Duty, Honor, Planet: 02 - Honor Bound

by Rick Partlow

  Roza shot a glance at him and he nodded.

  “We were in town following up,” Shannon went on, “when your ‘link pinged in the city. It’s an anonymous ‘link, but we issued it and we can track it. So here we are. Your turn.”

  “Ma’am, we turned Colonel Lee…I made him an offer of a new identity for his cooperation. As the alternative was not desirable, he accepted and left a message for his contact to meet him here.”

  Realization came into Shannon’s eyes. “A-ha. And I’ll bet that contact works for a security firm with ties to Republic Transportation?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ari nodded. “And it’s better than that…or possibly worse. I know who she is. It’s Helenne D’Annique.”

  Shannon’s eyebrow rose. “The same one that was the First Officer on the Patton under Admiral Patel?”

  “She got out about five years ago and started working for Lone Star Security a year after that,” Ari told her. “It was pretty sudden, from what the file says…she got back from some diplomatic mission to Aphrodite and boom, resigned.”

  Tom Crossman and Shannon Stark looked up at that, Crossman’s eyes narrowing.

  “Let me see that file.” Shannon held out her hand and Ari passed her the tablet. She shook her head as she read it. “Son of a bitch,” she muttered. She looked up at Tom. “It was the same trip, the one Dominguez was on.”

  “Dominguez?” Roza repeated. Her eyes widened. “You mean Vice President Dominguez?”

  “Oh, shit,” Ari muttered, sitting down heavily on the bed.

  “I think it’s time,” Shannon said slowly and thoughtfully, “that we find out just who was on that mission…and what the hell happened out there.”

  “Whatever you are going to do,” Colonel Lee spoke up from the desk, where he was staring at the monitor, “you do not have long to do it.” He looked up at Ari and Roza with the expression of a man watching a traffic accident unfold in front of him. “The message has been posted. It says ‘stay.’”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jason McKay shook his head, trying to clear it of the acrid taste of yellow and the sweet smell of sideways and of the maddening sensation that he was nonexistent and yet omnipresent all at once. He looked at Mironov, who was strapped in beside him on one of the acceleration couches behind Admiral Patel’s command station on the bridge of the Sheridan. The Russian was humming to himself impassively, as if he’d just travelled across town on the overhead tram.

  “And you really get used to that?” McKay asked, disbelief in his voice. This was the third jump the ship had made through the wormholes and it seemed a dozen times worse than the first. Worse still, there were many more to go: Mironov knew many of the gate locations, but he had not been trusted with which ones led to the Protectorate headquarters world of Novoye Rodina, so their plan was to explore what they could of the Protectorate wormhole matrix and hope the physicists could make map it out and predict where the gates were located.

  “Eysselink drive field activated,” the ship’s Helm announced, drowning out whatever answer Mironov might have given. “Navigation systems are analyzing the star patterns…we should have a best guess for our location in a minute.”

  “Sensors are up,” Tactical reported, as the ship’s viewscreen began to overlay a sensor projection on top of the new starfield they’d found on the other side of this jumpgate. “We have an F-class star, looks like three terrestrial planets, two medium-size gas giants and maybe an ice giant out at extreme range. We are currently within a small asteroid field between the last of the terrestrials and the first gas giant. No gravimetic radiation present, no contacts, no sign of habitation.”

  “Maintain active gravimetic scans,” Patel ordered. “Secure from battle stations. Helm, you have the coordinates for the next gate, take us there at one g acceleration.” Looking at the Admiral, McKay felt a bit of admiration for the way he seemed to be taking all this in stride. As if using a multimillion ton, multibillion dollar starship as an experimental test bed for opening alien-created wormholes with waves of warped space-time and then travelling outside the damned universe was something he did every day.

  “Mr. Mironov,” Admiral Patel turned in his chair to address the Russian, “what are the odds of us encountering Protectorate military forces in these systems? You told us that Antonov maintains mining bases and listening posts in some of them, but this is our second with no sign of occupation.”

