“Purge?”
“Four weeks ago, right after Sinaloa fell. The Directorate went in and picked up anyone they even remotely had concerns about, then dumped the whole mess onto Triton. More than three thousand officers and men, most of them pretty damned senior.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Dozens. Marroni, Elkins, Moran, Koch, Nielsen.”
“Five Commanders?”
Nodding, Wood said, “And more than three dozen Lieutenants, most of them starship personnel. Two entire squadrons, for God's sake.”
“They've shot themselves in the foot. The fleet's a shambles. Word is that Old Man Yoshida is only hanging on by his fingernails right now. One more mistake, and he's out the airlock. Possibly for real. More than a few people have disappeared, and I don't think all of them can have gone underground. Of course, that's just making things worse, people figuring that they'd jump before they get thrown into detention.” With a gleam in his eyes, he rubbed his hands together, and said, “I got that we're planning to leave the system any moment now. Where are we going?”
“Hyperborea.”
Ortiz's smile cracked, and he replied, “For real? That's not some sort of bluff? I figured you'd decoyed them there, opened up another target for attack.” He looked back at Wood, then said, “You know that Admiral Yoshida has assembled a full fleet there. At least half a dozen capital ships. The best people we've got left are waiting for us.”
Nodding, Mike replied, “That's precisely the point, Bill. We've got to beat them sooner or later, and at least this way we get to choose the time and the place of the battle. Rather than hang around Sinaloa Station for the next year, waiting for them to decide to attack us.” Reaching for the controls, he brought up a strategic view of the Hyperborean system, and continued, “We come in here, a two-ship flotilla, and launch our fighters right away. Our job is to be one of the two pincers, holding them in place for the larger formation that's coming under my father's command.”
“You've got more ships?” Ortiz asked. “I only knew about Polaris and Canopus.”
“We do, but I'm afraid you don't get to know the details. Not until we get there. Suffice that we're going to be surprising the hell out of the defense forces, and if we have any luck at all, we'll wipe out the cream of the Federation Fleet in a single battle. This war could be as good as won by the time we turn in tonight.”
“Of course it will,” Ortiz replied. “You've got me on your flank. They've only been waiting for me to turn up before waving the white flag.” His face dropped, becoming more serious, and he said, “This one's for you, Mike. I made you a promise that I'd be there when you needed me. I'm not going to let you down. And neither will my crew. All the way, right?”
“All the way, buddy.”
The desk chimed, and Schmidt's voice filled the room, saying, “I have Acting Commander Ramone, wanting to speak to Commander Curtis and Commander Ortiz.”
“Don?” Ortiz asked. “What's he doing out here?”
“He's in command of the local fighter forces,” Mike replied, “Yeah, he's the one who held you up.”
Stabbing the desk, Ortiz yelled, “You cold-blooded backstabbing bastard, what the hell do you think you were doing? I'd have bombed you if my planetary assault weapons were working!”
“Yeah, but I knew they weren't,” a weary voice replied. “Mike, that you up there as well?”
“It is. I think I can guess what your game was, but for the record...”
“I wanted to defect, but I had to, well, create an opportunity. The local blackjacks were already out in force.” He paused, then added, “Mike, I've got my wife and son with me. Smuggled off Earth, right before the roundups. And the families of half a dozen of my pilots, as well. We'll fight with you in exchange for protection. I'll give you the names.”
“You know him well?” Petrova asked.
“My wingman for a year and a half,” Mike said.
“We've got to help him,” Ortiz said, looking gloomily at Petrova. “That kid he's talking about is my godson. Let me take them on Castro. From what I saw of your hangar deck, I've got more room for a half-squadron than you do, and every fighter we can put into the fight probably won't be as many as we need as it is, right?”
“Very well,” Mike replied. “I'll let you organize it. Talk to Commander Duval, get him to clear your people through the defense perimeter. But I want a full security screening of their fighters, Bill. Trust only runs so far at the moment, and one missile at the wrong place...”
