Last Flight of the Acheron

by Rick Partlow

  “When is the Search and Rescue boat going out, ma’am?” I asked her. “Does it need an escort?”

  “That’s not my call,” she told me. “Captain Frasier will determine the safest time to launch a recovery mission. As for us, we’re slated to go back out in three hours and try again on the shipyards.”

  “Charlie couldn’t take them out, ma’am?” I wondered, surprised. Maybe they’d run out of missiles.

  “Charlie was forced to break off to cover Bravo’s withdrawal.” She shook her head. “The defense station is a tough nut. Alpha and Delta are going to take it on together this next run.”

  “Ma’am…” I trailed off, realizing I was begging but not caring. “Don’t let them leave him there.”

  “He’s your friend,” she reminded me sternly, “but he’s my pilot. I don’t leave people behind.”

  “Aye, ma’am. Thank you.”

  “Get your people briefed for the mission, Hollande.” The words were brusque, but I thought I saw pain somewhere behind those hard, dark eyes.

  I came to attention and gave her a parade-ground salute before I left the room.

  Then I started cursing. I began silently, but the invective wouldn’t stay inside and my lips began moving as I muttered and spoke and eventually barked every obscenity and profanity I’d picked up over a military brat’s childhood. The faceless legions around me were staring, and I didn’t care anymore.

  I felt the touch on my arm and spun, ready to lash out at anyone foolish enough to scold me, no matter what their rank.

  It was Conrad.

  “I heard,” he said, and I thanked God that he hadn’t said something inane like “are you okay?” because I might have punched him. “Come with me, I need to talk to you.”

  “I can’t,” I snapped at him, too angry and agitated to appreciate any comfort he wanted to give. “I have to get my squadron briefed and ready to head back out.”

  “No,” he cut me off sharply, “I don’t think you do.”

  I frowned, anger turning into something more akin to fear.

  “What?” I asked.

  He looked around, seeing curious eyes still brushing across us.

  “Not here.” He waved at me. “Come on.”

  His eyes flickered left and right as we walked, like he didn’t have a destination in mind, but finally he grabbed my arm and guided me into a storage room. Plastic bins of spirulina powder and soy paste were strapped into place on magnetic pallets and there was barely enough room for us to squeeze between them.

  “Have you heard something about the rescue mission?” I demanded, watching him push the door shut behind us. “Is there any way I can get my squadron as your escort?”

  “There isn’t going to be any escort and there isn’t going to be any rescue mission.” The declaration was flat and filled with a certainty that made my stomach drop.

  “How the hell can you know that?”

  “Because it’s my fucking job to know it!” He was angry, and I wanted to be angry back, but I could tell it wasn’t aimed at me. He stalked back and forth as much as he could in the tiny space available to us in the storage room. “I was bugging Captain Frasier about a retrieval before he even got back to the carrier. I was on his ass the minute he got off the lift from the docking collar. The fucker told me that there’s too much opposition from the defense station.”

  “He’s not going to even try?” My voice rose in what could have been a wail. “What if we take out the damned station?”

  “He doesn’t believe you can. He hasn’t made an announcement yet, not even to the Strike Wing commanders, but I think he’s going to pull out. Bravo got it bad. Only six boats are left out of the whole wing.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” I moaned, nearly stumbling, catching myself against the bulkhead. Six fucking boats? How could we lose that many?

  But I knew, as quickly as I asked myself the question. The defense station was too close to the gas giant; they wouldn’t have been able to Transition out if they were close enough to engage it. They’d get mauled going in, and then again retreating. It was a tiger trap, and we’d fallen into it.

  “He’s going to die down there.” For a second, I didn’t even realize that the words had come from me; it was as if someone were whispering them in my ear. “We’re going to leave him and he’s going to die.”

  He’d never let himself be captured; we’d talked about it once. He’d go down shooting and he’d die alone.

  I wasn’t going to let that happen to him.

  I don’t know when I made the decision, but I knew that it was made. Maybe there never really was a decision, maybe that’s just how it was going to be. I felt the anger and the grief and the helplessness drift away and a strange sense of peace settle over me.

