by J. L. Doty
Breaug had an ugly bruise next to one eye. “What the hell have you done to my Yard,” he screamed at York. “You’re a madman.”
York shook his head. “I accept no responsibility for the damage. We were forcibly detained, so I acted in self defense.”
Breaug turned slowly to Kruhl. “You fucking idiot. You’re going to pay for every bit of damage out there, even if it means your ship.” Richard was skulking quietly into the background. Breaug turned on him. “And you too, Richard.”
Breaug turned back to York. “I didn’t have anything to do with this.”
They had no trouble getting out of the Borreggan system. York had Gant set up a transition heading that led them off into uncharted space, and they followed that for one day, while all the time the crew were wondering what their captain had in mind.
Each day they down-transited so Cappik and his crew could work for a few hours with all systems shut down, then York gave Gant another seemingly random transition vector, though York did keep them heading in the general direction of their ultimate destination. Finally, after four days Cappik had had time to complete his repairs.
Gant asked, “Where to now, Captain?”
Everything suddenly fell silent, and he knew they were all holding their breath.
“Luna,” he said into the silence. “Set up a transition for Luna Prime, Miss Gant. We’re going home.”
CHAPTER 32: HOMECOMING
Bella Tzecharra watched Abraxa’s image carefully as she spoke. “Yes, Your Grace, an armada, looks to be about one hundred ships. We’re too heavily outnumbered so we had to withdraw from Sarasan a few light-years.”
Abraxa didn’t seem upset by that. “That was a wise decision, Captain.”
Tzecharra held back a sigh of relief. “I did, however, station two fast ships just outside of heliopause so they can relay accurate information to me. The composition of the armada appears to be exclusively Kinathin. And they’ve done nothing more than occupy the system and set up a strong defensive perimeter.”
Abraxa’s eyes shifted to one of his other screens, then returned to her. “AI has gleaned no hint of such a marshaling of forces.”
Tzecharra knew her career was riding on this. “That would seem to indicate, Your Grace, that this armada was assembled rather hastily, which correlates with the intelligence reports we’ve been getting of disruptions in Directorate operations all the way up and down the line.” Tzecharra decided to take a chance. “I would guess a hundred ships is close to the full compliment the Kinathins have fielded in support of DCO.”
“And based on our intelligence reports your guess would be correct. Continue.”
“This wouldn’t be the first time the Kinathins have veered off on a private crusade of their own.”
“Yes,” Abraxa said, and he smiled. “It may even be that we have a small civil war developing within the Directorate.”
Abraxa suddenly focused his attention sharply on Tzecharra. “Captain, you’ve done well here. Please hold your position as long as you can and report to me directly if anything develops, though you have my permission to withdraw if you deem it appropriate.”
Abraxa signed off, and Tzecharra relaxed, realizing with satisfaction this little situation may have vastly enhanced her career.
The sound of the gunshot brought Edvard awake with a start. He’d fallen asleep at his desk, and was struggling groggily to his feet when he heard a short burst of automatic weapons fire, followed by several more gunshots.
He started for the door, but before he could cross the room the door opened and four of his household guard calmly entered, all carrying short, rather stubby looking rifles. His momentary relief disappeared quickly when he didn’t recognize any of them. Then all four of them reached into their tunics and retrieved small cloth caps and stretched them over their heads, AI black caps with AI insignia.
“Secure the room,” one of them told the others, and as they fanned out to check the exits he turned to Edvard with a wicked grin on his face. “Your Majesty,” he said, holding the rifle casually, though Edvard noticed the muzzle slanted his way. The man reached into his kit and retrieved an injector, then, still grinning, said, “It would be best if you cooperated.”
York climbed groggily out of the grav bunk, realized he was running late. He threw on yesterday’s uniform, stuffed his gun under his tunic, stepped through the cabin hatch and glanced quickly up and down the corridor. This early in the morning it was deserted. He turned and hurried quickly up the corridor.
He was heading for the lift when it hit him—deserted! He froze in his tracks, glanced over his shoulder. There should be two marines dogging his heels. He listened carefully, pulling the gun from under his tunic, heard a single, soft footstep down a side corridor, pressed his back against a bulkhead and waited for the assassin to show himself.
A hand cupped itself over his mouth, and another removed the gun from his hand with crushing force. With his heart pounding up into his throat he waited helplessly for a knife thrust into his back, or something else equally lethal. But then he noticed the deep olive hue of the skin on the hand cupped over his mouth, and as his captor leaned forward to say something, he caught a glimpse of bone-white hair.
“Captain,” Sab’ach’ahn whispered. “The assassin is close by. Do not cry out.” She released him and gave him back his gun. With her eyes scanning the corridor, she added without emotion, “Can you admit us to one of these cabins?”
He turned to the nearest cabin hatch, palmed the lock and growled at it, “Computer. Override. Captain’s priority. Emergency access. Override, damn you!”
He heard the hatch mechanism cycling, watched as the hatch slowly started to swing inward, leaned his shoulder into it to help it, stumbled into the cabin and landed on the floor. A woman screamed and a man’s voice demanded, “Who the hell are you?”