“They can jettison their ordnance before landing. That's one thing we're not short of,” Ortiz replied. “So, once more into the breach, then? Just like old times.”
“Except this time it's not a score in a simulation or a training exercise,” Mike said. “No honor and glory in this, Bill. It's just something we've got to do. That's all.”
“I know,” he said. “We're with you. Hell, with Mike Curtis and Bill Ortiz turning up to the battle, they don't stand a chance. Polaris is just the icing on the cake, right!”
“Right,” Mike said, forcing a smile. He glanced at his watch, then said, “You'd better get back to your ship. Departure in seventy minutes. Battle stations in seven and a half hours, and emergence fifteen minutes later.”
“Got it,” he said. “Good luck, buddy.”
“Good hunting,” Mike replied, as his friend rose, walking out of the room.
Petrova looked after him, a thin smile on her face, and said, “He's a bit...”
“I know, but he's good in a fight, and I trust him. Without hesitation. He's earned it the hard way. He'll be there until the end, no matter how the battle turns out. Even if it goes down to the last ship, the last man.”
“We're going to win, Mike,” she said. “Don't ask me how, but we're going to win.”
“I wish I had your faith, Anna.” He looked up at the display, then added, “You're right. We'll win. Somehow.”
Chapter 17
As though somehow they had managed to get the word of the trouble brewing in the darkness, the residents of Ericsson City had opted to stay home tonight, hiding away in the squat residential domes for safety, while Cordova and Petrov picked their way through the narrow streets. Kani was elsewhere, on business of his own, making his way to the spaceport, while Cordova's goal was the towering broadcast station ahead, a four-level tower with a hundred-meter antenna placed haphazardly on top. In the days of the Oligarchs, it had been a radio telescope array, the pet hobby of a wealthy Governor. Today, she had other plans for it. A few pale faces looked down from the windows above as the two of them walked the streets, and she could imagine them hastening to contact ColSec, guiding enemies towards them. She looked across at Petrov, who shook his head.
“There's a full security alert,” he replied. “And paradoxically, that helps us for the moment. Most of the blackjacks are out at the labor camps. Town's usually pretty quiet, so the local militia got drawn down a piece at a time. I might have had something to do with that.”
“How long have you been planning this?” she asked, quietly.
“Years,” he replied. “Since not long after I arrived. Not this, specifically, perhaps, but I could see that the Federation's days were numbered, one way or another. I'd figured at one time that Hyperborea might have to go its own way, and it's one of the few colonies that might be able to make a real go of it. If you can provide something better, though, I'm all for it.” He turned a corner, moving down a side street, and gestured at a manhole cover by the side of the road. “That's our way in. I can get us all the way to the security perimeter, down at the elevator. After that, we're going to have to be a little more aggressive. The Governor has his own people in here, picked men from Earth, outside of the normal ColSec administration. Political Directorate, mostly.”
Nodding, she replied, “I'm ready,” and walked to the manhole, pulling it up by the han
dle to expose a shaft below, dropping into the gloom. The smell that reeked from the hole was indescribable, and she looked up at a red-faced Petrov, gagging for breath. He apologetically passed her a face-mask, strapping one of his own over his mouth.
“Sorry. Links in with the sewers, and we had a little flooding last week. It's not as bad as it smells, trust me.” He swung down the shaft, descending the ladder, and added, “Come on. Ten minutes to our deadline. We need to have some idea what's going on in orbit at the very least.”
She nodded, reluctantly following him down, hand over hand into the abyss below, only a few slime-covered glow-panels to provide an eerie green light. She could hear a faint chattering in the background, the noise of the familiar rats that were a menace on every world humanity had colonized, then a loud squeal as one of their predators found its prey. A perpetual battle raging down here in the dark, every bit as deadly as the one they were waging up on the surface.
