Rebellion of Stars (Starship Blackbeard Book 4)

by Michael Wallace

  It was a larger signature, and there was a good chance Blackbeard and her escorts had not yet been detected. But either way, the other side would intersect with Blackbeard before either force reached Lindsell.

  “It’s leaving a big wake, sir,” Barker said. “Several ships, I should guess.”

  Not good. They must have been lurking about the system already and were now rushing to Lindsell’s aid. No wonder the captain hadn’t attacked Vargus yet. He was playing cat and mouse to keep her from escaping while he waited for reinforcements.

  “I was apparently mistaken,” Drake conceded. “All hands on deck.”

  “Right,” Capp said. “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Oglethorpe is not on the bridge,” he reminded her. “That means you. Give the orders, Ensign.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry, Cap’n.”

  Capp got on the general link, and in her rough, York Town accent and with rather more rude vocabulary than necessary, she told the crew to get their sweaty selves to their posts.

  Smythe arrived moments later, and Barker departed for the gunnery to prepare for combat. The air was definitely cooling now—Jane said under a hundred and dropping fast—and Drake’s head began to clear. He ordered in tea to get some caffeine in his sleep-deprived system, but kept most of his attention on that cloaked enemy task force.

  So far, no sign of recognition, but the enemy might be well aware of his arrival. With a smaller signature and the star’s radiation at his back, he had an advantage, but the closer the two forces approached, the greater the likelihood of detection. There was an awfully lot of mass in the enemy formation. What nasty surprise was it hiding? Cruisers? Corvettes? A whole task force to match Lindsell’s?

  “Twenty minutes,” Capp said. Her voice was tight, nervous. “Shouldn’t we think about dropping them cloaks so we can let ’em have it?”

  “Quiet, Ensign.”

  For such a large force, the enemy kept a tight formation. Not spread out, which made sense, given that it decreased the odds of detection. Still, there was a risk in that. So many ships traveling close together. Unless . . .

  Suddenly, and with a short, sharp shock, Drake understood.

  “Drop cloaks!” he ordered. “Raise shields. It’s Dreadnought.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Drake stared as HMS Dreadnought dropped her own cloaks in response to Blackbeard’s action. She filled the viewscreen, a battle-scarred monster of the deep. She was long and black, with glowing instruments along the front like a hundred beady eyes. Two torpedo boats flew beneath her belly like tiny fish collecting scraps left after the beast ate.

  Silence on the bridge of Blackbeard. Finally, Capp muttered an oath, and this snapped Drake to attention. He got on the com and ordered the gunnery to ready aft torpedo tubes. Smythe moved to prepare countermeasures.

  They were close now, only a few minutes from combat. And he had no chance in open combat. Drake had stumbled right into the mouth of the dragon, and his only hope was to slip away before its jaws closed.

  Forget the cloaking. Somehow, Malthorne had kept the movement of HMS Dreadnought, the mightiest warship ever constructed, a secret. He’d jumped several times and appeared in San Pablo without warning. It was a brilliant bit of space navigation and tactics.

  Ahead of them, at the blistered inner planet, Captain Lindsell broke from his pursuit of Isabel Vargus and her mercenary fleet. Leading with Churchill, he turned his ships and accelerated toward Drake. Blackbeard’s force—suddenly much smaller than it had felt moments earlier—was about to be flattened beneath Lindsell’s hammer and Malthorne’s anvil.

  “Flee, sir?” Capp said. When he didn’t answer, she prodded. “Sir?”

  “No,” he said, making quick decisions. “Take us right at Dreadnought.”

  “Right at her?”

  “Do it! Oglethorpe, give the following commands to the other vessels . . .”

  He gave instructions. Blackbeard in the lead, but all five ships going straight at the massive battleship. Even the frigate, a ship with weaker shields that was designed to linger at the back of the battlefield, hurling missiles into the fight, was to charge in, firing.

  He had one chance, and that wasn’t to stay here and fight Malthorne on one flank and Lindsell on the other. His best bet was to go at Dreadnought. The battleship had dropped her cloaks late. It would take time to warm her weapons before she could fire. Drake’s ship was ready to fight already. That gave him a narrow window of opportunity.