Sab’ach’ahn stepped in behind him, put her shoulder to the hatch and slammed it shut. As she cycled the lock the man ordered, “Computer, lights,” and the cabin lights flared much too brightly.
A middle-aged woman in the lower grav bunk clutched the edge of a sheet to her throat in an attempt at modesty. The man was already out of the upper bunk, standing defiantly on the deck. He demanded, “Who do you think you are, barging—”
Sab’ach’ahn shoved the muzzle of her gun under his nose and said softly, “Be silent.”
The man paled, and wisely shut up.
“Palevi,” York barked into his implants. “This is Ballin. Code red. I’m being hit again.”
In moments armed marines swarmed the deck. Palevi had figured there could be no better bodyguard than a Kinathin, so he’d given Sab’ach’ahn free reign of the ship.
The two marines Palevi had assigned as York’s bodyguards were dead. They’d each been shot in the face at close range with a small caliber weapon—quiet, clean, fast—an assassin’s weapon. Then they’d been stuffed into a maintenance closet with a couple of service bots for company. “They were a couple of my best people, Captain,” Palevi said, shaking his head. “That’s why they were on this job. Whoever popped ‘em like this—so clean, without a fight—he’s gotta be good.” Palevi shook his head worriedly.
Ninda finished his report with an air of smug satisfaction. “One of our agents on Andyne-Borregga broke deep cover to file this report.”
“And what of the agent?” Ard’dha’sit demanded.
“Shortly thereafter agents of Admiralty Intelligence attempted to capture him and he was killed in the ensuing fight.”
Ard’dha’sit considered the information carefully. “So she’s alive, and apparently healthy, and a captive of the imperials. And Theara too?”
“Yes,” Ninda added. “I knew you’d be pleased to hear Add’kas’adanna hadn’t been killed.”
Ard’dha’sit choked back an angry retort, but he’d been choking back angry retorts for days now as he’d gotten to know these three men. Kaffair had some redeeming qualities, and seemed basically honest, th
ough like anyone in such a position he was rarely entirely truthful. But Zort was a cowardly snipe, and Ninda—Ard’dha’sit had had to struggle often to restrain from having the man throttled. Add’kas’adanna had told him of these men and their games, had warned him the Central Committee was even more devious than the General Council. And Ard’dha’sit realized that to get any answers he would have to use every bit of his training.
Careful to allow none of his preparations to show, he slowed his pulse and lowered his body temperature. He concentrated on the disciplines of thought construct, built the logical sub-mind carefully, then experienced the odd, schizophrenic sensation as he released the separate consciousness.
The question he would now ask had been very carefully chosen. He probably wouldn’t get a straight answer, but the question was really meant to elicit a response at a subconscious level. “How did Theara come into their hands?”
In the fraction of a second immediately following the question he obtained several answers. Kaffair’s eyes shifted and glanced at Ninda. Ninda blinked, and pretended to be calm, though Ard’dha’sit’s hearing picked up a rise in his pulse rate. Zort’s body temperature actually rose slightly, while Kaffair’s dropped.
Ninda was saying something about investigating the disappearance, and as Ard’dha’sit watched Kaffair and Zort listen to him he gained more answers. Kaffair was in some way involved in Theara’s disappearance, though not because he was her enemy, but more likely because they were co-conspirators. Ninda was apparently aware of everything they’d done, and was confident he had thwarted their plot. And Kaffair, aware that Ninda had uncovered their plot, was apparently backed into a corner.
Ard’dha’sit interrupted Ninda in mid sentence. “And how was it Add’kas’adanna was in a position to be captured.”
“The matter was of such importance . . .” Ninda answered, “. . . that she chose to lead the search for the imperial ship herself. We can only guess . . .”
Ard’dha’sit’s sub-mind allowed his formal mind to argue with Ninda, while carefully observing the responses of all three.
More answers. Ninda had clearly used Add’kas’adanna in some way, regarded her as no more than his personal lackey, discounted her altogether. While Kaffair considered her an opponent, perhaps even an enemy. And Zort sought only to align himself with whoever might win, though since he didn’t know who that might be he wanted to keep his options open. Yes, this was a matter of Add’kas’adanna’s kith’ain, and her kith’ain was in danger, grave danger.
Ard’dha’sit relaxed, released control of his pulse, respiration and body temperature, experienced a moment of disorientation as his formal mind absorbed the sub-mind and became aware of the knowledge it had gained. He would pay a high price later for the energy expended, but it was well worth the knowledge.
He stood and silenced them all with a look. “It is time we dealt with this directly. We go to Luna.”
After two days of total isolation in a small cell, Edvard was close to complete despair. It had been the longest two days of his life. He’d struggled with the thugs posing as his household guard, but they’d been careful to subdue him without hurting him. He’d awakened in the cell, and since then he’d had no human contact.
There was a clock on the wall, a small terminal for ordering food, a receptacle where the food appeared after he placed his order, and a plain cot. There was also a door with a small wall-com next to it. The door was locked, and would not open in response to his commands, and he got no response from the wall-com no matter how loud or long he shouted into it. He’d discovered the environmental comp was still active since he could control the lights and temperature and humidity with a word or two. But no contact with the outside world. No news, no information.
