Rebellion of Stars (Starship Blackbeard Book 4)

by Michael Wallace

  “That villain,” Carvalho grumbled. “Cut us off, will he? Watch us take our antidote and leave him on his own. How long will his little rebellion last?”

  Tolvern eyed him. “You think that’s an option? He can set half the continent on fire with the doses we’ve already given him if he can only get his hands on some weapons. This thing is growing exponentially. There’s no stopping it now.”

  During the days after the raid on the slave barracks, Tolvern had received a brutal education in the realities of a revolution. The Hroom guards working for Malthorne’s estate were dismembered and killed in religious rituals. That spread fear ahead of Pez Rykan’s rampaging, growing army. Many times, they arrived to find the cane fields and slave villages already abandoned. The slaves were taken away, when possible. Other times, the enemy shot them first to keep them from falling into Pez Rykan’s hands.

  The slaves themselves sometimes fought back, but most took their antidote without complaint. As the rebels moved on, they left hundreds of eaters gradually shaking off their addiction. Most of the newly freed fled into the bush, leaving a desolate, abandoned plantation behind them. Others became bandits, or free-ranging rebels on their own. But hundreds more had joined Pez Rykan’s force.

  Only fifteen days had passed since the first attack, and the rebel commander had more than five hundred Hroom in his army. So many had joined, they quickly ran out of arms. Tolvern had distributed the weapons and ammo from the pod, and guns taken from the enemy were given to others. That armed maybe ten percent of the Hroom force, leaving the rest to make do with spears and crudely fashioned clubs. Almost no point to it.

  Still, it was no wonder that Lord Malthorne had attempted to keep the sugar antidote a secret from the Hroom. The alien race had a reputation for being docile and easily led. When conquered, they were quickly enslaved, and those free Hroom who worked with humans—Nyb Pim, for example—were well disciplined.

  But release thousands of former slaves into the jungle, and you saw another side to them entirely. Tolvern wondered about General Mose Dryz of the Hroom Empire. He also possessed the antidote. If the empire ever fought off Apex, they might prove a long-term threat for human settlement in this sector of the galaxy.

  “These Hroom have poor tactics,” Carvalho said. “They will get us killed if we keep fighting so recklessly.”

  “That’s always been a Hroom weakness,” Tolvern said. She sat on a hardened lump of melted sugar, broke off a piece, and sucked on it. “That, and sugar.”

  “I cannot abide this torture,” Carvalho repeated.

  “So, what do we do?” she asked.

  He grunted. “You ask me, I say we escape. They are killing humans, too. I don’t want to sit around waiting to be the death god’s next meal.”

  “It is doubtful they would do such a thing,” Nyb Pim said. “That would violate some code of religious ethics, I should think.”

  “Right, but you aren’t sure, are you?” the Ladino said. “It is ‘doubtful,’ you say. You ‘should think.’ What if you are wrong? What if they need a certain number of victims every day, and one day they cannot find any enemies to murder?”

  “None of us want to be murdered,” Brockett said, “but where would we go? We’re a hundred miles from the landing pod. We have no way to be rescued. This is pouncer country. They dragged off two free Hroom yesterday. We go out there alone, we’re likely to die from the wildlife, if nothing else.”

  “We’re not running off to hide,” Tolvern said. “Our job is to spread this rebellion.”

  “That does not mean we need to do it with this brutal Pez Rykan fellow,” Carvalho said. “How many doses do we have with us, Brockett?”

  Brockett glanced up with his tongue at the corner of his mouth, as if calculating. “Eight or ten thousand, I believe. Pez Rykan has the rest.”

  “You see! That is plenty. We can run away. Maybe even find a different estate. Free our own slaves far from here. Two rebellions, instead of one. That is much better.”

  There were so many problems with that plan that Tolvern didn’t feel the need to address it. How many days or weeks would they lose putting distance between themselves and Pez Rykan’s Hroom? How much riskier would it be to travel alone through the jungle?

