The Oncoming Storm

by Christopher Nuttall

  But the Theocracy’s attack would deal with them.

  She felt a stab of pity for the brain-dead men and women who had attended the admiral’s party, then made her way up the stairs as soon as the insurgents were out of sight. The building was eerily quiet—she couldn’t help wondering just what the insurgents intended to do with their prisoners—but she pushed the thought aside as she reached the top of the stairs and turned right, down the corridor. A noise caught her ear and she froze, then looked into one of the larger rooms. A number of men and women lay on the ground, their hands bound behind their backs. It took her a moment to realize that they had to be the servants who had remained loyal—or at least hadn’t been part of the insurgency from the start. She briefly considered freeing them, then dismissed the idea. There was no way to know if they could be trusted.

  No loyal retainers here, she thought morbidly. Her bloodline had entire families serving as retainers, almost part of the Falcone family itself. Most of their children tended to start their lives as playmates for the aristocratic kids, then become servants as they grew older. But it simply wasn’t possible to build such an edifice on Cadiz. No one can be trusted completely.

  Kat took one last glimpse at them, then strode onwards. Her implants kept blinking up warning messages—the house nodes were flickering on and off, suggesting that their software was trying to overcome a viral attack—but she’d already downloaded and saved a copy of the mansion’s floor plans. The admiral’s bedroom was at the end of the corridor, through a large wooden door. She stopped dead as she heard someone speaking ahead of her, then peeked through the door. Two insurgents were ransacking the room, hunting for something the admiral might have concealed in his bedroom. They turned and stared at her, then reached for their weapons. Kat shot the first one instinctively, then swung her weapon to target the second insurgent. He threw himself at her too late. She shot him, then jumped to one side.

  His body hit the floor, already dead.

  She fought down the urge to throw up as she checked the body. She knew she’d taken life before, but it had always been at a distance. She’d never seen any of the men and women who had died under her fire. Now . . . she swallowed hard, then looked round the chamber. The admiral hadn’t stinted on his personal quarters. Everything was designed for comfort, particularly the bed. It was large enough for five or six people to sleep comfortably. She kept staring round until she located a solid wooden cupboard and then pulled it open. For once, Morrison had followed regulations. He’d installed a full communications system in his quarters.

  Kat let out a sigh of relief, then reached for the controls, inputting her access codes. There was no point in calling the local government, not now. God alone knew what else might be going on. She needed to call her ship.

  “This is the captain,” she said as soon as the channel was open. “We have a situation.”

  Captain Patrick James Davidson knew, without false modesty, that he wouldn’t rise any higher than command of a company of Marines. Fortunately, he didn’t want to rise any higher. He would be happy with his company of Marines and a chance to test himself against the best and brightest the enemy had to offer. In a way, he’d even mourned when the Theocratic commandos hadn’t tried to break out of the hull before they’d been handed over to local authorities on Cadiz. He’d been sure they would have tested his men to the utmost.

  He pushed the thought aside as the shuttle raced through the atmosphere towards the admiral’s mansion. The report had been precise and to the point; the captain was stranded inside the mansion, while the building was occupied by an unknown number of insurgents with unknown objectives. Judging from the situation, Davidson rather suspected their objective was to blow the mansion and escape, leaving the occupation government with a black eye and a great deal of embarrassment. But the attackers couldn’t be allowed to get away with it.

  “Prepare to jump,” he ordered. He’d brought two platoons with him, both wearing light combat armor. The remainder of the company would remain in reserve until they were called forward. Thankfully, the local authorities hadn’t tried to interfere with his mission planning. They’d been caught flat-footed by the attack. “Now!”

  He was first out of the shuttle, plummeting down towards the building. It was impossible to tell if the insurgents knew they were coming or not; they didn’t seem to have any active sensors operating near the mansion, but they might well have agents somewhere within the planetary air traffic control. No ground fire rose up to meet the marines as they fell, their antigravity units arresting the group’s descent bare seconds before they would have hit the rooftop. Davidson tore open the hatch with his armored hands, then jumped down into the building. There was no sign of any enemy forces.

  WARNING, his suit buzzed. COMBAT JAMMING ENABLED.

  Patrick nodded, then dismissed the alert as he led the way forward. Being deprived of microscopic spies was irritating, but hardly a surprise. His suit picked up the sounds of someone shooting in the distance, perhaps Kat. He put on a boost of speed, hastily comparing his current location to the mansion’s floor plans. The captain had said she was hiding in the admiral’s bedroom. As he rounded the corner, he saw she was under attack.

  He threw himself forward, landing among the terrorists before they knew he was there. At such close range, there was no way he could miss, certainly not with his inbuilt stunner. He knocked them all out rapidly and then muttered orders to the rest of his platoon. The terrorists might have the remainder of the guests under guard, but stun grenades would knock out everyone—hostages and insurgents alike. It might be the only way to prevent them from blowing up the building, taking everyone inside with it.

  “Captain,” he called, “the corridor is clear.”