On the third day the door suddenly cycled open and Abraxa stepped into the cell, saying, “Please forgive me, Your Majesty, for keeping you waiting so long. I had a few difficulties consolidating my control—but that’s over now and we can breathe easier. Have you been comfortable?”
Edvard shook his head. “You’re behind all this?”
“Of course. Who else is powerful enough to stage a coup, and make it look like Admiralty Intelligence valiantly foiled an assassination attempt? Why, on the vids this morning you even awarded several of them medals. And of course you’re keeping a low profile until we’ve finished rounding up the traitors involved and executed them all.”
Abraxa looked around the cell. “I do apologize for the accommodations. We’ll have you moved to something more comfortable shortly.”
At the look of astonishment on Edvard’s face Abraxa shrugged. “There’s no need to be barbaric about this; you are the king and emperor, after all. Now, there’s going to be a press conference tomorrow morning, and we need to review what you’re going to say.”
“No we don’t,” Edvard shouted, standing and approaching Abraxa. As he did so two AI thugs stepped through the open door, crossed the room and held Edvard immobile between them. Again they were careful not to hurt him.
“Now, now!” Abraxa said. “If you don’t cooperate, then we may have to get barbaric. Cassandra and Aeya are still alive, you know.”
That piece of information was like a slap in the face; Edvard recoiled and almost staggered.
Abraxa glanced around the cell again. “But I think that can wait. Let’s do something about your accommodations first.”
Bella Tzecharra was barking orders into allship when her yeoman interrupted her. “Captain, His Grace is waiting.”
Tzecharra slapped a switch on her console, and when Abraxa’s image appeared she spoke breathlessly. “Your Grace, forgive me for being abrupt, but I have very little time. I’ll probably be forced to cut this contact prematurely.
“The Kinathins have transited out of the Sarasan system en mass, and they’re headed this way. Now I may be paranoid, but that also means they’re headed toward Luna.”
Abraxa’s eyes sharpened as he considered her words. “That’s still quite a distance. There’s no reason to believe they won’t change course long before they get here.”
“Let’s hope.”
“And if they don’t,” Abraxa asked, “Can you divert them?”
“I doubt it. After Aagerbanne, then the mutinies at Sarasan, I have fewer than twenty undamaged ships. And even those are operating with limited reserves.”
Abraxa shook his head thoughtfully. “I’ll pull Seventh Fleet in from the third quadrant. They may be able to intercept.”
“What about Home Fleet, Your Grace? With their . . .”
The alert klaxon interrupted her, and allship blared, “Watch condition red. Battle stations. This is not a drill . . .”
Tzecharra looked at Abraxa pleadingly. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I must cut transmission.”
Abraxa nodded and waved a hand at her. “Of course.”
“Two light-months out, sir. Holding at forty lights.” Gant’s voice held a metallic edge.
York knew they all thought he was crazy, perhaps even suicidal—ordering them to Luna like this, right into the heart of the empire. He could see the doubt in their eyes, hear it in their voices, and all he could do was pretend that he didn’t notice.
When the empress had heard what he planned she’d stormed into his office. “You’re insane.”
He’d looked up from the reports he was reviewing. “I think we’ve already established that.”
“Don’t be flippant with me. Abraxa will never let you get close enough to the emperor.”
York shook his head. “I hadn’t intended to ask his permission.”
“He’s no fool. No doubt he’s got every ship in the empire searching for you.”
“No doubt,” York agreed. “But not at Luna. And will he oppose you openly? Would he murder the empress in front of everyone? If we can sneak into the system quietly, then tell everyone we’re there, loudly, with you personally broadcasting some sort of message on every channel Cinesstar can tap, will the Admiralty Council just bur
n us out-of-hand?”
“No,” she said hesitantly. She sat down and frowned as she considered that. “Much of Fleet would oppose such an open power grab.”
“That’s what I’m counting on. I’ll get us to Luna, in one piece, and it’s your show from there.”
She shook her head worriedly. “It’ll never work. The odds are stacked against us.”
“The odds are worse out here in the fringes. Abraxa and his buddies can burn us and make up whatever they want.”
York sat at the captain’s console, kept hearing his own words again and again: I’ll get us to Luna, in one piece.
They could sneak in like a hunter-killer. When approaching an enemy installation all he had to do was make some educated guesses about his target: but this was Luna, so he didn’t have to guess. With a lot of number crunching he could produce an optimum deceleration curve—if he decelerated too quickly it took forever to get there, too slowly, and the outer pickets would spot them and they’d eat a warhead.
The final trick for a hunter-killer captain was to keep his transition flare to a bare minimum—reduce transition velocity as much as possible before transition, and retain as much sublight velocity as possible after transition. In any case, he needed all that sublight velocity to drift slowly into range.
A hunter-killer might take a month to set up such a shot, but they didn’t have a month, So he’d had to come up with something better than that. He’d sweated over that for days, and eventually the answer lay in the very thing that caused the problem. Luna Prime closely monitored all incoming traffic, but there was so much of it York decided to use the traffic density to his advantage.
“Two light-months out, sir. Holding at forty lights.”
