by J. L. Doty
Quae interrupted her again, then berated her for several minutes. He only let her go when he realized he had little time left to prepare for Admiral Leukoy’s arrival. It wouldn’t do to greet the admiral improperly attired. Quae decided that something functional was appropriate—he should look like a working station commander—though his uniform should be clean and newly pressed.
Quae put on a fresh uniform, combed his hair, glanced in the mirror, and made it up to station command just as Leukoy’s ship entered the main dock.
“Shit!” one of the technicians said. “Look at her. She’s a mess.”
Looking at the image of the crippled ship on the screen, Quae felt no need to reprimand the man for his language. The docking gantries locked the Wolf’s Blood in place, then the station crew went to work coupling to her main air lock. Quae decided to meet Admiral Leukoy at the lock. He left station command, walked quickly to the lock and waited patiently for it to be sealed and opened.
The word Clear came out of a speaker over the lock, Quae heard it cycle through pressure equalization, then the doors burst open and he was almost overrun by combat marines in plast armor.
“Out of our way,” one of them shouted. “We’ve got wounded here.”
Of course! The admiral would think of his wounded first. Quae stood to one side while the marines hustled several grav stretchers past him, each covered by a contamination shield. He waited until the marines were well past him, turned to look after them, noticed that one group had stopped at the end of the corridor and cycled open the contamination shield.
“Sir?”
Quae turned toward the voice: a marine in combat armor, with sergeant’s stripes stenciled on his arms. “See here, Sergeant,” Quae said to the man. “Is that safe, opening a contamination shield in an unprotected corridor?”
The sergeant motioned for Quae to step into the air lock. Quae did so, and asked again, “But is that safe?” He turned once more to look back.
With the contamination shield open, Quae now saw that the stretcher contained not a wounded crewmember, but portable assault weapons.
To Quae’s credit he made the connection almost instantly. The corridor cameras! he thought. But the marines had chosen their position well, a blind spot at the intersection between two corridors. And Quae had been drawn into another blind spot just inside the air lock. He turned desperately back toward the marine sergeant, only to look down the muzzle of a large gun.
Steela looked unhappily at her screen, and it hit her like a slap in the face. Quickly she pulled up the data on H.M.S. Wolfs Blood. A medium cruiser, it said. “That’s no medium cruiser out there.”
She turned to one of the technicians and shouted, “We’ve been boarded. Watch condition red. Seal off all—”
She never finished the last order; the control room hatch exploded inward and a piece of shrapnel took off most of her head.
Seated at his console in the marine CO’s office, York felt helpless as he listened to the crump of heavy weapons reverberating through the hull of the station. His conscience told him he should be in the thick of it, risking his life along with his people; but as captain he no longer had that luxury. His conscience also reminded him they were killing their own comrades, under his orders.
“Captain,” Yagell shouted over the command circuit. She was in Sarasan’s main command center. “They got her onto red too quick. We’ve got control of the command center and most other vital functions, but they’ve still got the main power plant. We’re going to have to take her the hard way.”
York spoke into his com. “They’ve got to have an auxiliary Station Command down there, and from there they can take control of a lot of the station’s resources. Self-destruct the orbital weapons platforms before they think to use them against us, and blow the transition transmitter before they get a call out for help.”
It turned out that Yagell, even from the command center, couldn’t induce such self-inflicted damage on the station without some high-level clearance codes. But the two command centers were not designed to war with one another, so Yagell jammed up the station’s operations, disabling her transition batteries and weapons platforms and transmitter long enough for the marines to go out in Cinesstar’s assault boats and do the job manually. One of the assault boats went over the outer hull of the station, shot up each of its transition batteries in turn, while the other boat rendezvoused with each of the four big weapons platforms, planted charges, then detonated them from a distance. That part of the job took less than an hour, the rest took a lot longer.
