Starcruiser Polaris: Nothing Left To Lose

by Richard Tongue

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  NOTHING LEFT TO LOSE

  Starcruiser Polaris: Book 2

  Richard Tongue

  Starcruiser Polaris #2: Nothing Left To Lose

  Copyright © 2017 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved

  First Kindle Edition: August 2017

  Cover By Keith Draws

  With thanks to Ellen Clarke and Rene Douville

  All characters and events portrayed within this ebook are fictitious; any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Join the author's Mailing List at http://eepurl.com/A9MdX

  Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose…

  Kris Kristofferson

  Chapter 1

   The screeching, discordant alarm jerked Commander Edward Curtis from sleep, his eyes snapping open as his hand reached for the control. Slowly rising from his bed, he looked around his cabin, shaking his head in disbelief. Everything was just as he remembered twenty years ago, the familiar desk, the console on the corner, the rail by the door where a pair of dusty uniforms hung. His successor hadn't been on board long enough to make any changes before he died.

   Twenty years.

   Twenty years since the Massacre at Mareikuna, twenty years since he'd taken off his uniform for what he'd thought was the last time. Now, he reached for a jacket, sliding it on, the fit a little tight around the waist but otherwise fine. The rank insignia that he'd hung around his neck for his time on Titan now rested on his shoulders again, the gleaming Sword-and-Star that marked him as a Commander in the Federation Fleet. Even if the rest of that fleet was trying to hunt him down, kill him and the handful of people that constituted his crew.

   At least he'd got his old ship back again, snatched from the Federation and Commonwealth forces attempting to claim it for their own. He looked up at the monitor, the data streaming down the display, and reached out to touch a control, bringing up a view of his ship. The Starcruiser Polaris, one of the most powerful ships in space. The flagship of the rebel fleet. Assuming he could find a way to bring one into existence.

   “Attention,” a tinny voice said, crackling over the speaker on the wall. “Emergence in ten minutes. Commander to the bridge. That is all.”

   The voice of Felix Rojek, once the guardian of his morals imposed on him by the Political Directorate, now a rebel fighting alongside him to bring down the tyranny of the Federation. He looked at the speaker, frowning. That ought to have been a constant annoyance, orders issued across the ship by the officer of the day, sending the crew to their stations. As far as he could recall, Rojek's call was the first time it had been used today.

   Pulling open the door with the emergency control, he stepped out into the corridor, tugging his jacket into place as a light flickered in the corridor. One of a thousand maintenance problems that the skeleton crew simply couldn't deal with. He paused for a moment, looking up at the chalked notes scrawled by the damaged panel. A serial code that noted more than fifteen hundred jobs assigned with a higher priority. He was almost surprised that Moretti...no, Lieutenant Moretti's team had managed to get to it at all, even to assess the potential for a repair.

   At least the elevators worked. He stepped inside, tapping a control for the bridge, riding alone through the decks. Under normal circumstances, at change of watch, it should be full, a low rumble of conversation as the duty shift reported to their posts. They didn't even have enough people for a single shift, never mind the normally mandated four. Counting their fighter complement, there were less than forty people attempting to crew a ship that needed three hundred and change. In a bid to provide some sort of order amid the chaos, he'd imposed a military rank structure, but only a handful of the rebels had gone along with it thus far.

   The doors slid open, and he walked onto the command deck, looking around at the crew, at his crew, at their posts, stepping past the pair of cots that had been placed by the elevator to allow the technicians permanently on-duty to get some rest. Rojek turned from the center seat, standing to attention as Curtis entered.

   “Commander on the deck,” he said, snapping a salute.

   Returning the gesture, Curtis replied, “As you were.” Stepping forward, he looked up at the helm. The woman, Lieutenant Norton, manning the console barely acknowledged his arrival, struggling to do the work of three as she prepared to bring the ship out of warp. “How are we doing, Roxy?”

   “I said I'd get you there, sir,” she said. “Four minutes to target.”

   Walking back to his chair, he took his seat at the heart of the bridge and Rojek moved to his side. Positions for fourteen people, and only six of them manned. Even that was putting a strain on the crew. One sensor technician instead of the normal three, the communications technician alone at his console, the engineering monitors unoccupied altogether, Moretti's team too busy putting out fires. Sometimes not even metaphorical ones.

   “All decks are cleared for action, Commander,” Rojek said. “I didn't think it was worth calling the crew formally to battle stations.” He grimaced, and added, “Four hours in that last drill.”

   “They're doing the best they can,” Major Gabrielle Cordova, nominal Executive Officer and their liaison with the Democratic Underground said, stepping into the room. Behind her was Elizabeth Saxon, formerly a senior officer in the dreaded Colonial Security, now working for the resistance after a surprising change of heart. Half a dozen pairs of eyes watched her as she made her way to Curtis, trust still coming reluctantly to the rebel crew.

   “Two minutes,” Rojek said, moving over to the tactical station. “We've got to get this right first time. I've locked in the orbits of the local defense network. With a little luck, we should knock down all four birds with a single salvo.”