  It had been odd seeing Captain Falcone again after their relationship. They’d parted on good terms—he was too realistic to think they had a chance of staying together forever—but part of him had been tempted to try to restart their relationship when they’d found themselves assigned to the same ship once again. But he’d known it wasn’t a good idea . . . Now, he found himself staring at her as she inched out of the room, weapon in hand. Her dress was torn, one of her legs was badly bruised . . . and he thought she’d never looked more beautiful.

  “Captain, are you all right?” The voder would ensure that no one heard the tremor in his voice.

  “Yes, thank you,” Kat said. Her eyes were shining despite the situation. And the dress. “Status report?”

  Davidson checked his HUD. “We’re advancing on the hostages now,” he said. “We don’t have time to waste.”

  The captain nodded. “And the admiral?”

  “Unknown,” Patrick said. “With your permission . . .”

  “Good luck,” the captain said. “Try to take some of the insurgents alive, if possible.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Patrick said. “We will try.”

  Kat sat back in the corridor, feeling her body shaking with a combination of relief and fear—and frustration that she couldn’t do anything but wait. Davidson didn’t need her getting in the way, nor could he spare anyone to stay with her. She kept the rifle on her lap and waited, listening carefully to the sound of stunners and grenades echoing through the vast building. It was nearly forty minutes before the jamming cut out and her implants started to work normally again, reporting the sudden arrival of a small army of soldiers from the spaceport.

  “Captain,” Davidson said, “we have shuttles inbound from the ship. Do you want to return to Lightning?”

  “I want to know what happened to the admiral,” Kat said. “And his son. What happened to his son?”

  She watched as the stunned guests were carried out of the building for transport back to the spaceport, where they would recover in the hospital. Behind them, soldiers moved among the insurgents, flexi-cuffing and then searching them before marking them down for transport to the nearest holding cell.

  “That was surprisingly easy,” Davidson observed. “They d
idn’t even have the building rigged to explode by the time we attacked them.”

  Kat gave him a sharp look. The insurgents had clearly spent months laying the groundwork for the assault, an assault that had only managed to kill a handful of officers and bureaucrats before it failed spectacularly. They’d had a stroke of bad luck—the attackers had probably assumed she would be captured with the rest of the commanding officers—but it was still odd. The more she thought about it, the more she realized something was badly wrong.

  “Maybe they were trying to embarrass the admiral,” she said slowly. The insurgency had to know that someone more competent would be sent to replace Morrison if he died. “Or just to embarrass the occupation government itself.”

  “Could be,” Davidson agreed. “Men and women can be replaced, Captain. A reputation cannot be repaired so quickly.”

  Kat nodded. No doubt Admiral Morrison would have incentive to minimize the scale of his failure.

  “This wasn’t the commandoes,” Davidson added. “They’re still in the spaceport.”

  Kat ground her teeth, then looked up sharply as the admiral appeared and made his way over to face her. “Admiral,” she said coolly, “where the hell were you?”

  “The hero of the hour,” Morrison said. He completely ignored her question. “I believe the press wants to meet you.”

  “I have to see the doctor,” Kat said quickly. She leaned forward. “Admiral, where were you?”

  “The panic room,” the admiral said. He looked embarrassed. “My staff shoved me inside as soon as the attack began.”

  Kat’s eyes narrowed. “And you couldn’t call for help from there?”

  “I tried,” the admiral said. “But no one replied.”

  Davidson touched Kat’s arm lightly. “Someone did manage to get the word out,” he said, quietly. “You weren’t the first to call for help.”

  Kat stared at the admiral for a long moment, fighting to control her temper. Morrison had wasted her time with a useless party, pushed her into the arms of his leech of a son, and then had the gall to cower in the panic room while his guests were menaced, threatened, and killed by armed insurgents. Only sheer luck had saved him from a disaster that would have ended his career, along with the occupation itself.

  Could her father save her from execution if she shot the admiral? She was tempted to find out.

  “I believe a starship has to be assigned to patrol the border,” she said. The previous cruiser was due back in a day or two. “I would like Lightning to be assigned to that role.”

  The admiral opened his mouth but then apparently thought better of whatever he’d intended to say. Instead, he merely nodded.

  “I will have routing orders cut for you,” he said. “And you have my thanks, Captain. You will be honored for this.”

  Kat wanted to roll her eyes in disgust. Somehow, she resisted the temptation.

  “I would be honored to discuss it when I return to Cadiz,” she said. She had no doubt the admiral would try to award her the highest honor he could bestow just to avoid calling attention to his failures. “But for the moment I need to return to my ship and see the doctor.”

  Her voice hardened. “But thank you, Admiral, for a party I will never forget.”

  She allowed herself to lean on Davidson’s armored arm as they walked towards the shuttle and straightened up as soon as they were out of sight. Her body ached, but it was tiredness rather than bruises or broken bones. She reached the shuttle’s hatch and then paused. A line of men and women with bound hands were making their way into a large transporter.

  “The former servants,” Davidson explained grimly. “They will be interrogated to see what they knew about the whole affair.”

  “And if they’re not insurgents by the time they go into the detention camps,” Kat muttered, “they will be when they’re released.”