In the end the station was neither prepared nor equipped to defend itself against an assault from within, especially against two hundred fully equipped, seasoned marine regulars. But the fighting was ugly, and it wasn’t until four hours later that they took Sarasan’s Core Power Plant. But even before that York put Cappik to work on Cinesstar’s repairs.
“That fighting’s moved a lot closer, sir,” Gant said, looking at York from one of his screens. “It’s within a light-year now.”
York heard the faint thud of a heavy recoilless as somewhere the marines cleared out a pocket of resistance. It made him sick to think of the lives he was expending, the people he was murdering. They were probably good comrades all, many of whom he might have fought beside at one time or another, and whose only crime now was to be caught on the opposite side of a web of intrigue about which he didn’t even know enough to give them a reasonable explanation as to why he was betraying them.
“We’ve also spotted an incoming transition wake, range a little under two light-years, coming in from the direction of Aagerbanne, ETA about a day and a half, no information as to size or type of ship.”
They’d hardly begun repairs and were already running out of time. “Very good, Commander. Keep me informed.”
No sooner had York cut the circuit than his terminal chimed, and when he answered his yeoman said, “He’s here, sir.”
York nodded. “Send him in.”
The door to his office opened and, escorted by two marines, Red Richard sauntered in. York had given Palevi instructions to leave Richard uncuffed and unrestrained. York told the marines, “Go.”
The marines saluted crisply, turned and closed the door behind them. York opened the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out a bottle of trate, looked at Richard and asked, “Join me?”
Richard smiled expansively. “Most certainly, Yer Excellency.”
“I’m no Excellency,” York said. “Captain will do.”
“As you wish, Cap’em.”
York handed Richard a healthy shot of diluted trate. Richard lifted his glass. “To yer health, Cap’em. And to success in the ventures yer planin’”
They both took a gulp, then York asked, “And why would you think I’m planning any ventures?”
Richard shrugged, looked around at the walls as if they were all the proof he needed. “Well now, Cap’em. Seems to me you’d best be planin’ somethin’. ‘Cause what yer superiors got planned fer you ain’t too healthy a career move.”
“You’ve been listening to rumors.”
Richard shook his head in a friendly, conspiratorial way. “I don’t have to listen to rumors, Cap’em. I just got to look at this bucket yer sittin’ in, and what they did to ‘er. And I just got to listen to all the artillery yer exercising in this here station. I suppose a quick look at the body count for the station would be pretty interesting too, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes. I suppose it would.”
“You got yerself into some interesting circumstances, Cap’em.”
“Yes, interesting.”
“Let me see now.” Richard ticked points off on his fingers. “The empire double-crossed you, even though you had her nibs on board.” York wondered if he was the only one who understood the empire double-crossed them precisely because they had the empress on board. Richard continued, “They tried to burn you, killed a third of yer crew, blew bloody hell out of yer ship. But they made one mistake, Cap’em.�
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Richard paused for dramatic effect, expecting York to prompt him, so York obliged. “And that was?”
Richard grinned. “They didn’t finish the job, Cap’em. Butcher Ballin, the marine SDO, a man with a million crown price on his head, more’n twenty years of combat experience—now Cap’em, I’d say yer one hell of a survivor. And if I decided to kill you, I’d be smart enough to make sure I did a full and complete job of it, ‘cause yer one man I wouldn’t want comin’ back from the dead. I just got one question. Tell me, Cap’em. Are you out fer revenge, fer retribution? Or are you out to survive?”
Until that moment York hadn’t thought about that carefully. “I don’t know exactly where I’m going from here. But I do intend to survive. The dead are dead. The only thing we can be certain of is there’ll be more dead tomorrow.”
Richard thought about that carefully and nodded. “Good, Cap’em. Good. I think you and me can work together.”
York lifted an eyebrow skeptically. “Really? Why would we want to work together?”
Richard laughed. “Come on, Cap’em. Why else did you thaw me out? And by the way, that wasn’t a very hospitable way of treatin’ a future comrade. No, Cap’em, you need me fer somethin’, or I wouldn’t be standin’ here now. So what is it?”