  “It is difficult to say,” Mironov answered after McKay quietly translated the question for him. “We did not have the ships to keep them in every system; only key hubs like Peresechenie-that is what we called the system where you fought us. But there are patrols, and sometimes cargo ships to take supplies in and minerals out.”

  “So, they’re not likely to be waiting in ambush for us as we pass through the gate,” Patel surmised, nodding with satisfaction.

  “That depends,” Mironov added quickly, as if he didn’t want to give the Admiral the wrong idea. “Normally, no…but if one of the ships in Peresechenie managed to send a message through the gate before the battle, then it is possible you may face opposition.”

  “Even then,” McKay pointed out, “they wouldn’t know we can get through the wormholes, so they wouldn’t be looking for us here.”

  “That is true,” Mironov conceded with a nod. “Your only danger would be if…”

  “Sir!” Lieutenant Commander Pirelli, the Tactical officer exclaimed. “We’re getting a gravimetic energy surge about twenty thousand klicks out consistent with a wormhole gate opening!”

  “Der’mo,” Mironov cursed.

  “Battle stations!” Patel snapped. “All hands secure for emergency acceleration! Helm, four g acceleration toward that gravimetic signature. Tactical, I want to be on him before he knows we’re here…target him as soon as we’re in range.”

  “Emergency acceleration engaged,” Lt. Sweeny, the helmsman announced and McKay felt himself pressed back into his couch by 310 kilos of his own weight.

  “Sensors indicate one ship coming through,” Pirelli reported, grunting the words out through the strain of the acceleration. “About the size of one of their converted cargo ships. Date coming up onscreen.” The ship’s computer created an icon of the enemy vessel on the tactical projection on the main screen, along with a graphic representation of the gate.

  “That…” Mironov struggled to breath, face contorted with pain. “That is not gate I knew about.” He wheezed with effort. “Do not know where it goes.”

  “Roger that sir,” Sweeny confirmed. “It’s a lot farther out than the one we were heading for.”

  “Konstantin,” McKay asked, trying to make his brain work despite the pressure, “what would he do if he sees us? Fight or run?”

  “A lone ship will run,” Mironov told him. “Back to somewhere he can report it.”

  “Admiral,” McKay said, “my advice is to slow down, let her see us…fire a shot that won’t kill her…then follow her.”

  “I see where you’re going, McKay,” Patel interrupted him. “Helm, take us back down to one g acceleration.”

  “One g, aye,” Sweeney confirmed and McKay enjoyed a deep breath as the crushing weight lifted off his chest.

  “Tactical,” Patel went on, “Target the ship’s communications array with the lasers and fire immediately on maximum effective range.”

  “Targeting communications antennae, aye,” Pirelli said. “They still haven’t spotted us…they’ve activated their fusion pulse drive, accelerating towards the area of our entrance wormhole at one g. We should be in maximum effective laser range in ten minutes, sir.”

  “Good thinking, Admiral,” McKay complimented, nodding his appreciation. “If his long range comms are down, he’ll have to lead us right to their concentration of forces.”

  “They didn’t give me these stars for my good looks, McKay,” Patel said mildly, eyes still fixed on the sensor readouts on the main viewscreen. The computer had put up an avatar of the enemy ship based
on sensor scans: it was a boxy, utilitarian insystem freighter design, either stolen from a Republic colony system or copied from a stolen ship, but various protrusions and extensions told a story of jury-rigged armor and weapons pods.

  “Obviously not, sir,” McKay commented drily, watching the ship advance toward them. “Since I’m not a General yet.” Patel glanced at him sidelong, then laughed quietly.

  “I’d debate you on that,” the Admiral said, smiling, “but Major Stark is a very good argument for your case.”

  “Shannon is way out of my league, sir,” McKay admitted, “which she reminds me every day.”

  “Uh, oh,” Pirelli spoke up, “I think she’s seen us. Her drive just cut off…she’s doing a turnover, I think. Still two minutes to laser range, and if the drive is in the way, we’re not going to have a shot.”

  “Sound alarm,” Patel ordered, “emergency acceleration five g’s immediately.”

