“Well, Captain Nimoux, the information you gave us checks out.” Summers had verified every detail of Nimoux’s story against everything that she and Calvin had uncovered about the conspiracy that had rotted the core of the Imperial government. Nimoux’s claim that people were being abducted and replaced matched perfectly with what was known about the replicants. And now, thanks to Nimoux, they had information about what had been done with the abductees. Unfortunately, the details were gruesome and the news tragic. There was little reason to believe that any of them, other than Nimoux himself, had escaped.
Nimoux nodded. “So does that mean you’ve decided I can be trusted?”
“I’d like you to go to the quartermaster’s office and get a proper Intel Wing uniform. When you put it on make sure to wear this,” she handed him a small pin of a platinum bar, the insignia of captain.
“So I take it that’s a yes.”
“It’s not appropriate for the ship’s new Executive Officer to be seen wearing casual clothes,” said Summers. “It’s a breach of protocol.
“New Executive Officer?” Nimoux looked confused. “I thought you were the XO.”
“Lieutenant Commander Cross is away from the Nighthawk and I have taken temporary command as Acting CO. I do not currently have an assigned Acting XO. Now that you’re here, I’d like to change that.” She gave him an earnest look.
“You want me to take over as the XO of the Nighthawk?”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Summers. “With my apologies for our difference in rank. This ship has a strange way of making the second-highest ranking officer the CO and the actual ranking officer the XO.”
Nimoux nodded. “Very well, I accept. At least until I can resume command of the Desert Eagle.”
Summers smiled. “I’d hoped that would be your answer.”
“But if I could ask you one thing first, Commander,” said Nimoux. “What convinced you to trust me? Was it the information I gave you?”
“That and I haven’t forgotten what happened in the Remus System.” She recalled the Phoenix’s missiles closing in on the Nighthawk, whose own weapons were unable to stop them, and inexplicably the Desert Eagle had fired its weapons in their defense. “You saved the Nighthawk.”
“And the Nighthawk saved me, so I guess that makes us even.”
“I suppose so. Now you’d better go get changed and report to the bridge,” said Summers. “You have a lot of catching up to do, much has happened in your absence.”
Nimoux opened his mouth as if to speak but before he could an alert sounded. Tara moved to the comm panel and answered, “brig deck, go ahead.”
“Is the CO down there?” said a voice over the speaker, it sounded like Sarah Winters.
“Yes, she is,” replied Tara.
Summers moved to the comm panel and pressed the button. “What is it, Lieutenant?”
“Commander, we found him! I’ve set course and we’re on our way at maximum jump depth. Just like you ordered.”
Summers felt a rush of excitement. “Thank you for the update,” she said, calm and composed. Though her insides were burning with an urgent sense of purpose. We’ve got you now, she thought.
“What is it?” asked Nimoux.
“Hurry and get that uniform,” she said, turning away, “I’ll explain on the bridge.” She left the brig deck and sprinted for the elevator.
***
Other than the troop transports, most of which had escaped, the Harbinger was one of only three ships belonging to Hammerfist Squadron that’d had survived the carnage of the Apollo Yards. For the queen, it had proven both a victory and a defeat. She’d accomplished her objective of removing the Apollo Yards as a threat but she’d been the one to retreat once that was done, leaving the rest of the Apollo System under Assembly control. A fact Caerwyn and his people were already spinning to the Imperial public as a ‘total victory’ for their propagandist aims. Even though Caerwyn’s fleet had sustained significant losses as well and he’d lost an important strategic foothold.
But, regardless of how others looked at it, in Raidan’s eyes the entire enterprise had proven a monstrous failure. True, the Yards had been eliminated, and that had been necessary to keep the cause of restoring the Empire alive, but the devastating price paid on both sides would prove catastrophic for humanity. With the Imperial fleet split in two and waging war against itself there had never before been so little left to stop the aggressively militant Rotham, and probably the Polarians too eventually.