Richard was no fool, so York nodded and spit it out. “I need you to get me into Andyne-Borregga. Me and this ship.”
Richard sucked air through his teeth. “By the gods of space, Cap’em. Now that I would’a never guessed. Yer going pirate, are ya?”
York shook his head. “I just want access as an independent ship to the free port of Andyne-Borregga. With the facilities here at Sarasan we can only make temporary repairs. We need access to a major shipyard. And I think we can both imagine what’ll happen to an imperial cruiser that just transits into the farspace of Borregga and asks politely to use her yard facilities.”
Richard pleaded. “But this here’s the chance of a lifetime. Why, with the ransom on the princess alone you could buy yerself a seat in the Mexak league and pay fer repairin’ this ship. And a ship like this—oh cap’em! There ain’t a freebooter aspace could touch her when she’s in fightin’ trim. And yer reputation. Let’s don’t ferget yer reputation: Butcher Ballin, the meanest, fightinest, bloodiest, murderinest man ever to captain a fightin’ ship.”
York grimaced. “I don’t have that kind of reputation.”
“Well no, Cap’em, o’course not. At least not yet. Yer name ain’t that familiar. But let’s not forget you just took Sarasan Station single-handed. There ain’t no one ever done nothing like that before. And with a little careful press, and the right rumors started in the right places, you could be really famous. Butcher Ballin! What a name. Why I almost like that better’n me own.”
York didn’t like it at all. “Let’s just take it one step at a time. Right now, with the facilities here, we can repair Cinesstar enough to get to Borregga. At Borregga, I need access to her shipyard. After that, I’ll consider my options.”
“Fair enough,” Richard said. “I can get you into Borregga without gettin’ yer ass shot off. But yer gonna pay, Cap’em. Yer gonna have to pay me fer gettin’ you into Borregga, and yer gonna have to pay the League and the Yard Authority fer using the yard. And none of us come cheap.”
“Okay,” York said. “I’ll pay a fair price. You, for instance, get your life. Because unless you and I strike an agreement you’re headed for a low gravity gallows. So in return for your help I’ll give you your freedom. You’ll be released at Borregga. As to any yard fees, you let me worry about that.” York didn’t add that he didn’t have the faintest idea how he’d come up with hard currency. The only thing the ship carried was script.
“All right, Cap’em. You got a deal. Me life fer me help.”
They didn’t shake hands on it. This wasn’t an agreement as much as recognition of mutual need. As soon as the need ended, so would their alliance.
York called the marines back in, but as Richard was leaving he had a nasty thought, and his curiosity got the best of him. “Richard,” he said, stopping the pirate half way through the hatch. “How much ransom would the princess bring?”
Richard just threw his head back and laughed.
CHAPTER 28: CHAOS
York woke to an urgent call from the bridge, though as his heart stopped pounding he was thankful it wasn’t the alert klaxon. As he settled down behind his console Gant started feeding him information. “Three ships broke off from the fighting near Third Fleet, are headed this way under full drive. If they don’t change course, they’ll be here in under six hours.” She gave him a moment to absorb that, then added, “You should also take a look at this, Captain . . .”
They’d put the drones in wide orbit around Sarasan so they could monitor the surrounding space—the station’s facilities were a mess. York looked down at his screens where Gant was feeding him a scan summary. “We’ve got those three ships coming in from Third Fleet, arriving in five or six hours. Then in the opposite direction we’ve got that lone wake coming in from Aagerbanne. She’ll be here in about fourteen hours. And finally there’s this . . .”
York didn’t need Gant to interpret the scan report for him. There was a big cluster of wakes at extreme range, ten or fifteen ships, driving hard and fast for Sarasan, clearly coming from feddie space. “A small fleet,” he said, “or a large strike force. Have you got an ETA?”
