by J. L. Doty
“Range—one hundred thousand kilometers, closing at two hundred kilometers per second. Convergence in five minutes.”
“We’ve got an good targeting solution, sir.”
“Hold your fire, Mister Jakobee,” York said. “Steady as she goes.” It was eerie, fighting a battle this close to an enemy, one approaching at a bare crawl.
“Range—eighty thousand kilometers, sir. Convergence in four minutes.”
“Remember,” he said. “We take no action until ten thousand kilometers.”
It was a guess, ten thousand kilometers. He had to assume the two Directorate ships were devoting their resources to tracking the imperial ships. They had their drones out near the edge of the system for a wide baseline, even had the drones constantly moving to accumulate a larger statistical base of data on their targets. All that processing ate up resources, forced a commander to set priorities.
“Range—sixty thousand kilometers, sir. Convergence in three minutes.”
With their drones so far out, the two enemy ships would have to do their own close-in scanning. No commander would be happy with such a situation, though if she were confident there were no enemy ships nearby, then it was a risk worth taking. But the close-in scans would be slower to gather and interpret data, with fine resolution limited to something like one thousand meters. They’d probably still run coarse scans at five and ten thousand meters to catch large debris that might be dangerous to the ship, and something the size of Cinesstar had a high probability of getting their attention. All guesswork, surmise this, assume that; in the end York had to take his best guess—ten thousand kilometers.
“Range—forty thousand kilometers, sir. Convergence in two minutes.”
“Sir,” Gant said. “I’ve got better data now. Closest fly-by will be forty-three hundred kilometers.”
“Thank you, Miss Gant.”
“Range—twenty thousand kilometers. Fifty seconds to the ten thousand kilometer mark.”
A half minute. “Mister Jakobee, are those warheads armed?”
“Yes, sir. First salvo—two one megatonne warheads fused for contact detonation. Second salvo—two one hundred megatonne warheads fused for proximity detonation, one thousand meters.”
“Here they come, sir,” Gant shouted. “Fifteen thousand kilometers.”
Don’t jump the gun.
“Fourteen thousand . . .”
“Stand by all stations,” York said.
“Thirteen thousand . . .”
“Be prepared for full engagement after the first salvo.”
“Twelve thousand . . .”
“All stations ready, sir,” Jakobee said.
“Eleven thousand . . .”
Silence. York could hear his heart pounding.
“Ten thou—”
York didn’t wait for her to finish. He barked into his pickup, “Full power, Mister Cappik.”
York watched the gages for Centerline start to rise as the seconds ticked away.
“Nine thousand . . .”
“Remember,” York said, trying to keep his voice down. “No gravity, no shields, no drive—all power to weapons.”
“Eight thousand . . .”
The captain wasn’t supposed to get nervous, but York didn’t care about that. “Mister Jakobee, don’t you have enough power for that first salvo yet?”
“Negative, sir.”
“Seven thousand . . .”
York heard Jakobee’s hand slap the console as he shouted into the intercom, “First salvo away.”
At such close range there was no tracking the missiles, no real response time on a human scale. There was no time for York to take in data and issue commands.
“Two detonations,” Gant shouted, “close range. We’re blind, can’t see through ‘em.”
“Second salvo away, Jakobee shouted.
“Shields up,” York shouted. “Gravity and drive up. Helm, get us the hell out of here. Nav, I want data. Priority to shields and defensive weaponry.”
“Two more detonations, sir. I can’t see a fucking thing.”
Centerline’s power rose steadily, and even the damaged starboard chamber was coming online. York hadn’t noticed the gravity come up, but Cinesstar was under power again, driving at less than a hundred gravities away from their targets.
“I’m getting nothing, sir,” Gant pleaded. “All I can see is the two fireballs from those big warheads and nothing else. No incoming, no drive readings, no . . . wait a minute. I’ve got something. It’s big—ship sized—bigger than Cinesstar. I think it’s static. No drive readings, nothing hot like an active power plant. It’s too small to be one of those feddies, but I’m sure it is . . . And no sign of the other feddie. Those fireballs are dissipating . . . I’m starting to get real data, though my error factor is high. And there’s no sign of one of those ships.”
“All stop,” York ordered, and once again silence settled over the bridge.
Little by little the picture unfolded. Both feddies had had their shields up, but one of them had taken a direct hit from the first one megatonne warhead, not enough to destroy the ship completely—not a healthy ship with her shields fully powered—but certainly enough to damage her badly. The second warhead—one hundred megatonnes—had slammed into a completely defenseless ship, disintegrating it almost entirely. There was some debris in the area, but only pieces of the most dense metal and plast.
The other ship had endured a little better. Her automatic systems must have detected and destroyed the first warhead, but the fireball blinded any ship’s defenses, and the second warhead detonated close to the hull. Half the ship was blown away or vaporized.
“There may be survivors in that,” York said. “Commander Rame, let’s get a boarding party on her, evacuate any survivors, then let’s get the hell out of here.”
CHAPTER 29: AGAIN TREASON
There were some survivors on what was left of the feddie cruiser, though not many. It took most of that night and the next morning to cut them out of the badly damaged ship. Many were close to death, and almost all were wounded in some way.
