Starcruiser Polaris: Nothing Left To Lose

by Richard Tongue

   As she stepped into the corridor, a voice barked over the ceiling loudspeakers, “This is Administrator Wise. We've got a shuttle docking in two minutes, and I've rigged explosives on the oxygen generation unit. One click of a switch, and five levels lose their air. I'll detonate unless you allow us to leave.”

   “Not a chance, Administrator,” she replied, as Saxon raced down the corridor towards her. “You think I'm going to let you live after killing so many of my friends? I'll give you sixty seconds to surrender, then we're coming in with everything we've got. If you care about your comrades, you'll yield. Now.”

   “What the hell do you think you are doing?” Saxon hissed. “That's not your call.”

   “It's the only call we can make. If we let them get away with this here, then we'll have last-stands scattered all across the station. We've got to crush this. Right away.”

   “That sounds familiar,” Saxon said, a strange look in her eyes. “Like something Parliament might say about the rebellion.” Hefting her rifle, she added, “Given that this is your idea, I'll let you go ahead and take point.”

   Looking ruefully at her, Cordova moved to a wall panel, looking down the corridor as though waiting for an attack, and started work on the airlock, turning the interior pressure up as high as it could go, knowing that she was risking a catastrophic hull breach. All that mattered was completing the mission, cleaning out the last nest of ColSec operatives and liberating the station once and for all. Nothing else was important.

   “On three,” she said, holding her hand over the emergency release. She slammed the control into position, and an ear-splitting report echoed down the corridor as the pressure of released atmosphere blasted through the air, almost sending her falling to her feet, even though she was braced for the impact. Wasting no time, she sprinted down the corridor, firing a pair of blank rounds for effect, hoping to keep the enemy pinned down.

   She saw them. Just ahead. Four of them, one standing by a wall control, the others behind an improvised barricade, all of them out of position from the shockwave she had just unleashed. She fired a quick pair of shots, catching two of the guards and knocking them cold, the tranquilizer surging through their systems before they could make a move.

   Then the remaining pair opened up, semi-automatic fire rattling down the corridor as she dived for cover, bullets smashing into the bulkhead, a fountain of sparks falling from a shattered lighting panel. Behind her, Saxon fired three shots, the first slamming into the nearest guard, an explosive bullet sending him collapsing to the deck with blood spilling form his chest, the second into the neck of Administrator Wise, his hand clutching the detonator futilely as he screamed in agony, his last words caught in a sea of pain.

   The third bullet hit Cordova, catching her in the side. She toppled to the floor, her hand clamped over the wound, blood oozing through her fingers as she struggled for the medical kit at her belt, unable to reach it as the pain worsened. Saxon raised her rifle, walking calmly towards the wounded rebel, then kneeling beside her.

   “You shot me,” Cordova said.

   Nodding, Saxon replied, “I did. And I never miss.” She paused, and said, “I'd say you've got a little while. Prompt treatment might even save your life.” She reached for the medical kit, holding it in her hands for a moment before tossing it away, out of her grasp. “You said that you were willing to die for the cause. Certainly you've sacrificed enough lives for it so far. Perhaps this isn't what you meant.”

   “Traitor!” Cordova spat.

   Shaking her head, Saxon replied, “You call this treachery? We've won, Major. Sinaloa Station has fallen. You can hear the crowds cheering from here.” Looking down at Cordova, she said, “Which means, I fear, that your time has ended.”

   “My father created this rebellion. I've given my life to see it succeed.”

   A frown on her face, Saxon said, “And that is where we are, isn't it. You see yourself as the indispensable figure, willing to do anything to anyone to attain victory.” Gesturing at the life support controls, she added, “A couple of thousand people would have died if he'd hit that switch. You really think your revenge was worth their lives?” Shaking her head, she added, “In my role, Major, I am sometimes judge, jury and executioner. You have been judged and found wanting.”

   “Who gave you the right to judge me?”