   Nodding, Curtis replied, “Better get it right, then.” Turning to Cordova, he continued, “Is your assault team ready?”

   “All six of us. Should be enough to overwhelm the security on an ore freighter.” She frowned, then said, “Are you ready to tell me what all of this is about yet?”

   Saxon looked at her, and said, “You're trusting a little easily these days, aren't you? The odds that everyone on board this ship is actually on our side are almost laughably remote. One brief message, and whatever plan the Commander has aborts.” Turning back to Curtis, she added, “Frankly, I'm happier with things the way they are.”

   “I don't need to take lessons on loyalty from a traitor,” Cordova replied, eyes narrowed.

   “Much as I hate to break it to you, Major, everyone on this deck is a traitor in the eyes of the Federation. And they're going to do everything they can to hunt us down and destroy this ship.”

   “While I don't like to interrupt,” Norton said, turning from the helm. “Ninety seconds.”

   Stabbing a control on his armrest, Curtis said, “Kani, is your squadron ready?”

   “Such as it is,” Winston Kani, temporarily commander of Pola
ris' fighter wing, replied. “Once again, Commander, I've got to warn you that if we face any serious opposition, I could lose all the rookies we've got. They aren't ready.”

   “They'll have to get there quickly, Squadron Leader. We don't have time to wait. These frontier stations don't have top squadrons posted here, though. The dregs of the service.”

   “I hope so.” With a sigh, Kani said, “We're on sixty seconds notice to scramble, sir, and all fighters are cleared for action at your command.”

   “Felix, bring up a tactical display,” Curtis ordered, settling back in his chair. The veteran officer worked his controls, and a holoimage of their target system flickered into life, moons and planets dancing around each other.

   EV Lacertae. Just another red dwarf star with a small mining operation, nothing large enough to justify a sizable garrison, visited occasionally by a freighter making calls to a dozen similar outposts. Once a year, it loadedup the rare elements and precious minerals that kept Earth's teeming billions alive and supported an interstellar civilization. According to their intelligence, the freighter Montevideo would be there right now, loading gadolinium. Their primary objective was to seize that ship, but Curtis was the only man on board who knew why.

   Less than a month ago, he'd been living in the Titanian slums, slowly drinking himself to death in a bid to forget the nightmare that had ended his first spell in uniform. Now, he had new purpose again, something to live for, something to fight for. He looked around his bridge, frowning. Everything was so fragile. The ship held together by hope and goodwill, all hands working around the clock to keep everything working.

   They'd found a temporary haven at Gliese 625, but all of them knew that they couldn't linger there for long, that the Federation would continue to hunt them down. There hadn't been much they could really do there in any case, no way to get past the real problem. Polaris was operating with about an eighth of its usual crew. Until they could bring more people on board, people they could trust, nothing would improve. Which didn't mean they didn't have options. It just limited them.

   “Thirty seconds,” Norton said, and Curtis tried to relax, hoping to provide his inexperienced crew with the confidence they'd need to win the coming battle. All of them were seasoned spacemen, but with only a few exceptions, most of them had only ever served on civilian craft, few of them having any experience of battle. The brief escape from the Federation and Commonwealth fleets at the Cinnamon Belt hardly seemed to count. There they were simply trying to escape, racing from the trap in which they had been caught. They'd done a lot of damage on the way out, enough to buy them a little time. A little room to maneuver.

    “Now!” Norton said, carefully working the exit sequence, disrupting the space warp of the Tau Drive and bringing them back to subliminal speed, a shock wave rippling through the system that would immediately alert everyone for a light year of their arrival. Stealth was out of the question. Speed would have to suffice.

   Instantly, the tactical display updated as new data streamed onto the screen, a dozen ships flickering into life, trajectory plots wrapped around the local planet like spaghetti. The world was Yaschar, a gray-and-green rock littered with tunnels and caves, a perfect environment for mineral exploitation. The single settlement, Korolevgrad, wasn't even important enough to justify a space station, dozens of heavy shuttles lifting toward the freighter waiting in orbit. The only sentinels he could spot were the winking lights of the missile satellites, turning towards them, though he knew that the local fighter garrison would already be racing to their ships.

   Montevideo. She was here, just as he'd hoped.

   “Roxy, take us in towards the orbital defense network. Felix, I need a firing solution on this birds, and I need it right away. Prepare our point-defense turrets, just in case.” Turning towards Cordova, he added, “You'd better get down to the hangar deck.”

   With a nod, the rebel leader faced for the elevator, Saxon belatedly joining her, sliding into the elevator just as the doors closed. Curtis couldn't miss the grimace on Cordova's face as the erstwhile ColSec operative joined her. Something to deal with later, once the battle was won.

   “Maybe we can get this done the easy way,” Curtis said. “Sokolov, hail Montevideo.”

   “Aye, Commander,” the communications technician replied, hands dancing around his console as he struggled to break through the local interference. “Got to use a comm laser. Might get tricky if we have to maneuver, but for the present, you're on, sir. Captain Hammond commanding.”