Shortly after transition, however, York got a call from Alsa Yan. She was rather mysterious, refused to say anything substantive, but was adamant that he come down to sickbay right away.
When he got there she pulled him into her office, then sat down at her terminal and dropped a card into one of its slots. A picture of one of the feddie survivors appeared on the screen, a woman, a Kinathin breed warrior; the deep olive hue of her skin, the bone white hair, all easy giveaways. She lay prone on an examination table, so her exceptional height wasn’t obvious. One of her arms was missing at the elbow, and she was naked except for bandages and a wholly insufficient sick-bay gown. There were streaks of yellow in her white hair, which was a sign of age.
York shrugged. “A Kinathin. And an old one. So what?”
Alsa stood, reached into a desk drawer and retrieved a sealed plast-pack. “So this.” She broke the seal on it and dumped the contents on her desk. “Her personal effects.”
Mostly clothing, York grabbed a piece, caught a flash of color that made him hesitate. He gave it a good shake, unfolding it, a feddie officer’s tunic.
One of the arms was missing; the foreshortened arm of the tunic ended in a bloody tear, and he realized the woman had lost her arm long before Alsa had gotten to her. And there were battle ribbons, lots of them. He looked at the rank on the remaining sleeve: lots of stripes and lots of stars. “I don’t remember my feddie rank that well,” he said, “but she must be pretty high up.”
Alsa grinned. “I looked it up. She’s a fucking Director. In fact, I think she’s one of the Directors: Fleet Director.”
York had read somewhere that the highest feddie naval officer was a Kinathin. “Is she going to live?”
“Ya, though she’s banged up pretty bad. Load of shrapnel in her abdomen, lost the arm, but worst is a heavy dose of radiation. Would have been dead in a couple hours if I hadn’t gotten to her, but
she’ll be fine now. Though it’ll be a couple of days before she’ll be in any shape to talk.”
York returned to Alsa’s terminal, stared for a moment at the picture of the woman there. He thought it odd that he didn’t feel any hatred for her, could only wonder how he might use her to get him and his crew out of this mess.
“Let me know as soon as I can speak to her,” he said. “And until then keep her isolated, and I don’t want anyone to know about this.”
It was early morning when York got back to his cabin. He’d been living on drugs and about two or three hours of sleep per night for the last three days. They were in transition with no one following them, so relatively safe. He gave orders not to be disturbed, took the antidote to the drugs and crashed hard.
York slept through most of that day, woke just after the dinner bell. For some reason he’d had a vivid dream of Maggie. He couldn’t remember any details, but after waking he had a terrible feeling of loss, and there were traces of the dream skipping through his memories. He tried not to think about her; she was dead, and if Alsa wanted her on ice in the tanks, and if that was Maggie’s last wish—well it didn’t really make any difference to Maggie. It just ate at him when he thought about it, and he knew the best thing he could do was put her out of his mind.
He called down to the galley and had a simple dinner sent up to his cabin—one of the privileges of rank. He ate quickly since he had an appointment and he didn’t want to be late. But before leaving his quarters he checked in with the bridge. “Status,” he demanded, speaking into the pickup at his office terminal.
“All systems are green, sir,” someone said.
Down on C-deck he found the cabin he wanted, rapped politely on the hatch. It opened without preamble, revealing a softly lit interior. Sarra Fithwallen’s rather large and able-bodied associate, Jandeer Faiel, had opened the cabin door. Behind him Fithwallen and Brentin Omasin both sat in comfortable chairs. Faiel politely offered York a chair; York sat while Faiel remained standing by the door.
The scene reminded York of the first time they’d met, though then it had been in Cienyey’s cabin. “Can I offer you a drink, Captain,” Omasin said pleasantly. “I’m going to have one.” He stood and looked at Fithwallen. “Sarra?”
She nodded. “Thank you, Brentin.”
Omasin turned to a small bar. “We have just about anything you might want, Captain,” Omasin continued. “Commander Sierka, while not terribly competent as an officer, was kind enough to have the kitchen synthesize quite a number of luxuries.”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” York said.
After a few seconds of clinking glasses and other noises Omasin turned around with three glasses in his hands, handed one to Fithwallen, one to York, then returned to his seat. He lifted his glass and said, “To the future, Captain. Let’s hope we all have one.”
York looked at the amber liquid in his glass, then took a sip. It burned much like trate, though the taste was considerably different. It would take some getting used to if he were to drink it regularly.
“It’s Skatche whiskey, Captain,” Fithwallen said. York looked at her over the top of his glass. She continued, “It’s supposed to be a replica of an ancient whiskey drunk by pre space civilizations, though only the gods know if we’ve really got the synthesis right. But it’s enjoyable, don’t you think?”
“Quite good,” York lied, and she grinned at him knowingly.
“Well now, Captain. What can we do for you?”
York took another sip, threw away his little rehearsed speech and said simply, “Our futures are somewhat bound together. If either the Empire or the Directorate have their way we’ll all be dead shortly. And I assume you would like to stay alive as much as I.”
