wedged against the outer bulkhead. Two engineers stood on either side of the canopy, cutting away at the edges with circular saws. One raised a hand and a gap opened for a pair of medics with a stretcher.

  The canopy fell away and the pilot crawled out with—Gage noted—an acute sense of urgency.

  “Back!” The pilot fell off the side of the cockpit and landed on a tool chest, scattering items across the deck. There was a whine from the cockpit and a snap as the ejection system malfunctioned. Sailors fell in around Gage as the seat launched up and jammed against the bent frame of the Typhoon, the seat sticking up from
the wreck like a sore thumb. Sparks fountained off one side for a few seconds.

  The pilot got to his feet, turned to the crowd, and bowed. The sailors broke into applause and Gage turned away, shaking his head. Normally, he’d accept the loss of the fighter in stride so long as the pilot survived. Before the Daegon invasion, equipment could be replaced. Lives could not. Now, hurtling through the farther reaches of wild space and with no supply lines to support them, every piece of damaged equipment inflicted a wound on the 11th that would not heal.

  A cordon of Marines separated the far edge of the flight deck from the rest of the ship. All faced the blast doors; all were armed and tense.

  Gage picked out Thorvald just on the other side of the line of Marines and heard shouting, which only grew louder as he approached.

  “—demand to see him now. Not when we’re in the nebula. Now!” Loussan shouted.

  Gage tapped a Marine on the shoulder and moved past him.

  Thorvald faced off against the shorter pirate, Loussan’s Katar standing a few feet behind the captain. Four dinged and scratched escape pods sat on the edge of the flight line with almost two dozen of the Carlin crew. The only semblance of a uniform any of them had was some article of clothing in red and black stripes or checkers.

  “There,” Loussan raised a hand at Gage, “you can deliver.” Loussan took a step toward Gage, but Thorvald stepped in front of him.

  Ruprecht let off a rattle that could have come from a snake’s tail. Marines raised rifles to their shoulders.

  “That’s enough.” Gage removed his gloves and stopped beside Thorvald.

  “This is how you treat all your guests who save your precious backside from the Daegon?” Loussan asked with an incredulous look.

  “You were tried in absentia by the Albion Court of Interstellar Justice for nineteen capital offenses,” Gage said, “and found guilty of all of them. This ship is Albion territory, and by regulation, I should consign you—and the rest of your crew, if they’re known to the justice system—to the void.”

  Loussan crossed his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes.

  “But as serving regent, I have some latitude in carrying out sentences,” Gage said.

  “I’m not in the habit of thanking people for not killing me,” Loussan said, “especially when I’m their only hope of survival. So how about we drop the pretense and get down to brass tacks, eh?”

  Gage worked his jaw for a moment but didn’t respond.

  “You want to get through the Kigeli Nebula and on to Indus space? You need me. I know the route and the stand-down codes for the variety of surprises along the way. I’ll guide you through, then you’ll give me one of your ships once it’s time to part ways.”

  Thorvald, of all people, laughed.

  “He’s a liar,” said one of the pirates as he rose from beside an escape pod. The burly man with a singed beard that stretched to his belt stomped toward them. “He doesn’t know the way through. He’s going to get us all killed!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Onoro.” Loussan half-turned and brandished a finger at the man. “Feel free to sit down and shut up.”

  “No one’s been through Kigeli in decades,” Onoro said. “This con can’t go on anymore. Tell him the truth!”

  Loussan looked at Gage and put a hand to the side of his mouth.

  “I know the way through,” the pirate whispered and added a wink.

  “There’s a route back to Harlequin space from the Anchor,” Onoro said, his fists shaking and his face red with anger. “We all know it. You’ve already killed most of our crew and lost everything we spent years building. I’m not going to let you end it all for me too.”

  “Onoro, you are embarrassing me in front of this jackboot and if you think this little tantrum of yours will—”

  Onoro jabbed the straight index and middle finger on one hand at Loussan. As he did, the fingers swung open at the knuckle, revealing a pair of muzzles.

  Ruprecht moved like lightning, a blade sliding out from his forearm and spearing Onoro right between the eyes. The pirate’s arms and legs went slack. He hung from the blade piercing his skull, limbs jerking, then Ruprecht let him fall to the ground.

  Loussan turned to the rest of his crew and shouted, “Anyone else feeling froggy? I want shit from any of you, I’ll have Ruprecht squeeze your head.”

  The pirate spat on the deck, then spoke to Gage. “Sorry you had to see that. A number of failures came to light when the Daegon boarded my ship. There are no review boards or courts of inquiry on a free people’s ship. There is only the captain’s authority and the code. As for Onoro, can’t say I ever liked him. Sorry about the mess.”

  “There’s another way back to wild space?” Gage asked.