“Yes, sir. They’ll be here first thing tomorrow morning—maybe twenty hours from now.”
York put in a call to Cappik. The chief answered on audio, meaning he wasn’t near a console. York guessed he was out somewhere on the hull of the ship in a vac suit. “Cappik here, sir.”
“Chief. Can you get us out of here in something under twenty hours? We need to be transition worthy.”
“Ah, Captain, no way! We’re in the middle of major work here on Starboard and Port. You can shoot me at dawn, if you want, but I can’t get this ship into transition in under twenty hours. We need at least two days.”
“Chief, we’ve got a feddie strike force headed our way, ETA twenty hours, and we have no station defenses.”
Cappik said nothing for several seconds while everyone fidgeted nervously, then he finally spoke, but hesitantly. “Sir, I got an idea. We can get the heavy work done in fourteen or fifteen hours. After that we’ll be rewiring and reprogramming, then we’ve got to align the fields in the chambers. That takes a while, but it can be done in space just as easily as on station. We’ll get the heavy work done here, then let’s go out into a stable orbit and we’ll do the light work out there, do one of them hunter-killer tricks of yers where we run silent, and those feddies can do whatever they damn well please with this station. When we’re done, we’ll just sit and wait ‘em out.”
Cappik was not known for his creative thinking, but at that moment York could have kissed him. “You’re to discuss this plan with absolutely no one,” York said. “But when this is done, I’m going to buy you the tallest drink I can find.”
“Thank you, sir.”
A soft tap on the door! Alone in her cabin, Sylissa d’Hart looked up cautiously. “Identify,” she said, and the computer threw a picture of Torrin Juessik on her screen, waiting impatiently outside her cabin.
She touched a switch on her terminal. “Major Juessik. What can I do for you?”
Juessik started. “Lady d’Hart,” he said with an ingratiating smile. “I . . . need your help. May I come in?”
She didn’t like him much—no one really did—but it would be foolish to needlessly insult even a middle ranking AI officer. “Enter,” she said, and the computer unlocked her door.
Juessik stepped in carefully and glanced over his shoulder before closing the door. She rose to greet him, but he ignored her, stepped quickly past her and programmed the screen on her terminal to display the image from her door pickup—the corridor outside was empty. Satisfied now that he was safe from some unknown danger, he turned his attention to her.
“Forgive me for being blunt,” he said, “but I don’t have much time. I need your help. Ballin is rounding up those of us he considers undesirables, including all the civilians he can’t recruit into his little crew. No doubt, he intends to leave us behind when the rest of you depart Sarasan Station, which I believe will happen shortly.”
She frowned, opened her mouth to speak, but he waved a hand impatiently at her and said, “Be silent. There’s no time for foolish questions.”
He reached into his tunic, retrieved a small, rectangular device just big enough to fit in the palm of his hand. “Ballin’s smart, and no doubt he’ll escape again.” He showed her several buttons on the face of the small device in his hand. “When the time comes, and you’ll know when that is, press these three buttons in sequence, then speak your own name. It’s programmed to recognize your vocal signature, so only you can activate it. That’s all you have to do—”
A knock on the door interrupted him. The terminal screen showed two marines standing outside her cabin.
“What is it?” she demanded.
He looked at the terminal, ignored the marines and spoke rapidly. “It’s a small transmitter. Its range is limited, but it’ll activate a larger device hidden elsewhere in this ship and capable of broadcasting a signal recognizable by any imperial warship. The signal will identify this ship and provide information on its location so Ballin can’t sneak up on us. But you must be within one tenth light-year for the signal to be received.”
She couldn’t believe her ears. “You want me to betray this ship to the people who have already tried to murder us once, and will certainly do so again if I do this?”
One of the marines outside rapped on the door loudly. “Lady d’Hart,” he said. “We’re looking for Major Juessik. We know he’s in there—we’ve got a psyche-tracer on him. Open the door immediately or we’ll override the lock ourselves and come in anyway.”