  Isabel Vargus hailed him. He put her on voice only.

  “Are you mad?”

  “Only desperate, Vargus. I was caught in a trap and must do what I can to extract myself.”

  “If you expect me to wade in there and join you in fighting that thing, you’re out of your mind. I couldn’t even manage in a fair fight against Lindsell.”

  “No, I’m expecting you to make your escape,” he told her. “Run for the jump point before Lindsell changes his mind and comes after you.”

  Vargus said nothing at first, and he thought she’d cut the line. He’d already turned back to his console when her voice came through again.

  “Drake, you can’t sacrifice yourself on my behalf. I’ll fight my way clear somehow. Don’t throw away your life. Or your ships. If I have to stay, I will. Might just be Outlaw. Can’t speak for these other ships.”

  “You think that’s what I’m doing?” he asked. “I mean to escape this fight alive, and you are to do the same thing. Now is your chance. Run, damn you.”

  He cut the line. But not before thinking about her last comment. Isabel Vargus would have come in after him, ready to throw away her life to save him. Would her sister Catarina have done the same thing? Probably not. Catarina was nowhere to be found since the Battle of Albion. Off assembling her colonization fleet, no doubt, while Drake was fighting for his life. And Catarina and Drake had been lovers.

  Perhaps you’ve fallen for the wrong sister.

  And then, his entire force let loose with a barrage of weapons, and the thought fled his mind. Missiles flashed into the lead, followed by more than a dozen heavier, slower torpedoes. Dreadnought began to swing wide, her main battery exposing itself. One blast from that massive array of cannon would shred Blackbeard and her companions to pieces.

  If they warmed in time.

  Blackbeard’s missiles pounded into Dreadnought. They had little effect. A torpedo hit moments later. Light flared near the battleship’s aft cargo bay. The next two torpedoes fell to countermeasures, and the enemy turned aside a barrage of missiles. They’d caught the enemy by surprise, but any further ordnance would struggle to get through.

  “Minimal damage to Dreadnought, sir,” Smythe announced.

  Drake’s five ships were upon the battleship now. Two small cannon engaged them, and Jane announced damage to the fore shields. In an instant, they flashed past. Finally, torpedoes came after them, but they’d built up so much speed that the enemy weapons gradually fell behind and then lost contact.

  Capp pumped her fist and whooped, but elation on the deck was short-lived. Lindsell flew past Dreadnought in pursuit, and the battleship herself was already accelerating to join the fight.

  “Now it gets interesting,” Drake said. He moved his fingers over his console. “At least Vargus got away. Rutherford and the forts will have their supplies.”

  “Won’t do them much good if the rest of us are killed out here,” Oglethorpe pointed out.

  Yes, and that would inevitably happen if they continued on their present course. Blackbeard could outfight Lindsell’s faster-off-the-blocks corvette in the short term, and outrun the man’s cruisers over the long haul. But he could not keep Lindsell from overtaking and gobbling up his support craft. And he couldn’t hold off Dreadnought indefinitely no matter how fast he ran. Dreadnought took longer to accelerate, but she had a higher top speed. Watching Malthorne come up behind would be death in slow motion.

  He got his other four captains on the com. “Robertso
n, you are in charge. Break away, see if you can draw Lindsell after you. If he follows, run for San Pablo. You might find assistance near the planet. They are no lovers of Malthorne or his navy.”

  “Yes, sir,” Robertson said. “And if he doesn’t? Should I come to your assistance, sir? Or perhaps use my best judgment?”

  Robertson was an older man, nearly the same age as Drake’s father, and had a reputation for losing more battles and equipment than he won, which was why he was on a destroyer instead of a more powerful corvette or cruiser. Too cautious, not enough energy and initiative.

  “No, Robertson. If he does not pursue, you are to follow Vargus out of the system. Report to Rutherford until my return.”

  That took care of that. Moments later, the destroyer, the missile frigate, and the two small torpedo boats veered sharply away. Several minutes passed, as Lindsell and Malthorne no doubt consulted on this new development. Then Lindsell took his entire force and followed the runaways. Dreadnought continued after Blackbeard.