  “Naturally. One way in or out of any system is three too few.” Loussan smiled. “You could cast your lot against the clans, doubt you’d last that long.”

  “I ask, as I’m curious who else might be waiting for us at this Anchor your man mentioned. We’re going to Indus space, Loussan. Indus,” Gage said.

  “As was promised. Now, as for the ship you owe me, I think one of the cruisers will—”

  “You’ll spend the rest of this voyage in the brig,” Gage said. “My Marines will escort you and your crew there. Resist, and I’ll remember to start checking our database for wanted criminals.”

  “The brig?” Loussan’s face lost some of its color. “We are your honored guests…the law of the void requires you to…” He raised a finger and glanced over Gage’s shoulder to the wall of Marines, then pressed the finger to his lips. “Come to think of it, my crew is known for larceny and hell-raising. The brig would be the best place for us. For your protection. And mine. Mostly mine.”

  Ruprecht made a series of clicks.

  “Yes, of course, old friend,” Loussan said. “He stays with me. And we get our own cell.”

  “Fine. We break out of slip space in a few hours. I’ll speak to you then,” Gage said.

  Loussan turned back to his crew and clapped his hands twice.

  “Good news, everyone! I’ve secured us berthing and food. On your feet and keep your hands to yourself.”

  Chapter 14

  Petty Officer Sarah Foster sat down on a locker-room bench. She ran a towel through her wet hair, the silence of the otherwise empty facility a respite from the last few hours of nonstop work in the engine room.

  Having the showers all to herself was one of the few chances for solitude she ever found aboard the Orion. After a double shift of working to isolate a fault in the fusion engine core and stopping a cascade failure from frying the dorsal shield emitters, Lieutenant Derschowitz had finally let her and her team off for five hours for sleep, food, and hygiene.

  The showers on deck seven had a smell to them, but Foster knew they’d be free during the gun crew shift change, and that meant some quiet time.

  She pressed her towel against her face and took a deep breath that threatened to turn into a sob. With her first chance to unwind after the last brush with the Daegon, her mind turned to Mateer aboard the Retribution. With no news from Albion, her old friend from boot camp was the closest thing to family she had.

  “Maybe they got away,” she said. “Maybe the Daegon don’t murder their prisoners.”

  “Not from what I’ve seen,” someone said.

  Foster jerked the towel off her face. A woman, still in her coveralls, leaned against a locker, staring at Foster.

  “Sorry, thought I was alone,” Foster said. She hoisted the towel wrapped around her midsection up a bit and frowned. “You’re leaning on my locker.”

  “I know,” the woman said in a different voice…in Foster’s voice.

  Ja’war’s hand snapped out and he pressed a tiny injector against Foster’s throat before she could react. Her eyes rolled back and she went limp as Ja’war’s venom knocked her unconscious. The Faceless grabbed her by the chin and arm, holding her upright as he took in her appearance. His skin changed color, hair lengthened, a
nd bones cracked as they realigned to mirror Foster’s frame.

  A door on the opposite side of the locker room opened and Ja’war heard several people talking as they stopped at the towel rack around the privacy wall. Ja’war opened a locker and stuffed Foster inside, then removed a small, obsidian case from a pocket and opened a corner with a flick of his thumb. He opened Foster’s mouth and flicked a pill into it, then shut the door as quietly as he could.

  Ja’war put his hands to the side of his face and grimaced as he forced his new face out of place and bent his nose into an ugly hump. He grabbed Foster’s uniform and boots from her locker just as three sailors came into the locker room, all dirty and weary-eyed.

  “This isn’t your assigned shower,” one said.

  “Mine’s on deck eleven and got wrecked in the last fight. Catch as catch can, hope you don’t mind,” Ja’war said. He stepped around the sailors and made for the exit.

  One of the women huffed. “Saw her stripes on her uniform,” she said. “Would’ve given her more shit about using our water ration, but she’s a non-comm.”

  “Who was she?” the second asked. “Never seen her before.”

  “Maybe someone cross-leveled from another ship? Who knows…she shows again, we’ll get the senior chiefs involved. You don’t screw with another section’s shower time. Just not done.” The first woman sniffed the air. “Ugh, what is that?”

  Dark smoke wafted through the edges of the locker where Ja’war had hidden Foster.

  “Christ, not another fire,” a sailor said.

  “Why’s there no heat?” One touched the locker, shrugged, then opened the door.

  Foster’s desiccated body fell out and landed against the bench, her flesh breaking apart and flying into the air like fine ash.

  ****

  Tolan floated in a haze, the sensation of his body fading in and out as brilliant colors swirled across his vision. A slight tingle danced across his skin, then the sensation lifted up and he felt the colors playing against each other.