   “Who gave you the right to imprison Commander Curtis in a chemical hell for twenty years. It wasn't a question of holding him back for a better day. You'd have left him there to rot forever if you hadn't found Polaris.” She paused, then said, “Maybe it wasn't you. Maybe it was your father. But I can't help but think that you knew that he would become leader of the rebellion, and you couldn't bring yourselves to yield that position.”

   “Give me that medical kit,” Cordova replied.

   Shaking her head, Saxon said, “I can't. I won't. For the good of the rebellion you claim you love so dear, I don't dare take the chance.” She took a deep breath, then said, “You think the leaders of the Revolution were evil tyrants-in-waiting? They were men and women, just like you, willing to do whatever it took to make their glorious regime succeed. At first, it was imprisoning suspected traitors. Then they had to be executed. Then caught before they could strike, and suddenly it was a question of making sure that the public only heard what they wanted to here. Fear bred tyranny, Major, the same fear that led you this far.”

   Grunting with pain, Cordova replied, “It isn't like that.”

   “Not now, perhaps, I grant you. That will change. That idealism becomes pragmatism far too quickly. You'll fight your war, and maybe you’ll even win, but what comes next? You've hardly thought of it, by your own admission. That means anarchy, chaos, and the death of not millions, but billions. Civilization is a fragile thing, Major. It can't withstand the strains you're putting on it.”

   “Then you'll...”

   “More, you're going to end up fighting Commander Curtis. You have the support of a lot of the rebels, and he's going to need their backing. There can only be one leader, and that isn't you. Tell me the truth. You thought about preventing this operation, didn't you?”

   Another grunt escaped her lips, sweat beading on her face, and she replied, “I was wrong.”

   “Had you succeeded, everyone would have died, and for nothing. You didn't make the mistake, not this time, but sooner or later, you will. And then our rebellion falls into chaos, civil war, and the Federation wins. Assuming you don't bring down interstellar civilization while you are busy re-enacting the Purge. Oh, I know what you are planning, Major, perhaps better than you. For those who wronged the People to be arrested, thrown into prison camps, maybe killed.”

   “War crimes!” she yelled. “They've murdered, and slain, and...”

   Slamming her fist on the deck, Saxon replied, “And it all begins again! The last time, brutality such as that drove the survivors into the stars to found the Commonwealth, and started fifty years of undeclared war. You'll do nothing other than birth another Federation, more exiles, and humanity is fractured once again. More blood on your hands. More murder.”

   “That's why you're killing me?” Cordova asked. “Because of what I might do?”

   “Because of what you will do. It isn't your fault. It's in your nature.” She paused, then added, “You said you were willing to die for the rebellion. That comes to pass, here, and now, and the start of the revolution that will sweep the Federation from the face of the galaxy. The rebellion doesn't need you as a leader, Major, but it can certainly use you as a martyr. They'll be chanting your name from Epsilon Indi to Omicron Eridani. You and your father will never be forgotten.” Gesturing at the cameras, she added, “All rigged nicely to show you dying to save the station. Amazing what you can do with a careful use of camera angles. That and your body should be quite convincing.”

   “You don't have to do this,” Cordova said.

   Rising to her feet, Saxon
replied, “That's not your call. Not any more. If it's of any consolation, I'm going to do everything I can to make sure that the rebellion succeeds. Maybe that's the only way we can truly get the blood off our hands.” She walked away, and said, “You've done your part. Time to rest.” She raised her rifle once more, and said, “You were wrong, by the way. You could have trusted me. Right from the beginning. Maybe if you had, this would have been different. Any last words?”

   “Make it count. If I've got to die, make it count.” She paused, then said, “Apologize to Teddy. Tell him...I don't know. I do regret it. You can believe that.” She looked at Saxon, waiting for the bullet. She looked back at Cordova, lying on the deck, and curtly nodded, carefully raising the rifle to point directly at her forehead.

   She pulled the trigger, and the world went dark.

   “Sleep well, Major,” Saxon said, the last words she heard as consciousness fled. “Sleep well.”