If I believed in God, I would certainly believe him to be our enemy, not our friend, thought Raidan as he considered the dark plight of humanity and the threats lurking in the galaxy’s darkest shadows. He imagined aliens with greedy eyes and dripping teeth, eager to start slicing up human colonies for themselves.
If this war is going to turn in our favor, we need to change the game, he thought. Knowing he’d already taken measures to try and tilt the balance in humanity’s favor. He would do all he could to save the Empire. To save humanity. Even from itself, if necessary. And if that failed, then Raidan would make damn sure he died with sword in hand, swinging viciously to the last breath.
“Status report,” he said from the command position of the Harbinger. He hadn’t moved from that spot since the battle of the Apollo Yards. It was in that chair that he’d watched almost every ship under his command blown to pieces as Imperial citizens killed one another. I never thought I’d see the day…
“Engineering reports there is still significant damage to the alteredspace drive system and coil array, which might affect our jump stability, but for now we seem able to maintain sixty-five percent potential without putting too much stress on the systems,” said Ivanov.
“What about critical systems?” asked Raidan.
“Most are functioning normally. We lost a few of the secondary generators so life support is running on both primary and tertiary power. There are teams working on it.”
“And defenses?”
“The shields have been repaired back to fifteen percent strength,” said Frederickson. “Most of the weapons are still functional, missile batteries sixteen through twenty-nine as well as thirty-seven through forty need repair before they can fire. A number of others need adjustment. We’re also down to only ten-percent of our ammunition stores. The beam weapons are all functional, however, except for number six on the port side.”
“What about armor?”
“Nearly all of our forward armor has been compromised as well as about fifty percent portside, twenty-seven percent starboard, and about seventy-five percent aft,” said Frederickson. “Sir, we took a hell of a beating.”
“That we did,” said Raidan. He thought of the ships disintegrating all around them, enemies and allies alike, as the Harbinger forced its way through the hordes of starships and debris, firing everything it had in order to carve an escape path. Their vessel was one of the toughest and fiercest warships in the galaxy, but for all its strength and might, even the dreaded Harbinger would never have escaped destruction had it not been for the Black Swan standing its ground and providing cover. The other alpha-class dreadnought had taken a similar beating and, by all rights, should have been destroyed when the rest of its squadron broke formation and routed. But the enemy fleet failed to capitalize on the opportunity. Raidan still wondered why. If it was due to ineptitude on the part of their fleet commander or whether there was some other explanation, perhaps a compelling reason why they wanted to keep the queen alive. He could think of none. And found himself unable to explain why they’d refused to take such a clear shot.
“When we get to Taurus we’ll have them patch the armor and replace our ammunition stores first, then repair our damaged systems,” said Raidan. If the enemy followed them, he wanted to make certain he could send as much hell their way as possible, even at the expense of his own survival. He felt angry and on the very edge of despair. No longer certain that there was any hope. And he wondered if it wouldn’t be better to end things wit
h a sudden bang, lethal and mercifully quick, rather than a drawn out whimper.
“Aye, sir. Shall I relay that order to the other ships?” asked Reynolds. The queen had split her surviving fleet into smaller groups and sent them to various planets and platforms loyal to her cause, all within a few clicks of each other, in order to expedite repairs and resupply. Her plan assumed the enemy fleet wasn’t in any fit state to launch an immediate attack and would need to lick its wounds as well. Kalila was probably safe in that assumption, but—just in case—Raidan intended to be ready.
“Tell them to prioritize defense systems,” said Raidan. “But it’s up to each captain to see to the particular needs of his ship.”
“Aye, air.”
“Mister Watson, what is our ETA?”
“At present jump depth, we’ll arrive in just over fifteen hours. However, if we complete more repairs on the alteredspace systems and adjust our jump depth, we might get there faster.”