  “You’re going to do something stupid,” Conrad said.

  “What if I am?” I asked him, challenging. “Are you going to try to stop me?”

  “Fuck that.” There was a thin, twisted smile on a face that suddenly didn’t look at all smooth or handsome, and I remembered how he’d assured me he had his own issues. “I’m going to help you.”

  ***

  Wendig was the only Tactical Flight Controller I knew, and I was praying he was on duty. I’d never seen the slimy, scheming little fuck when he wasn’t trying to con someone or cheat at cards or sell contraband, and I figured he was exactly what I needed right now. I’d also never been that happy to cross paths with him, but I was glad to find him at his post just the same.

  There were two other TFCs huddled in their corner of the Operations Center, comfortably far enough away from the ship’s Tactical Officer that I could sneak in without being noticed. Everyone was watching the incoming signals from Charlie’s stragglers, and I had a sneaking suspicion that, once they arrived, the Implacable would be jumping out.

  “Wendig,” I said quietly from a meter away, and he looked up from the holographic display that enveloped him. He was a mousey, beady-eyed, rail-skinny little runt who managed to seem both underfed and soft at the same time.

  “Lieutenant,” he grinned unpleasantly. “What can I do for my favorite pilot?”

  “Got a minute?” I wondered.

  He shrugged. “Well, we were in the middle of one of the biggest battles since Mars, but currently we don’t seem to be doing much more than getting ready to run the hell out of here. So, sure!”

  He followed me out into the passageway just outside Ops and looked up at me eagerly. He had a pretty obvious crush on me, which might have been cute coming from someone who didn’t act so damned obsessive about it.

  “I need a favor,” I levelled with him, in too much of a hurry to do anything else. “In about twenty minutes, I need you to give the Artemis clearance to un-dock.”

  “Why the hell would I do that?” He wondered, eyes widening. “It sounds like a really good way to get court-martialed!”

  “You’re a smart guy. Make it look like a glitch, or blame me somehow.” I shrugged. “As for why…I have my mom’s retirement fund. It all went to me when she died in the line of duty. It’s not a fortune, but it’s yours if you do this.”

  “You’ll sign it over to me, before?” He asked, eyes widening. Admirals weren’t exactly rich, but their salaries---and their retirement fund---were a hell of lot more than a Petty Officer, Third Class made.

  “I’ll do it now,” I volunteered. I hoped he wasn’t thinking about how it would look for him when they found out I’d transferred a couple hundred thousand dollars into his account right before he committed dereliction of duty for me.

  “Petty Officer Wendig,” a voice said from behind me, “get back to your station.”

  The air went out of me like a child’s balloon and I felt my shoulders sag. It was Captain Osceola. I turned toward her as Wendig scurried back into the Ops Center.

  “Ma’am,” I stiffened. “Has there been any change in our disposition?” I’d gotten word from her ten minutes ago to prepare to stand by, that the mission was official
ly on hold. Maybe I could bluff my way out of this.

  “I know what you’re doing,” she said, putting an end to that idea. “I knew you were thinking about it when you came into the conference room, and once our mission was delayed, I was fairly certain you’d think some more.” She cocked an eyebrow. “That’s why I was looking for you. I heard what you were saying to Wendig.”

  “Ma’am,” I stammered, “I…”

  “It’s suicide, Hollande.” The hard lines of her face had softened, and her voice was low and almost…conspiratorial. “You know that, right? There won’t be anyone to help. The Implacable will be pulling out of here in hours.” Her hands clenched into fists. “Even if you managed to pull this off, even if you make it back, you’ll be court-martialed. You’ll probably spend the rest of the war in a military prison.”

  “Aye, ma’am.” I thought the words would come out sad or desperate, but instead, I heard a resolve in my own voice that I hadn’t known I possessed. “I won’t let him die alone. I owe that to him.”

  She closed her eyes and drew in a breath, like she was summoning strength. When she opened them, she had the look of decision. She glanced around, making sure no one was paying attention to us.