  “As expected,” Drake said with satisfaction.

  “How did you know he’d do that?” Capp asked.

  “Malthorne is greedy. He wants both victories. I knew he would come after us instead of sending Lindsell, because he wishes to defeat me personally.” Drake forced a smile. “Now we’re only facing one ship, not a dozen.”

  Capp nodded, though she didn’t look confident. Neither did she sound it when she finally spoke. “Seems like we have them right where we want them, eh?”

  “If only that one ship were not HMS Dreadnought.”

  Blackbeard was now alone. Dreadnought’s pursuit would inevitably lead to an engagement between the cruiser and the battleship. There could be only one result to such a fight. Drake was still pulling away from the larger vessel, but that was a short-term advantage. He had to avoid the fight altogether; that was the only way to stay alive. But how?

  “Then you want us to continue our present course, sir?” Oglethorpe asked. “We’re going farther from the jump point, not closer.”

  “We’d never make it through in time. Anyway, this is a chance for our friends in the mercenary fleet. Every moment that passes allows more time for the resupply of our forts.”

  The others looked at him anxiously. He didn’t explain his plan for avoiding destruction because he didn’t have one yet. They could get back to the small planet easily enough, but it would provide scant protection. The battleship had an ability to fight at a distance and around large objects that Lindsell’s cruisers didn’t.

  “Dreadnought is hailing us, sir,” Smythe said. “Ignore?”

  Drake considered. “No. Let’s hear what the enemy has to say. Put him on.”

  And there he was. Vice Admiral Thomas Lord Malthorne. Or, as he called himself these days, King Thomas the Second. He looked like no king now, as he was wearing his uniform, starched and stiff from head to toe. Malthorne looked down his long, beakish nose and smiled.

  “I had been told that you were styling yourself in pirate garb these days,” Malthorne said, “as befitting your degraded state. Yet it appears that you have put on a Royal Navy uniform once more. Not that you have any right to defile the thing.”

  “And I’ve heard that you are claiming the title of king,” Drake replied. “But you are no more a king than I am a pirate.”

  There was a delay as the transmission crossed the distance between the two vessels, and then Malthorne smiled. “No? The lords of Albion tell me otherwise when they bend their knee to pay homage. The crown, when I choose to wear it, declares my legitimacy. This battleship enforces it.”

  “In other words, you are king by coercion, force, and a willingness to inflict fear and pain.”

  Malthorne raised his eyebrows, somehow making him look even more haughty. “Indeed, I will not deny it. Many have died who stood in my way, and why should they not have perished? Your kind would have us groveling before the Hroom, surrendering any advantage our race might have over those depraved sugar eaters, until we were the slaves.”

  Drake gritted his teeth and fought down his anger. Among Malthorne’s numerous other crimes, he had ordered the murder of Drake’s sister, the imprisonment of Drake’s parents, and the destruction of his childhood home. But this was well beyond personal now, and he needed to keep that in mind rather than let Malthorne goad him into a foolish fight, Blackbeard versus Dreadnought.

  “You won’t win,” Drake said. “You realize that, of course.”

  “I already have.” A small shrug. “Run the calculations through your pilot, if you must, but the result is inevitable. You are running as fast as you are able. My ship’s top speed is superior to yours, and I shall inevitably overtake you. There is no relief at hand, no jump point for you to flee through. When we do engage, there is no tactic, technology, or strategem that enables your bastardized cruiser to defeat this mighty battleship.

  “I am only hailing you to point out the obvious,” the admiral continued. “And to offer you this. Surrender, and I will spare your ship and spare . . . well, let us not deceive ourselves. You and most of your crew will die as traitors. Others, hung as pirates. Some few may achieve a pardon. We shall see. Surrender at once. That is your only option.”

  This wasn’t any sort of offer. It was only Malthorne taking advantage of his superior position to gloat.

  “Kill me, and you’ve still lost,” Drake said. “How much of your wealth is tied up on Hot Barsa?”

  “Not all of it. Not even a fraction thereof.”