“Keep me appraised,” said Raidan. He stood up to leave. He needed some time alone to process the battle and rest his mind. It wasn’t the first messy fight he’d been involved in, he and death had made for common bedfellows during the Great War, but the Battle of the Apollo Yards had proven undoubtedly the bloodiest.
“Aye, sir.”
“Mister Mason, the deck is yours.”
“Yes sir.”
Raidan walked halfway across the Harbinger’s massive bridge but stopped in his tracks at the sound of an alert.
“Sir, we’re being raised over kataspace by the Arcane Storm,” said Reynolds. “Captain, they are hailing you.”
Raidan felt his heart quicken. It’s about time, he thought.
“Route it to the CO’s office,” he said. “I’ll take it in there.”
“Aye, sir.”
Raidan went to his office and took a seat at his desk. He spied the bottle of whiskey on his desk and felt an urge to open it but decided there would be time for that later. He tapped comm switch.
“Go ahead.”
“I just heard about the battle,” Tristan’s voice sounded over the speakers. “I trust it wasn’t as bloody as everyone is making it sound.”
“Bloodier,” said Raidan. “For our side and theirs.”
“I’m truly sorry to hear that,” said the lycan. “I suppose that means—”
“You know what it means,” Raidan interrupted. “And you know what you have to do. Just make sure it gets done. And as for our old friend, I’d prefer it if you took him alive. But dead works too, I suppose.”
“My ship is racing there as fast it possible can,” said Tristan. “And if I am the first one there, you have my word that I’ll get things done. But there’s a chance the Nighthawk will beat me there. If so… we both know what that means.”
“Yes we do,” said Raidan. Deciding to pour himself a glass of whiskey after all.
“Why did you allow Commander Presley to receive the alert too?” Tristan pressed him. “I do not question your wisdom but it seems like… an unnecessary risk.”
“I’m not taking any chances with those isotome weapons,” said Raidan. “Whatever happens, those weapons cannot fall into enemy hands. That means we must use every card in our hand for this play, no matter what.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” said Tristan. “But I still think it makes things… less certain for us.”
“I admit our best hope is for you to get there first,” said Raidan, pausing to take a sip of his whiskey. It burned in that pleasant way he’d gotten so used to—even depended on. “However, if things don’t go exactly as planned and Summers gets there first… well, I’ve made certain arrangements to deal with such a contingency.”
“Ah, yes,” said Tristan, sounding relieved. “That’s more like the Raidan I know. I was starting to think you’d been replaced by a replicant.”
“Don’t even joke about that,” said Raidan, thinking of the replicant version of himself that he kept in the prison block below. A chilling reminder of the danger that haunted humanity. A danger that seemed to grow faster than he could cut it down.
“Come now, you know I jest,” said Tristan. “It’s something I seem to be doing ever more, as the clouds darken all around.”
“Indeed.” Raidan took another sip. He supposed they all had their habits that helped them cope and survive.
“But I’m glad to hear of these other arrangements you speak of,” said Tristan. “I take that as a sign there is still some hope.”
“Perhaps a little,” said Raidan. “But what hope we have left is fast circling the drain. And the vultures—they’re already here. Just prior to the battle I heard report of a Rotham cargo fleet sighted near Renora. We both know that isn’t any ordinary cargo fleet.”
“Yes,” said Tristan in a dark tone. “Those ships mean nothing good.”
“Which is why you must succeed in your mission,” said Raidan. “Leverage is desperately needed. Without it, we may as well offer the Rotham our throats now.”
“It’ll be done,” said Tristan with trademark confidence. “Whether by me or your other arrangements, it’ll be done.”
“It had better. The fate of the Empire likely depends on it.”
***
Alex sat in the pilot’s chair as the vessel that had been crudely named Wander by the ignorant humans made slow but steady progress toward the far side of the DMZ and the Rotham border. Officially, their mission was to scout the Republic’s military activity and report their findings to Queen Kalila Akira. That was Calvin’s plan for the ship anyway.