  “I can keep them…distracted for a few minutes. Long enough for you to make the jump in-system.”

  “Captain,” I warned her, feeling like I had to say it despite the relief and gratitude flowing into me, “if they trace it back to you, it’s your career.”

  “He’s my pilot,” she repeated to me. “I don’t leave people behind.” She grinned piratically. “I’d come along with you, if I thought I could make it to your ship without anyone noticing.” She waved a hand in the general direction of the lift banks. “Twenty minutes. Go.”

  I started to turn, but paused and said: “Thank you, Captain.”

  “Don’t thank me,” she insisted softly. “I’m not doing it for you.”

  Issues, I thought. We all had our issues.

  Conrad met me at the lift station for Docking Cylinder Three, carrying a duffel bag stuffed with something bulky and heavy that strained against the shoulder strap even in the half-g that the rotating saucer section produced. I pushed the call button, fighting the need to fidget impatiently as we waited for the car.

  “You get what we need?” I asked him, nodding at the bag.

  “Yeah,” he grunted as he cinched the duffel tighter across his shoulder. You?”

  “We’re covered,” I assured him. “But we have to hurry.”

  I shut my mouth as the car arrived and the door slid open, disgorging a large group of people, some of them pilots who I knew casually. One of them was Gregor Varlamov, Ash’s wingman. I bit off a curse, hoping he wouldn’t notice me, but he chose just the wrong second to glance upward. His blue eyes widened when they met mine, and I could see the pain etched in the lines of his long, horsey face.

  “I’m so sorry, Sandi,” he said, pushing through the crowd coming out of the lift and standing in front of me, practically wringing his hands in agony. “I didn’t want to leave him there, but he’d already drifted into the gravity well; we couldn’t jump in and get him.”

  “I understand, Gregor,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

  I was making the right noises at him, but inside I was screaming at him to just go away. Not just because we were pressed for time, but because I didn’t want to comfort him, I wanted someone to be comforting me.

  “Look, I have to get going,” I told him, patting his shoulder before withdrawing my hand. “Captain Osceola needs me to run an errand for her. But we can talk later, if you want. Maybe in the lounge.”

  He looked like he wanted to say something else, but I ducked into the lift car beside Conrad just before the door hissed shut. We were the only ones heading up in the car; everyone else was heading for the saucers, getting ready to Transition out.

  “Everybody liked Ash,” Conrad began.

  “Likes,” I corrected him sharply, snapping around to spear him with a glare. “He’s not dead.”

  “Likes,” he agreed, holding up a palm. “Everybody likes Ash. He’s a good guy, not an asshole or anything. So, what happened between you two? You never mentioned it.”

  Gravity had disappeared as the car had moved inward from the rotating perimeter and then upward into the docking cylinders. I grabbed at one of the nylon handles set in the overhead and used it to steady myself as I considered his question. I knew the truth, but being honest with myself wasn’t something I was great at.

  “What happened,” I answered, my voice dripping with bitterness, “is that I’m a self-absorbed, borderline-alcoholic who dragged my best friend into bed because it made me feel less alone.”

  “And that didn’t end well, huh?” He snorted. “Who could have guessed?”

  I stared at him, and if my eyes had been lasers he would have had twin holes through his chest.

  “Sometimes I forget how young you are,” he went on, oblivious to my anger. “You’ve been promoted fast because you’re a hell of a pilot and a tactician, but you’re still just a kid out of college…and the Academy, at that.”

  “You’re only a few years older than me,” I reminded him hotly. Ten. Ten was a few. Conrad had been prior enlisted before he’d gone to the Academy, a Marine like Grimaldi. I’d honestly been a bit shocked when I found out how old he was.

  “We’re going to get your friend back,” he said, still seeming amused at my little bout of self-loathing. “I’m going to get you both back safe, because it’s my job, and I do my job even when some brasshat tells me not to do it. And when I do, you’re going to have to learn a lesson that took me a while to get: the world does not fucking revolve around you. For good or bad. Not every bad thing that happens is your fault or your responsibility. Your friend is an adult…,” he shrugged. “Well, as much of an adult as you are. And he walked into this with both eyes open. The fact he couldn’t handle it isn’t your fault.”