  She stepped through the hatch, cursing the admiral under her breath. He’d be looking for a scapegoat, someone to take the blame for the whole affair. Chances were some innocent bureaucrat would be made to take the fall, either through accusations of incompetence or threats of criminal investigation. But the true cause of the problem would be left in command, utterly unmolested. The admiral had set the tone for his entire command.

  The shuttle’s drives powered up, then propelled the vehicle up through the atmosphere and out into space. Kat let out a sigh of relief as they passed through the edge of the atmosphere, silently promising herself never to set foot on Cadiz again. It was a promise, she knew, she might well be unable to keep.

  “Put us alongside the emergency air lock,” Davidson ordered. “I want to go directly to Sickbay.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Midshipwoman Parkinson said.

  Kat opened her mouth to object, but Davidson shook his head. She saw his stubborn expression and gave in. He thought she needed Sickbay and he would damn well take her to Sickbay.

  “Pass me a uniform jacket and ship suit,” she ordered crossly. It was increasingly hard to maintain her dignity in the black dress. “I’m damned if I’m wearing this on the ship.”

  Davidson, thankfully, didn’t argue.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Some cuts and bruises,” Doctor Braham said briskly. “But no real damage.”

  “Thank you,” Kat said. “Can I be dismissed now?”

  “There is still the matter of your medical checkup,” Doctor Braham said. “By regulation, all senior officers are to undergo a full medical scan every three months. You haven’t been scanned once.”

  “I was scanned on my previous posting,” Kat pointed out, although she knew she had already lost the argument. She should have found time while Lightning was in transit to have her scan. “There wasn’t anything wrong with me.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” the doctor said. “Lie back on the bed and take a deep breath.”

  Kat sighed, but held her peace as the doctor ran a series of scanners over her body. Her implants kept flashing up alerts, each one noting that her body’s secrets were being exposed and dissected. It wasn’t a real problem, Kat knew, but it was still annoying. And as the doctor was the only person who could relieve the captain of command, it was rare for a captain to willingly turn herself in for a medical scan.

  “Your genetic engineer was a master,” the doctor commented as she ran through the final set of scans. “Or was he one of those who believed he could create the superman?”

  “I think my father didn’t allow any experimentation,” Kat said. There were a hundred research institutions seeking newer ways to enhance the human mind as well as the body, but none of them had succeeded in improving the basic level of intelligence. Direct computer interfaces helped more than genetic rewriting. “At least he didn’t allow it on any of us.”

  “Probably wise of him,” Doctor Braham noted. She stepped backwards, then sent a silent command to the scanners, which withdrew. “You’re as fit and healthy as could reasonably be expected, under the circumstances. I’ll see you in another three months.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” Kat said as she sat up and reached for her uniform jacket. “How are you coping with the crew?”

  “No serious problems, apart from a couple of cases of excessive intoxication after shore leave,” the doctor informed her. “No matter the sheer number of bars on the surface, there’s always someone who goes to an unlicensed place and drinks something strong enough to pickle their brain cells. But I think the crew could do with shore leave somewhere safer.”

  Kat nodded. Piker’s Peak had stressed the importance of an active shore leave—and they hadn’t just meant Intercourse and Intoxication. The XO should be organizing activities for the crew, everything from skydiving to power boating or simply enjoying the sun on a sandy beach. But there were no such facilities on Cadiz. Even if they had located a beach far from a local settlement, Kat wouldn’t have trusted it. The insurgents might have seen it as an opportunity to winnow down her crew.

  She pulled her jacket over her c
hest, then stood. “We’re due to rotate back to the core in a few months,” she said, with the private thought that the war might well have started by then. “There will be time for more active shore leave later.”

  “It could explain some of the situation here,” the doctor offered. “Crews without the prospect of a meaningful shore leave . . .”

  Kat snorted. She’d never been an ordinary spacer, but she had appreciated the chance to get off the ship for a few days, even as a midshipwoman. A few days at the spaceport would have satisfied her, although it wouldn’t have satisfied Davidson or any of the more active crewmen. But there were no real facilities on Cadiz outside the spaceport itself and there was nothing she could do about it. A complaint to the admiral would probably get her nowhere.

  She nodded to the doctor, then walked out of the small compartment. Davidson was outside, pacing the deck like an expectant father. Kat had to suppress a smile at the mental image. She nodded to him as he came to attention. If she knew him—and she did—he was probably planning to escort her back to her cabin. The thought both pleased and annoyed her. Part of her wanted the company, but part of her resented anyone thinking she needed help.

  “I’m fine,” she said as she turned to lead the way through the hatch. “And your men?”

  “They’re fine,” Davidson said. His blue eyes watched her with undisguised concern. “But we trained for this sort of shit.”

  Kat said nothing as they walked through the corridors and finally reached her cabin. She hesitated, then opened the hatch and beckoned him into the barren room. Davidson looked surprised at the lack of decor, but Kat had never felt the urge to collect artwork or show off her wealth to her officers. The only decoration she had allowed herself was a painting of HMS Thunderous an officer had done, years ago. Kat had liked it enough to keep for herself.