  “I highly doubt that. Your fortune is built upon slaves and sugar. That world practically belongs to you. Well, now we have your planet at our mercy.”

  “Only until we relieve your siege. Within a few weeks of your death, Rutherford and the rest of the rebels will be cut down without mercy. The sugar will flow, James Drake. I assure you of that. It will flow on Hot Barsa and many other worlds, besides.”

  “You haven’t heard of the rebellion on the surface?” Drake asked. “Surely you understand by now why we attacked the planet in the first place. Our people are distributing copies of the sugar antidote we liberated from your laboratories. It will go to thousands. Hundreds of thousands. You will never regain Hot Barsa. You have no way to stop the rebellion, and no way to re-enslave its population.”

  Malthorne’s face hardened. “You are a traitor, James Drake, in more ways than one. May God rot your soul in hell.” He cut the channel.

  Drake leaned back in his chair and contemplated the situation. Perhaps it was not as dire as he’d originally assumed. He was still pulling away from Dreadnought, after all, which meant that the chase had yet to truly begin.

  The others on the bridge worked in absolute silence for several minutes until the quiet was finally broken by a young enlisted man from engineering who’d come to consult with Smythe at the tech console. Soon, the two men were speaking in low voices, and that cut the tension.

  “We done for, then, Cap’n?” Capp asked.

  “Not at all, Ensign. Oglethorpe, I need a current assessment of the fuel stores. We’re going to be burning through a good deal of it in the next few hours.”

  “That arrogant bastard was right though, weren’t he?” Capp said. “We can’t outrun him.”

  “We won the engagement. Isabel Vargus’s mercenary fleet escaped with our needed supplies, and it appears that our support craft will reach San Pablo in safety. We’ve delayed the enemy from returning to the Barsa system, which allows Rutherford and the forts to further their preparations.”

  “But what about us?” she protested. “We’re just running now, we ain’t got no course. He’ll catch us for sure.”

  “I would not be so certain.” Drake allowed himself a smile. “Dreadnought is swifter, ultimately, but we have greater maneuverability. Many hours yet before we are overtaken, and even then, we’ll have some tricks to pull. No, Blackbeard cannot defeat a ship the size of Dreadnought in open combat, but given our position in the solar system, the enemy’s size is also her liabi
lity.”

  “I still don’t get it. How does her being big help us out?”

  By now, Oglethorpe, Manx, Smythe, and the young man from engineering were all studying him. Their expressions were hopeful, but confused. Only on Smythe’s face did understanding begin to dawn. Drake’s confidence was overstated—his idea gave them a chance, nothing more—but he needed them to shake the despair that seemed to have taken over.

  “Tell me, Ensign Capp,” Drake said. “If you expose a mouse and a human to the cold of winter, which one expires first?”

  “Mouse, I suppose. Gives up its heat faster, don’t it?”

  “Right. A greater surface area to mass. Now reverse that, and expose them both to heat. The larger beast, barring special adaptations, will have a more difficult time cooling itself. Now, imagine if that beast also has several thousand royal marines in cryostorage who need to be kept on ice until released from stasis.”

  Capp’s eyes widened. “Oh! You mean—?”

  “Plot us a new course, Ensign. We’re going to run for the sun.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tolvern met with her three companions in a burned-out sugar silo. Nyb Pim checked the door to make sure nobody had followed them into the scorched, still-smoldering mill, then shut it behind him. Tolvern felt suddenly like she’d been dropped into a pan of hot, caramelizing sugar. The smell and heat were almost overwhelming.

  But the shut door at least cut out the screams of dying Hroom. The battle may be over, but the killing wasn’t. The sound turned her stomach.

  “I cannot bear any more of this,” Carvalho said. “How much longer with the torture and murder?”

  “We have fallen in among a death cult,” Nyb Pim said. “The more victories we have, the more glory they give to the god of death. And the more victims they must sacrifice.”

  “Superstitious rubbish,” Brockett said. “Lyam Kar isn’t aiding this rebellion. It’s science.”

  “You don’t have to tell us that,” Tolvern said. “We all know. And I suspect that Pez Rykan does, too. He is feeding the religious hysteria for his own purposes.”