Dropping to the ground, she followed Petrov along the tunnel, a thin trickle of black-gray liquid running down the middle that she was sure to keep well clear of, the smell leeching even though the tough plastic face-mask. Along the ceiling, bundles of aged fibreoptic cables hung, relics from the first settlement of the planet, a vital part of the local infrastructure that didn't appear to have been touched in a century. Graffiti scrawled by long-dead engineers littered the walls, and the signs of generations of neglect were everywhere, cracked panels, flickering lights, shattered cable brackets left on the floor where they lay.
Following her gaze, Petrov said, “Same story here as everywhere else. We make enough of a contribution to the Federation economy that they could afford to keep this place in pristine condition, but it all gets trawled back to Earth. We only get just enough funding to keep the colony working. Except for the luxury resorts, of course. They're kept up properly for the spoiled bureaucrat brats we get out here. Wouldn't want them to have to drink a martini without ice, would we?”
“I'd imagine that isn't much of a problem down here,” she replied.
Shaking his head, he replied, “Everything's old, and kept working only by luck, spit and tape. Though that's nothing new. Most of the Colonies are about the same.”
“At least you can breathe the air,” Cordova replied. “I can't say that about some of the worlds I've visited.” Gesturing at the end of the tunnel, a shining ladder covered in slick slime, she added, “Tell me that's the way out of here.”
“It is,” he replied. “Hopefully the smell won't stick to our clothes.” He gestured at the top of the ladder, and added, “That leads to the bottom of the elevator shaft. As soon as we enter the building itself, we're in the perimeter. Sirens sound, guns blazing. You get the idea?”
“Not much of a stealth operation, then,” she said with a smile.
Glancing at his watch, he replied, “In about six minutes from now, they'll have bigger things to worry about than a few rogue broadcasters.” He stepped onto the ladder, climbing quickly towards the shaft, as a strange howl filled the air from behind them. Cordova turned, looking into the darkness to the rear. He glanced down at her, and said, “I think one of the tigers might have got caught down here. Happens from time to time. Probably as well if we keep moving.”
“ColSec lets them roam around in the tunnels under the city?”
“As long as they aren't wandering the streets, sure.” He resumed his ascent, and Cordova followed, hand over hand, the slime and ooze running through her fingers as she hastened into the reassuringly clean elevator shaft. Petrov paused for a moment, then looked at her, nodded, and pulled open the inspection hatch, sending sirens and alarms ringing from the walls, cameras turning to focus on them as they slid into the elevator, Petrov slamming his hand on the controls to send it up through the levels. Pulling away a panel, he entered a trio of command codes, forestalling attempts to block their rise, while Cordova pulled out a borrowed pistol, checking that the clip was securely in place before leveling it at the door.
“Thirty seconds,” Petrov said. “You thought about what you're going to say?”
“I'll think of something,” she replied. The doors slid open, and a wide-eyed man stood at the threshold, rifle in hand, caught by surprise with his weapon pointed at the floor. Cordova aimed her pistol at his chest, and said, “Drop it. Now.”
He nodded, tossing his weapon to the ground, and she stepped into the cramped control room, a tall, dark-skinned man looking up from his desk, papers scattered in front of him, lights flashing as his piece to camera was interrupted. Petrov moved behind the camera, and Cordova stepped over to the desk, trying to keep her pistol out of sight. Another guard looked at the two of them, dropping his rifle as he decided that the odds against him were too great, holding his hands up in surrender.
“What is the meaning of this?” the man said.
“I'm sorry,” she replied, “but I'm afraid I'm going to have to interrupt your broadcast. If it's any consolation, you're about to get the scoop of the century. May I borrow your chair for a moment?”
He looked up at her, and said, “You're with the resistance.”
“Guilty as charged,” she replied, sliding into the chair. Footsteps raced down the corridor towards the studio, but before they could arrive, security doors slammed down, Petrov working the controls with a smile before returning to the control booth. Cordova looked at the man standing next to her, confusion reigning on his face.
“Go ahead, Major!” Petrov said, aiming his pistol at a nervous director. “You're live.”