   Nodding, he looked up at the screen, and said, “This is Commander Edward Curtis of the Free Starcruiser Polaris. I call upon you to surrender your ship, and guarantee the safety of all hands. Rest assured that I will take your vessel, Captain. That is a certainty. You get to decide just how painful that process is.”

   The screen flickered on, displaying an old woman wearing a battered cap, emblazoned with the faded logo of the Commerce Directorate. Standing behind her was a young man, out of place on the bridge of a transport, wearing the black uniform of the Political Directorate, a watchdog to make sure that nothing was done that the Parliament wouldn't approve of.

   “We will not yield, Commander, and I have the fullest confidence in the local defense network. I am authorized, however, to make you the same offer. Surrender Polaris, and you and your crew will receive a fair trial.” She glanced across at the black-clad figure behind her, then back at Curtis. A message received and understood. Left to her own devices, she'd surrender, but her freedom of action was too limited to permit it.

   “Very well, Captain, if that is your final decision. I will do everything I can to spare the lives of your crew, and strongly recommend that all non-essential personnel evacuate at once.”

   “We don't take orders from traitors,” the black-clad man said. “I'll enjoy watching you and your ship getting shot down, Curtis. Montevideo out.”

   “Damn,” Rojek said, shaking his head. “Since when did the Political Directorate station people on every tramp freighter on the frontier?”

   “It's a damned good sign,” Curtis replied, drawing a curious look from his old friend. “It means they don't trust their crews not to surrender or defect. Hopefully they've got good reasons for their suspicions. How's that firing solution coming?”

   “Ten seconds, Commander,” Rojek replied. “Satellites are ranging on us, but they're not firing. Not yet.” Throwing controls, he added, “Old designs. Near-obsolete. Though it looks like someone's trying to update them.”

   “Let's not give them the chance. Fire when ready.”

   Polaris swept towards the satellites, Norton careful at the controls, guided gently down the optimum flight path to their targets, keeping the warship at extreme range. Ahead, Montevideo was changing course, trying to slow down, drop into a lower orbit, but Polaris could move far faster than the lumbering freighter, closing the distance rapidly as her powerful engines roared to full acceleration.

   “Almost there,” Rojek said. “Almost there.” He tapped a control, and the forward mass driver turrets opened up, hurling hundreds of kinetic projectiles across space towards the stationary satellites. Point-defense batteries opened up, particle beams lancing out in a desperate bid to intercept them, but the end was inevitable and swift, the swarm of rocks slammed into the drifting satellites, reducing them to expanding clouds of debris.

   “We're clear,” Norton said. “Estimated time to intercept, seven minutes, nine seconds, sir. And we're well within shuttle range.”

   “Wait a minute,” Strickland replied, the sensor technician looking up at her controls. “New contacts from the surface, profile suggests incoming fighters. Hammerhead Nines, five of them, on an intercept course.”

   Grimacing, Rojek said, “It'll take half an hour to prepare for another salvo with the crews we've got, Commander. Point-defense will help but...”

   “I guess we get to find out how good those rookie pilots ar
e, Felix,” Curtis replied, lightly tapping a control on the side of his chair. “Polaris Actual to Grey Squadron. Scramble, scramble, scramble. Targets are the approaching fighter formation rising from the surface. Good hunting.” Sitting back in his chair, he added, “Now we wait.”

   “I hate this part,” Rojek replied.

   “Everyone always does.” Glancing up at the tactical display, he added, “It could be worse, though. At least it'll all be over in a few minutes, one way or another.”

   “You're a great comfort, sir.”

   “I try,” he replied with a smile. “I try.” Crossing his arms, he added, “Now it's all down to Kani.”

  Chapter 2

   “Scramble!” Squadron Leader Winston Kani yelled to the bustling deck. The canopy of his fighter dropped down, locking into position over his head, his hands reaching out to the controls as the automatic systems dragged him to the magnetic catapult that would shortly be hurling him out into space. On either side, the rest of the fighters drifted into position, the scanty deck gang looking on.

   He'd fought at the Cinnamon Belt with three fighters. Now he was up to six, but he could still only truly count on three of them. He, Nguyen and Voronova were all veteran pilots, temporarily shanghaied onto Polaris from the Commonwealth Fleet, on the basis that the enemy of their enemy had to at least potentially be their friend. As for the rest of the squadron, only Frank Montgomery had seen any action, and he'd yet to actually score a kill. The others were shuttle pilots, rebels who had joined them as part of the handful of recruits they'd taken on at Gliese. Simulator hounds, both of them, with no actual flight experience at all.

   “Five contacts, boss,” Nguyen said. “Hammerheads. Pretty old.”

   “Not as old as our rides, Mel,” he replied. “Listen up, people. They're going to head right for Polaris, and we're going to be in this system for a little while, so we can't afford to let them go. Take them on the first pass. Hit hard, hit fast. We've got an edge on acceleration. Use it. Voronova, Nguyen and I will take the lead. Monty, you fill in gaps with the others.”