They were plunging into a sector of space that Alex hadn’t seen in a long time. Too long, if truth be told. And now that he was finally returning to his dear Republic, he wished more than anything that he could simply go home, and set aside the war and the Rahajiim and everything else. Unfortunately there was far too much work to do to even entertain such notions, less yet act upon them.
We serve and sacrifice to protect our glorious Republic, he thought. Recalling the motto of the Advent. The words had proven fitting.
“We’re going to need to get some more fuel before we return to Imperial space,” said Rafael, the human intelligence officer who’d been assigned to assist Alex but really was there to spy on him—Alex was no fool, he knew what was going on.
“Yes, we will need more fuel,” said Alex. “There are any number of depots along the border, the smaller ones won’t ask too many questions. I don’t anticipate any problems.” What Alex did not say was that he had no intentions for them to return to Imperial space. It was one thing for Calvin and his crew to play at spy on behalf of their pathetic queen who tried helplessly to hold together the shambled ruins of her shattered Empire. But Alex’s work was far more important than that. And he would see it done.
“I’ll bring it up to Calvin at the next shift change,” said Rafael. He checked the ship’s timekeeper. “Which is rather soon. In fact, Calvin and Miles should be in here to takeover any minute now.”
“Yes, that will be a great relief. I’ve been in dire need of sleep for the last few hours,” said Alex.
“You and me both,” said Rafael.
Alex was tired, that part was true, but he really didn’t care about that. What mattered to him was that they’d finally crossed the Zero-Two-Two plane. Which meant their ship’s short-range could be heard by any number of the Republic’s listening posts. Though there was one in particular that mattered. One that could still be trusted, or so Alex desperately hoped. It really has been too long, hasn’t it, he thought.
“Could you please check a reading for me?” asked Alex. “I’m wondering if the drive coils are improperly aligned, I feel like there’s some drag affecting our alteredspace stability.” It was a lie, of course, but a useful one.
“All right,” said Rafael. He moved away from Alex and began running a diagnostic on the alteredspace system at the ops control. Giving Alex just enough time to key a short message and discreetly transmit it to Listening Post Vh’t
or Rha over short-range. The message consisted of only a few characters. A6-711.
Alex had wanted to send the message sooner but their ship had been too far away. Of course he could have used the kataspace transmitter, that was how ships and planets managed to communicate across virtually any distance, but this ship—like most vessels—had a protocol in place that logged whenever a kataspace message was sent or received. Tampering with the computer to disable the protocol was possible but obvious and time consuming. So Alex had opted to use short-range, which wasn’t logged at all.
“Looks like everything checks out,” said Rafael. “The diagnostic doesn’t show anything wrong with the coils, or any other part of the drive for that matter.”
“Strange, perhaps I imagined it,” said Alex. “Probably a result of fatigue. Clearly I’m not thinking straight.”
Rafael looked at him suspiciously, his one eye seemed to comb thoroughly over every control and display belonging to the pilot’s station. But found nothing. Because there was nothing to find. “Yes perhaps,” said Rafael. “No doubt we could all use more sleep than we’ve been getting.” He still looked wary but it was obvious he couldn’t detect any wrongdoing even though he suspected it.
The door slid open. It was the big human, the one called Miles. “Beat it, Lizard,” he said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder in a human gesture that meant leave.
“I will give up my station once another pilot is here to take over,” said Alex. “Not before.”
“Calvin will be here in a second, so there’s nothing to worry about,” said Miles. “Now beat it.”
“It’s all right, Miles,” said Rafael in a calm tone. “Alex really shouldn’t leave his post until Calvin gets here.”
“Whatever,” Miles shrugged. He leaned against the bulkhead and folded his arms. A moment later Calvin arrived.
“I’ll take it from here,” said Calvin. “Go get some sleep, Alex. But I’ll need you back here for when we enter Republic territory in… just over six hours.”
The Phoenix War Page 41