  Chapter 25

   Hudson turned from her station, a beaming smile on her face, and announced to the bridge, “The Acting Administrator of Sinaloa Station just issued a ceasefire and an unconditional surrender. Major Saxon has accepted in the name of the rebellion.”

   There was silence on the bridge, broken by Norton quietly saying, “We did it. I never quite believed it. We did it.”

   Settling down in the command chair, Curtis said, “Sokolov, connect me through to...to the whole flotilla. Cruisers and fighters.”

   “Aye, aye, Commander,” the grinning technician replied. “You're on, sir.”

   “This is Commander Curtis, on Polaris,” he began. “Our forces have secured Sinaloa Station. All hands, stand down battle stations. Revert to standby alert until further notice.” He paused, then added, “We've taken the first step on a long road. With ships and crews such as you walking with me, I know we'll reach the end. Thank you all. Polaris out.”

   He never knew who had started cheering, but the bridge was alive with the joy of her crew, Curtis sitting at the heart of the glorious chaos, allowing it to soak into him, through him, reveling in the victory. The last time he'd committed to battle on this ship, he'd been fleeing for his life. Before, it had been at Mareikuna. Somehow, it felt as though the stain of that atrocity had washed away, that he and his ship had at least begun to redeem themselves for all that they had done, decades ago.

   “Signal from Cygnus, sir,” Sokolov said, making himself heard with difficulty. “Lieutenant Rojek reports that the ship's engines cannot be repaired before re-entry, and requests permission to evacuate the remainder of the crew.”

   “Approved,” Curtis replied. “Have him get back here on the double.”

   Shaking her head, Hudson said, “We've got every rescue shuttle in the air, sir. Lots of drifting fighters, but no sign of enemy craft, no sign of approaching warp activity.” She paused, then added, “I'm getting signals from every installation in the system, Commander. All declaring for the Rebellion. Looks like we're not going to be short of recruits.” She paused, and added, “Squadron Leader Kani is on his way back to the flight deck now, sir. Expected to land in three minutes.”

   “Thank you, Lieutenant.” He turned to her and added, “The people we lost, from your ship. I give you my word that their deaths won't be in vain.”

   “It was a fair fight, Commander. Until Guerrero decided to shoot her way through my shipmates. That made it rather more personal.” She paused, and said, “My crew and I will see this through, sir. All the way to the end.”

   “Some nice bonus prizes, sir,” Hudson added. “Two freighters, interstellar-type. They must have been hiding behind the outer moon, keeping out of the battle.” She paused, then added, “Looks like a little bit of mutiny has taken place out there. Neither of the commanding officers calling in are listed in our database.”

   “Confirm them on my authority, and if you can spare anyone with a shuttle, get someone over there to take a look. We're going to need shipping tonnage.” He paused, then said, “And don't get any ideas, Lieutenant.”

   “Of course not, sir,” she replied in mock disgust. “Don't take this the wrong way, Commander, but I really don't want your job.”

   “Sir,” Norton said, a strange grin on her face. “Your presence is requested on the flight deck at once. Major Saxon is heading over with senior prisoners from Sinaloa Station, and apparently they insist on making their formal surrender to our commanding officer.”

   “Very well,” Curtis replied, rising to his feet. “Hudson, you have the deck. Continue recovery procedures, and try and get us into some sort of defensive posture as quickly as you can. I'll expect damage control reports within the hour.”

   “Not a problem, sir,” she said, turning back to her console, as he walked to the elevator. He paused at the threshold, looking around the bridge, every station now manned and ready. Two weeks ago, he'd been forced to fight the ship with six people. It felt good to see the command deck a hive of activity again, technicians moving between stations with reports, a constant babble of duty conversation in the background.

   The doors slid shut, and he began his descent to the hangar deck, pulling out a datapad to flick through the reports as they started to flood in. No significant damage to either Polaris or Canopus, and while they'd lost a couple of dozen fighters during the battle, only a handful of pilots had fallen. Combined with the other refugees from Arcturus and Cygnus, and it seemed likely that he'd be able to bring his ship back to something at least approximating full strength.