  “Oh wonderful,” McKay muttered and then he couldn’t breathe.

  The seconds crawled by as elephants tap-danced on his chest, until from somewhere far away he heard Pirelli croak: “Ship in range…”

  “Deactivate drive,” Patel said in a voice like a snarling dog. “Fire!”

  The crushing weight of five gravities of acceleration analog lifted immediately, causing a collective gasp among the bridge crew, and he could see the computer simulation of the laser batteries streaking across the space between them and the Protectorate freighter even before Pirelli said, “Lasers firing now.”

  Flares of heat blossomed on the port side of the Protectorate ship as the laser pulses sliced into it, and then they and the ship were blotted out by a flare of fusing hydrogen as the enemy ship’s fusion pulse drive fired.

  “Drive field reactivated,” Sweeny announced as the lasers ceased firing.

  “He’s heading back for the wormhole,” Pirelli said. “Pushing three g’s…can’t keep that up for long unless he can refuel on the other side.”

  “He’ll be doing another turnover soon,” Patel predicted. “They need to kill some velocity to place the bomb to reopen the gate.”

  “Sir,” McKay interjected, “he’s going to be suspicious if we let him get away too easy. Let me talk to him, Admiral.”

  “Communications,” he addressed Lt. Junior Grade Mandel, “hail the enemy ship, wide signal and put Colonel McKay on.”

  “Aye, sir,” Mandel nodded. “You’re on, Colonel,” he said after a moment.

  “This is Colonel Jason McKay of the Republic Spacefleet Starship Sheridan,” McKay said in Russian. “Kill your velocity and prepare to be boarded or you will be destroyed.” He turned to Lt. Pirelli and quietly slipped into English. “How long before they can reach the gate?”

  “No less than five more minutes, sir,” she replied.

  “You have five minutes to comply,” McKay said in Russian again, then nodded to Lt JG Mandel, who killed the connection. McKay glanced at Patel. “Now they’ll think we stumbled across them and are trying to capture them, and we just don’t know where the jumpgate is.”

  Patel nodded his understanding. “And they’ll be congratulating themselves on outsmarting us as they jump through.” He frowned thoughtfully. “The next part will be tricky. We can’t come through the gate too close behind him or he’ll realize what we’re up to. Helm,” he turned to Sweeny, “once he’s through the gate, take us into position to jump and take up station keeping. We’re going to hold there for a few minutes.”

  “He’s flipped and decelerating towards the gate,” Pirelli announced.

  “We’re getting a response,” Mandel told him. “It’s a bit weak…he’s only got short-range coms now.”

  “On screen,” Patel told him.

  The image on the screen flickered fitfully, fading into static every few seconds, but while it lasted McKay could see the image of a tall, broad-shouldered man with a weathered, lined face and shaggy grey hair, his uniform Protectorate grey.

  “I am Captain Igor Medvedev,” the man said in Russian, his deep voice sounding oddly mechanical with the static breaking it at intervals, “of the Protectorate vessel Postavshchik.” McKay translated the man’s words to Admiral Patel. “We are decelerating and will be able to come to boarding velocity in six minutes. We surrender and will agree to be boarded. Do not fire on us, please.”

  “He’s a cool customer for someone supposedly surrendering his ship,” Patel commented drily. McKay agreed…the Russian wasn’t so much as sweating. “He’s convinced he’s got us all figured out…”

  “Put me on with him, Mr. Mandel,” McKay told the communications officer. At her nod, he replied to the transmission. “You have your six minutes, Captain, but do not deviate from your present course or try to run. We will contact you again once we match velocities.”

  “You should consider a career in acting, McKay,” Patel said as the Communications officer cut the connection. “Helm, take us to one g acceleration to the turnover point, then decelerate to match velocities…but make sure we’re not too close.”

  “He’s almost there,” Pirelli said, eyeing the sensors. “Yeah, his drive’s shut down.” The fusion flare behind the computer enhanced image of the ship on the viewscreen had disappeared, and they could see the minute stars of maneuvering thrusters firing near the aft of the ship. “He’s slowed to near station-keeping velocity and he’s doing a turnaround. I expect he’s about to place the fusion trigger.”