She chuckled softly and smiled. “Of course. However, that may be the only thing we have in common.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not interested in revenge. Vengeance often precludes survival.”
“And you believe I am?”
She frowned. “I’m not exactly sure, but that possibility certainly exists.”
York shrugged and gave her the most honest answer he could. “I’m not sure myself if I’m after revenge. For the time being, I haven’t had the opportunity to think that far ahead, and I’m only interested right now in short-term survival. Can we agree that in the short term, at least, we both share a mutual interest in survival?”
“I’ll grant you that. But tell me, is it true our next destination is Andyne-Borregga?”
“Yes.”
“Why Andyne-Borregga? You don’t strike me as the pirate type.”
“It’s the only place where I can get this ship repaired. Given our present circumstances, do you know of a better place?”
She shook her head. “No. But you do realize that in return for financing repair of your ship the Mexak League will demand you apply for membership. You’ll owe them all of the money they loan you for repair of the ship, and they’ll require you to pay it back from the profits of raids on legitimate shipping. You’ll also be required to augment your crew with a fair number of people whom they feel they can trust. And they’ll let you pick your own crew only after you’ve raided enough shipping, on all sides concerned, that you can no longer go back. You do realize this, don’t you?”
York met her eyes and didn’t look away. “I was not fully aware of the details, but I have no misconceptions about obtaining anything free. However, Borregga is more than just a pirate base, more than just the home of the Mexak League. From what I’ve heard it’s a free port in the truest sense of the word. I assume if I can independently finance the repairs to my ship, then those repairs could be purchased freely in the shipyards at Borregga, without further obligation. Is that not true?”
He’d taken her by surprise, though she showed nothing as obvious as a visible start, just a frown. “Yes,” she said, nodding cautiously, and grinning as she slowly began to realize what he was saying. “So you don’t want to be a pirate after all, eh captain?”
York gave her a Palevi-like nasty grin. “I have other things to do first. Maybe later. Right now I need to finance the repairs to this ship. You once gave me reason to believe you could be grateful in a financial way if I got you out of this.”
“And can you get us out of this?”
York shrugged and tossed down the rest of his drink. “Possibly. No guarantees. All I can offer you is this: pay for the repairs on this ship, so I’m not obligated to the Mexaks, and after we leave Borregga I’ll take this ship wherever you desire, as long as the location does not place this ship or her crew in further jeopardy. And I’ll allow the three of you to go your own way, though once we part, we’ll have no further obligations to one another. You’ll be on your own, and so will we.”
She was silent for a moment, then asked, “We’re out in the middle of nowhere. Where’ll I get the funds to pay for these repairs?”
“You tell me,” York said. “I’ve never been to Borregga, but the intelligence reports I’ve read say there are any number of legitimate interests there. I assume that if you can communicate with your subordinates you can have funds transferred to some sort of institution or representative there.”
She nodded. “A logical assumption.”
York continued, “I can stop this ship at any time and send a message to any location you desire, though the location and the message will have to be approved by me.”
She looked at him for a moment, rock still, expressionless, and York decided the best thing he could do was keep his mouth shut and let her think. She frowned, pursed her lips, glanced at Omasin, then looked at York. “Tentatively,” she said, “I agree to your terms, though I’m not going to sign a blank check.”
“Of course.” York looked at his watch and stood. “Forgive me but I have to go; we’ve got a course correction shortly. But I’ll have a complete set of the damage reports made available for you at your convenience. I’ll also have one of my officers available t
o assist you and answer any questions you have. We have eight days before we reach Borregga, so there should be more than enough time for us to agree on an appropriate budget. Is there anything else I can provide?”
“That’ll be sufficient, Captain. Thank you.”
Faiel held the door for York and closed it on him when he was out in the corridor. That had worked out nicely.
It was late, fourth shift, and the corridor was empty, quiet. York caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, a crewwoman walking away from him. He glanced her way, froze—Maggie! It was Maggie! His muscles tensed, but he checked the reaction instantly. No, just a hallucination. Not Maggie . . . not Maggie!
He turned in the opposite direction, shook his head angrily and marched up the corridor, unable to get her out of his mind. He turned down another corridor, headed for the lift and saw that same crewwoman up ahead, an odd sensation tickling at the back of his thoughts.
How did she get ahead of him, when only seconds ago he’d left her behind. She stood in the middle of the corridor, at the intersection of two corridors, facing him, standing there as if waiting for him. As he approached her he slowed and his heart started pounding. The closer he got the more she looked like Maggie, and while his vision blurred his recognition of her was clear and distinct.
It wasn’t Maggie, but it was Maggie, Maggie as she was now, not the bright healthy Maggie he’d known but the Maggie in the tanks, even to the ghostly white skin that came from the tank fluids. He was barely a step or two away from her, and she was standing there holding her hands out as if to stop him, saying something, though no sound came from her lips.
He closed his eyes, shook his head—too much time on combat drugs, too little sleep. He opened his eyes and she hadn’t gone away. Just a hallucination. He took a step forward, thinking he’d better see Alsa about this.