  And supposing they found some likely spot fifty or a hundred miles from here to open a second front. Would freed slaves follow a human commander? Not likely. She supposed that Nyb Pim could make an attempt, but he was a pilot, thoughtful and unassuming. Not the sort to lead military attacks.

  Brockett’s computer beeped, and he pulled it out of his hip pocket. The science officer had been in contact with their friends in orbit, trying to arrange an orbital drop.

  “It’s from Pittsfield. They can’t spare any guns or ammo.”

  That was disheartening news. No guns at all? She’d asked for five thousand and hoped to get a thousand. How were they supposed to fight a rebellion when most of the rebels were armed with sharpened sticks?

  “Pittsfield, that is Rutherford’s commander, yes?” Carvalho said. “Rutherford could not have given us the bad news himself?”

  “Any reasoning, or just a no?” Tolvern asked Brockett.

  “They don’t have anything to spare. What they do possess, they need to defend themselves. Fitzgibbons is lurking somewhere with his marines. He might take the forts by force of arms if Malthorne can’t force a surrender.” Brockett shrugged. “Or so Rutherford is claiming.”

  That made no sense. If Dreadnought got close enough to the forts to land ground forces, the battle was already over.

  “Compose another message,” she said.

  “Hold on.” Brockett scrolled down, frown deepening. “Looks like we’ve got bigger problems.”

  He handed Tolvern his computer. She read Pittsfield’s message. It was overly wordy. Buried at the bottom, after a lengthy justification of Rutherford’s reasons for denying the request for guns, she got to the meat of it.

  There was an abandoned military base eighty miles to the northeast, in the cooler foothills that led to the highlands. Fort Gamma had detected enemy activity in the region. Security forces had been burning away vegetation from the overgrown facilities for the past few days, and now hundreds of security personnel were assembling from across the continent, gathering equipment and supplies. Preparing a major expedition.

  There could only be one target.

  #

  Tolvern found Pez Rykan sitting cross-legged in front of the makeshift temple platform. The groans of the victims were feeble now, but two priests continued their grisly work. She took one glance at their gore-splattered faces and hands, and looked away, her stomach lurching.

  Tolvern sat down at an angle, so she’d be looking at the chief and not the temple. Dear God, let that groaning stop soon.

  “I do not enjoy this,” Pez Rykan said. “Not one moment of seeing my enemies suffer gives me pleasure.” He turned to stare at her. “Hroom fighting Hroom. It is the fault of humans.” He looked away again. “But these free Hroom are worse than humans. They deserve to die, and if their deaths feed the fervor of my troops, so much the better.”

  “I’m not here to talk about your death cult.”

  “No? You have offered your opinion on the subject many times. Why should now be any different?”

  “I’ve received word from orbit. The enemy is assembling a military force in the highlands.”

  “Let them come. Our strength grows every day.”

  “Strength? What strength? You mean this rabble with sharpened sticks?”

  “We have guns. Several dozen, in fact. Hand cannons, rifles, shotguns, even a machine gun. We have won every engagement.”

  “And never fought more than ten enemies at a time,” she pointed out. “Well now you’ve had your success. You’ve set the plantation on fire and attracted real attention. Have you ever seen a helicopter? They can linger over the battlefield, raining fire down on your head.”

  Pez Rykan was silent for a long moment. His
already-thin lips narrowed until they disappeared. “Yes, I have seen your hovering gunships. Such things have killed people very near to . . . how do you say? Close to my heart. Is that phrase correct?”

  “Then you must understand that this poorly trained, weakly armed rabble is wholly inadequate to battle against trained men and superior equipment.”

  “Send your troops to help us. I saw the battles in the sky, I have heard you speaking to your generals. I know that you control the great fortifications flying overhead. Send human soldiers with weapons and training. Help us.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “Our position is tenuous,” she said. “We are facing a counterattack by Admiral Malthorne. We can’t spare either troops or weapons.”

  “I do not believe it. I believe you wish for Hroom to die on your behalf. You have no intention of risking your human forces to free slaves. You are cowards at heart.”