  “Probably launched it already,” McKay said. “He only has a couple minutes left.”

  There was the flash of a miniature sun on the viewscreen. “And there it is,” Pirelli said with a nod.

  “Drive field deactivate. Fire lasers,” Patel ordered. “Target their drives but just miss.”

  “Aye, sir.” The young woman traced a finger on a control screen then tapped it and a crimson line flashed on the viewscreen as the computer simulated the laser pulse that hit just forward of the Protectorate ship’s drives where the armored hull plating was at its thickest, evaporating tons of it in a glowing plume of hot gasses.

  And then the Postavshchik was gone. A nothingness in space outlasted her passing by moments and then the stars returned.

  “She’s through,” Pirelli said redundantly.

  “Station keeping,” Patel ordered. “Ready the emitters to open the gate on my order.”

  “Without gravimetic sensors,” McKay mused, “it’ll be tough for them to see us come through, especially if they’re doing a fusion burn. The question is, do we want them to see us come through? On the one hand, if they see us come through behind them, it might spook them into running straight home. On the other hand, if they have a competent captain with some nerve, he’ll realize that we could be following them home and he’ll take us farther away from it.” He looked to Mironov. “Konstantin? What do you think? How will this Medvedev react?”

  “I served on his ship once,” Mironov said with a shrug. “He’s smart…but he’s more concerned with his skin than his duty. He’ll go somewhere safe.”

  “Helm,” Patel decided, “give him thirty minutes before you open the gate. That’ll give him time to clear it and be on his way to the next one before he sees us come through.”

  “Aye, sir,” Sweeney confirmed.

  McKay felt a vibration at his belt and looked down to see, with some annoyance, that someone was buzzing his ‘link. He put the ear bud in place and answered, “McKay here,”

  Patel glanced back at him with some annoyance, but said nothing. He knew the Admiral didn’t like any private communications on the bridge, but the Admiral knew him well enough to realize that he wouldn’t have taken the call if it wasn’t important.

  “McKay, this is Podbyrin,” the former Protectorate Colonel said to him over the communications link. “I’ve been doing as you asked and watching Mironov over the monitors in the auxiliary control room.”

  McKay studiously avoided looking at Mironov, who was still strapped into the acceleration couch next to him.
“Yes, I understand. Go ahead.”

  “Something is…” The Russian struggled for a phrase. “Something is not right about him, McKay. I am watching him and I see that he is too…too comfortable. This is very unnatural for him; he should be more out of place, more nervous. Instead, he looks as if he is on vacation.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” McKay replied ambiguously. “So, why do you think that might be?”

  “I can only think of two reasons. Either he is playing you…or he’s gone over the edge and he’s mentally unstable. Neither of these are a good thing.”

  “Well, I find the former difficult to believe, given our precautions,” McKay said carefully. “As for the latter…we don’t have much choice than to just deal with it. Thanks for letting me know, I’ll get back to you later.”

  He ended the call and shrugged an apology to Admiral Patel but his stomach was roiling and his head was pounding. He knew that Podbyrin was right and he’d been thinking the same thing himself: it was too easy. But there was no way Mironov could be a plant, he was certain of that: how the hell would Antonov have known the man would survive and be captured? Which left the possibility that the man was bat-shit insane; that, unfortunately, McKay could readily believe.

  I guess all we can do, McKay thought, is hope he’s crazy but not stupid. God, I wish Shannon were here. She’s so much better at reading people than I am.

  “All right,” Patel announced finally, “that’s enough time. Helm, open the gate and take us through. I want the drive field reactivated the moment we are through that gate. Tactical, sound battle stations.”

  McKay had a knot in his stomach as the wormhole expanded. If they were guessing wrong, they could be jumping right into a fusion missile, with their shields down. They would all be dead before they knew what hit them…or worse, they would see it coming but not have time to do anything about it. The thought of dying didn’t scare him so much as it frustrated him. There was just too much left to do for him to die now.