   They'd won.

   It was going to take a while to sink in. He knew that. A part of him had still doubted that victory was possible, had considered that he was only choosing to go down fighting, to throw away his life in the most glorious way possible. Now he'd won his victory, had secured his base of operations, but somehow the enormity of the task that now faced him was only just beginning to sink in. The Federation Fleet wouldn't let this defeat go unredeemed for long. They'd throw everything they had at him, and soon.

   Then there were supply problems, materials simply not produced in this system. Either they'd have to raid Federation convoys or come to some sort of deal with the Commonwealth, or perhaps someone out in the Halo Worlds, beyond the frontier. A million doubts crept into his mind, but he dismissed them with a shake of the head. That could all wait until tomorrow. For today, he was going to savor victory. He'd earned it. All of them had earned it..

   The door slid open to a rousing chorus of cheers from the crowd, Squadron Leader Kani stepping down from the cockpit of his fighter, being picked up on the shoulders of a cluster of pilots, triumphantly parading around the cluttered deck. Overhead, unfamiliar music played, and it took him a moment to realize that it was the Battle March of the Commonwealth, normally treason to play on a Federation ship. Somehow, it seemed appropriate, and he kept back, out of the way, determined to allow his crew to have their day.

   His crew. That was a good feeling, as well. Some might be wearing civilian jumpsuits with the flash of the late Hanoi on their back, others with borrowed uniforms from Polaris' own stores, far more with the sigil of Arcturus, even a few from Cygnus and Canopus among the crowd. He looked around for Major Saxon, then looked up at the status board, a tangle of incoming and outgoing flights on display, a challenge for even the most determined Deck Chief to overcome. He glanced at the operations station, two gray-haired men having a good natured argument, both of them with Master Chief insignia on their shoulders.

   Looking back at the panel, he saw a pair of shuttles heading in, one of them, the second, from Sinaloa Station, a notation warning for security to be present. As the crowd thickened, Curtis shook his head. Even if they'd had a strike team on hand, the odds of them pushing they way through the mass of crewmen seemed remote at best.

   The first shuttle was heading in from Canopus, no notation. He looked around, spotting a senior officer with the sword-and-star emblem of his son's ship, and walked over to him,
the red-headed pilot beaming as he recognized the figure approaching him.

   “Commander Philip Duval, at your service, sir,” he said, snapping a salute. “It's a pleasure and an honor to be serving with you.”

   “The honor is all mine, Commander,” Curtis replied. “That shuttle coming to pick up your pilots? I was hoping to get a chance to debrief your flight leaders after the battle…,” He was interrupted by another rousing cry from the crowd, and continued, “Though perhaps tomorrow might be better.”

   “I don't know anything about a shuttle, sir,” Duval replied.

   “Attention on the deck,” Hudson's voice barked. “All hands, attention on the flight deck. Canopus Actual arriving. Repeat, Canopus Actual arriving.”

   Canopus Actual.

   Commander Michael Curtis.

   His son.

   As the shuttle rose through the elevator airlock, the crowd finally grew silent, all eyes focused on Curtis as he watched the ship settle into position on the deck, his eyes locked on the hatch, waiting for it to open. He'd faced battles against superior odds, faced the risk of certain death, but he'd never felt more nervous than he did at this moment, waiting for the hatch to open. He glanced to the right, saw Rojek walking out of the elevator, a huge grin on his face. Cygnus was a lot closer than Canopus, but he must have beaten all records to make it there on time.

   “You didn't think I was going to miss this, did you?” Rojek said, moving to his side. “Someone's going to have to pick you up when you faint.”

   “Don't joke,” Curtis replied, as the hatch cracked open, a low whine as the pressure equalized. Standing at the threshold was a mirror image of himself, the man he had been twenty years ago. Same build, same eyes. Even the same uniform, just with a different ship patch on his sleeve. And the same expression on his face, as the two men locked eyes, neither seemingly able to make the first move.