  Tolvern clenched her teeth. “I risked my own life finding you. I risk it every day I stay with you. I’ll be with you when those security forces attack. So don’t insult me by accusing me of cowardice.”

  Pez Rykan nodded. “Very well. So you cannot send more guns, and you cannot send fighters. And you also claim that we cannot stand against the forces arraying themselves in opposition. So what do you suggest? Flee into the jungle before the enemy arrives?”

  “No.” She pulled out the computer from her pocket and brought up a map of the surrounding area. “You see where we are? Here is the security base.”

  “Speak plainly. I do not have experience with such maps.”

  Tolvern spent a little more time pointing out their position, showing how quickly a force, once assembled, could move either from or to the security base. She gave her best guess as to when the enemy would be ready to launch their attack.

  “So soon?” Pez Rykan said. “Then we are indeed in danger.”

  “Only if we stay here picking the low fruit. I mean, if we keep freeing slaves while there’s no opposition. They’ll catch us with our pants down. But what if—” she added, zooming in on the road into the hills, “we take the fight to them?”

  “Attack the base?”

  “Yes, before they’re ready. They’ll never expect it. Too much initiative for Hroom.”

  “Crushing them before they can assemble to attack?” he asked. “It might gain us time to continue our work.”

  “Better than that. We’ll also liberate weapons. Guns and equipment. Ammunition. Seize our own base in the highlands from which to organize and spread the revolt. Of course, it won’t be easy, but with a bit of strategy and some subterfuge, we could make this a huge victory for our side.”

  Pez Rykan’s long tongue darted over his lips in a gesture that reminded her of nothing so much as a sugar eater anticipating his next feeding. Only this wasn’t greed for sugar, but a hunger for something else.

  “This mission exceeds my ability to organize,” he said at last. “I have no training in your tactics, and the wicked practice of human deception is beyond my understanding.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you have me to plan the attack.”

  “You would do this?”

  “With two conditions. First, I give the orders. If I say pull back, you will pull back, even if victory is at hand. If I say attack, you will attack, even when it seems suicidal. It will not always be what it seems—it might be tricks and stratagems—and I can’t be stopping in the middle of battle to knock sense into your thick skull. Are we agreed? You can do this?”

  Pez Rykan tossed his head in the Hroom manner that indicated assent. “Yes. For this one battle, I will accept that as a requirement of securing your aid. Your word is a command to be obeyed without question. As if from the gods. As if Lyam Kar himself stood on the battlefield. What is the second condition?”

  “About your god of death.” Tolvern glanced at the temple platform. The groans and struggles had stopped, and the priests were descending from their killing place, drenched in gore. “There will be no more torture and murder. It ends now.”

  “You want me to kill them first, then dismember?”

  “No. You will stop killing your captives entirely. Let them go, lock them up—I don’t care which. But no more killing of those who have surrendered. That’s murder, and I won’t be a part of it.”

  “Our religious code requires a sacrifice to our god.”

  “And my code demands that I stop you from doing it.”

  “It is too late,” he said. “We have cast our lot with the dark god. If he withdraws his blessings, we will surely lose.”

  Tolvern stood up. “Then it’s up to you. You can either throw your hopes to superstition and religion and keep fighting with sharpened sticks, or you can get your hands on those guns at the enemy base. You can’t have both. And you sure as hell won’t have my help anymore.”

  He looked up at her as she stood with her hands on her hips. Her face was hard, and she stared back without blinking. He’d be wondering if she was bluffing. She wasn’t. Let him balk again and she’d walk, so help her.

  At last, another toss of the head. “Very well, Jess Tolvern. There will be no more killing and sacrificing of prisoners.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The second time into the star’s fiery embrace was worse, somehow. This time, Drake was bracing for the heat, and he was already exhausted. They chilled Blackbeard as much as possible before descending toward the sun, but the air, the floor, even the water coming out of the taps was soon scalding.

  Dreadnought followed them down. She gained as Blackbeard was forced to slow dramatically, and nearly had the smaller ship in range of her guns before they fell into pace at nearly the same speed. They circled twice around the vast diameter of the sun, baking. He needed Dreadnought to pull away, then he’d make a run for it.