“Good evening, Hyperborea,” Cordova said. “I'm sorry to interrupt your scheduled programming, but please remain on this channel. My name is Major Gabrielle Cordova. You might have heard of me. I assure you that the rumors of my death are gravely exaggerated.” Dixie held up a datapad, and she continued, “To confirm that, I'd like to congratulate the Crashland Cabin Cougars on winning the Northern League Cup yesterday. Go Cougars!””
“Great,” Petrov said, quietly. “I can hear the Falcons fans screaming from here.”
“The Federation has labeled me a terrorist. I suppose to them I am. Nothing is more frightening than change, especially a change that will sweep the tyrants who rule the Colonies from power. I, and many others like me, are fighting for your freedom. To give you the ability to choose the path of your own destiny, and that of your children. To ensure that your blood and treasure are spent for your benefit, not for that of some bureaucrat back on Earth.”
She took a deep breath, then continued, “Fifty years ago, our ancestors fought off the oligarchs, the rulers of the Commonwealth. You were promised a glorious future of freedom, of liberty. You've waited a long time to collect on that promise, and the time is now. All across human space, the colonies are rising. Rising to call for that freedom, that liberty. For the birthrights stolen from them.” Dixie flicked a finger across the screen, and she continued, “Only weeks ago, the Rebel Fleet liberated Sinaloa Station, elements of the Federation Fleet opting to follow the example of many of their comrades and switch to the side of freedom and justice.”
Her eyes seemed to sparkle as she continued, “The time has come for action. The time has come for you to take back what was yours, to overthrow the tyrants imposed on you by distant Earth and take charge of your own planet once again.” She looked up at the clock, and continued, “In a few moments, forces of the rebellion will be arriving in orbit, ready to wipe the scourge of tyranny from this world. They're here to give you the chance to fight for your freedom, to cast down your oppressors for once and for all. Grasp this moment, and tomorrow morning the sun will rise on a free Hyperborea. That's what we're fighting for. That's what we're willing to die for. Good night, and God bless you all.”
The lights flickered for a moment, and Petrov said, “Just in time, Major. They killed the feed. I'm sure everyone saw, though. Here and in orbit.” He glanced at his watch, and added, “Two minutes to go befo
re everything starts happening up there. I'll try and get a feed from the dish.” A rhythmic pounding echoed from the security doors, and he added, “They'll need laser torches to get through that. We're safe. For a while, at any rate.”
“Is that true?” the newscaster asked. “The Rebel Fleet is on its way?”
Glancing at her watch, she replied, “In a little under ninety seconds, give or take.” She looked out at the windows, and added, “Nothing let, Petrov.”
“Give them time, Major,” the smiling man replied. “Right now every rebel cell for a hundred miles is unsealing their weapons caches. They'll be on the streets in minutes, and I don't think they'll be alone.” His communicator squawked, and he pulled it out, adding, “General planetary alert. You've scared the hell out of someone, anyway.”
The director shook his head, and said, “ColSec will sweep the streets clean. They'll butcher anyone who stands in their way. Don't you realize what you have done?”
“I know exactly what we've done,” Petrov replied. “Something that we should have done years ago. And ColSec's stretched pretty damn thin down here. If the people truly want to be free, they can be. The door's rotten. They just have to kick it in.” Gesturing at the controls, he said, “Get us an orbital projection, and throw it up on the monitor feed.”
Shaking his head, he replied, “We don't have the power.”
“Of course you do,” the newscaster barked. “It's only local space. Tie in the emergency relays from the rooftop array. The solar batteries will have enough stored up there to keep the system running for a while.” Buttoning up his jacket, he added, “You can turn down the heating, too.”
“Don't you understand?” the director said. “We're all going to die.”
“That's pretty much inevitable, kid,” Petrov said. “Right now, you get to chose the time and place.” The director glanced up at the nearest guard, who shook his head, standing to attention.
Starcruiser Polaris: Terrible Swift Sword Page 12