  I said nothing, just listened to the hum of the motors as the car took us down the tube, what I still called a “straw” in my head. The display said we had ten seconds to the stop at my boat.

  “You’re going to wind up in a military prison a couple of cells down from me,” I warned him just before the doors opened.

  “Maybe,” he admitted with a shrug. “Maybe not. I know some people. Besides, who the hell else are they gonna’ get to do this job?”

  I was going to say something about trained, genetically-enhanced monkeys, but there was a gaggle of technicians emerging from the open lock of the Artemis and I kept the comment to myself as I squeezed through them.

  “Is she up and running?” I asked the ranking NCO, making him turn and stop himself against the bulkhead beside the lift.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” he replied, looking a bit confused. “And she’s refueled, too. But we didn’t reload the missile bays; we were told she wasn’t going out again.”

  “She’s not,” I assured him, waving and following Conrad into the utility bay. “Just like to know the status.”

  Conrad had yanked open a locker and was stuffing the contents of the duffel bag into it while I hit the control to shut the inner and outer airlock doors.

  “I hope that Petty Officer doesn’t start asking questions,” I said to him, pushing off the bulkhead and floating toward the lockers.

  “Let’s get out of here before he does.” He was pulling on a set of combat armor he’d brought with him; I had to stick with a flight suit, for now, since I’d need the ‘face jacks to fly, but he’d brought armor for me as well.

  The control board lit up for me when I jacked in, but a sea of yellow, flashing warnings showed me immediately that the interlocks were in place to prevent exactly what I was trying to do. Without clearance from Traffic Control, the computer systems on the boat wouldn’t allow me to release the docking collar or power up the boat. There was an emergency override, of course; you had to give the boats a way off if the car
rier was under attacked or damaged in an accident. But if I activated it, the carrier Traffic Control center would see it and they could still shut me down, at least until I jumped.

  This was where I had to trust Captain Osceola. I checked the time; it was exactly twenty minutes. I caressed the emergency override with a stroke of my thoughts and the yellow warnings flashed red, their alarm klaxons filling the cockpit, loud enough to nearly bring me out of the interface. I silenced them with a firm command and started the reactor powering up.

  “Moment of truth,” I murmured.

  I ordered the docking collar to release, and a green indicator showed me that Osceola was a woman of her word. Shuddering jolts of power pushed us away from the massive cylinder and I listened hard for shouted, angry orders to return to the dock; all it would take was a single transmission and the ship’s computer would be slaved to the carrier bridge and we’d both be thrown into the brig and that would be that.

  The orders never came, and no one tried to stop us.

  Neither of us said a word. The bridges were burned, the Rubicon crossed.

  I sent us into Transition Space with a thought and left my life behind.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tendrils of nonexistence clutched at us, but we wrenched free and the utter darkness of deep space transformed abruptly into the dazzling, mottled countenance of the gas giant. It glared at us accusingly, the baleful gaze of the twin, red storms passing through its atmosphere telling us that we were trespassing. And yet the god was merciful: it didn’t raise an alarm, and its nearly star-size bulk shielded us from detection.

  “We’re on the other side of that thing from the defense station, right?” Conrad asked, staring nervously at the screen.

  “I thought you were the big, bad Search and Rescue man,” I said distantly, still immersed in the interface.

  “You get me on the ground, I’ll be your big, bad Search and Rescue man,” he countered sharply. “This shit out here’s what they pay you maniacs for.”

  I was worried about remote satellites detecting our thermal flare, but he was right about the station being on the other side of the gas giant; so were the shipyards and the gas scoops and the other terrestrial moon with the mining operation. This place wasn’t a primary, or even a secondary target, and I had to hope it wasn’t well defended, especially since they had to have shifted all their resources to fighting for the construction yards.