  “It isn’t working,” Capp said. She’d stripped to a sweat-soaked tank top and had a collection of empty and partially consumed jugs of water at her feet. “We can’t shake them.”

  “One more pass,” he said. “Dreadnought will be forced to retreat. She can’t take the heat.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed,” Smythe said, “we’re not doing so well ourselves. One more pass, and we’ll be cooked alive.”

  “We only need a few hours more than Malthorne,” Drake said.

  “It’s almost one hundred and ten degrees in here!” Smythe exclaimed.

  Drake fixed him with a hard stare. “I am well aware of that, lieutenant.”

  “Sorry, sir.” He dropped his gaze to his console.

  Yet Smythe was right. They couldn’t stand this much longer. And Dreadnought? Was Malthorne weak and feverish, yet stubbornly refusing to call off the attack? He was an older man, in his fifties, but rigid and unyielding, like a piece of rope hardened with frozen salt water. No, Drake couldn’t count on the man’s physical limitations to win this particular struggle. His battle was with the battleship itself, her physical limitations.

  “Slow us down another five percent,” he told Oglethorpe.

  “That will bring us in range of them guns,” Capp said. She looked at Manx, who was at the defense grid. “Right, Manx?”

  “And you,” Drake told her. “Bring us in closer. I want us on the edge of the transition zone. I’ll warn engineering. We’ll need to catch that extra radiation. We’ll need Dreadnought to catch it, too.”

  There were more worried noises from the bridge at this, and engineering didn’t like it, either. They were in a relatively cool band just below the chromosphere, and Drake meant to take them into hotter space. Let them figure it out. Drake was tired of explaining, and simply tired. His own collection of water jugs was nearly emptied, yet after drinking and drinking, he still didn’t need to urinate. It was all coming out his pores. Probably, they were all getting dangerously dehydrated and suffering heat exhaustion.

  As expected, Dreadnought began to pull in closer as Blackbeard slowed and descended closer to the star. Jane, her vo
ice the calmest on board, warned that they’d fallen within range of the enemy guns, and that Dreadnought’s silos were opening. Two missiles flashed out. With plenty of advance warning, Blackbeard brought them down with countermeasures. Dreadnought drew closer still.

  This time, she let loose with a heavy barrage. Missiles, followed by torpedoes. Countermeasures brought down the missiles. The torpedoes locked in and closed. Three of them, all targeting the rear shields protecting the engines. One they could take. Maybe two, accepting heavy damage. The third would finish them off.

  “Give them a flash,” he told Smythe.

  “They’re Hunter-IIs, sir,” he said. “Hardened against that tactic.”

  “Do it. Capp, prepare evasive maneuvers.”

  The crew braced themselves as the torpedoes closed. When they were a few hundred miles out, Smythe pulled the trigger. A pulse of radiation burst toward the enemy weapons. At the same moment, Capp shimmied Blackbeard like a fish squirming from the jaws of a shark. The torpedoes soared harmlessly by and were soon caught in the star’s gravity well and dragged down to a fiery death.

  “What’s that, then?” Capp asked. “How did we—?”

  “Smythe, explain,” Drake said.

  “Oh, of course,” the tech officer said. “They were already taking a beating from the energy coming off that star. A bit of extra radiation overwhelmed the shielding. How did you know that would happen, sir?”

  “Catarina Vargus taught me that one,” he admitted. “I told her the Hunter-IIs couldn’t be defeated by flash-style countermeasures like the old Mark-style torpedoes. She informed me otherwise.”

  He hadn’t been entirely sure it would work. The Vargus sisters were not opposed to a little boasting. After surviving several scrapes with the Royal Navy, they were entitled. Still, what was fact, and what was bluster?

  Dreadnought didn’t waste more ammunition, but kept closing. Any closer, and the cannons would come into play. That was an attack for which Drake had no ideas. Simple kinetic force would pound them into submission. He told Capp to accelerate again. They were swinging around the star again and still no sign that the enemy was giving up the chase.