Sandy shook her head in disbelief. It was rare for pirates to deploy more than one or two ships at a time. Mercenaries might have small squadrons, but it was still unusual for private organisations to deploy more than five ships in a single operation. Even corporations rarely operated so many warships. But the raiders had deployed nine ships and were clearly acquiring more. Where the hell were they coming from?
“One piece of interesting news,” Jess added. “There was apparently a battle, at roughly the same time we were being taken onboard. They lost two ships to a Federation cruiser.”
“Good for the Captain,” Sandy said. She hesitated, then plunged on. “If you’re going down to the surface, couldn't you slip away and hide? Tell the Captain what we’re doing?”
Jess tapped her collar, meaningfully. “I wouldn't bet on this thing not killing anyone who deserted,” she said. “Have you found a way to remove it?”
Sandy flushed in embarrassment. The collar was so omnipresent that she’d grown used to its presence, then forgotten it was there. It was a droll reminder that if she stepped too far out of line, she could be punished ... and, she guessed, that it would alert senior officers if she went somewhere she shouldn't. Or simply immobilise her until they picked her up and shot her full of truth drugs.
“No,” she admitted. But she’d barely looked. There were no computer files concerning the collars, at least as far as she’d been able to tell. The odds were that the unlock codes were stored in someone’s private implants, utterly inaccessible without their cooperation. “What about you?”
“I could cut it off with a monofilament blade,” Jess said. “But if they were telling the truth, it would explode and kill me. I might be able to take a debonder to it ...”
“You’d kill yourself,” Sandy said, concerned. She made a face, then glanced at her watch. Her supervisor had told her to report to him before her next shift started. “We’ll think of something, all right?”
Jess nodded, reluctantly. “All right,” she said. “I’ll keep my eyes open. Just ... don’t fuck up now.”
“You too,” Sandy said. “You too.”
She walked back through the ship’s corridors and stepped into her supervisor’s office. To her surprise, there were two other officers waiting for her, both wearing the dark red uniforms that indicated command staff. And neither of them, she couldn't help noticing, had a collar.
“These gentlemen wish to talk to you,” James said. “Good luck.”
He left, leaving them alone. Sandy suddenly felt very exposed as the officers turned their gaze on her, fighting hard not to cringe at the cold inhumanity in their gaze. Dragons weren't human – they were very far from human – but they still had feelings. The officers ... seemed to be complete emotionless.
“We understand that you have tactical experience,” the lead officer said. The other merely watched her through cold eyes. “Is that correct?”
Sandy nodded, wordlessly.
“You will accompany us to the tactical centre,” the officer stated. “If you are found to be skilled, you will work with us. If you have wasted our time, you will be punished. Come.”
He turned and led the way out of the office. Sandy followed him as he led her into the tactical section, where a handful of officers and crew were running simulations on their consoles. Sandy had to admit it looked professional, apart from the atmosphere of pure fear in the air. None of the TFN officers had ever made their trainees so fearful. But then, they hadn't been allowed to torture the recruits either.
“Take the console,” the officer ordered, pointing to one that stood vacant. “The simulation will begin in two minutes.”
Sandy sat down and hastily reconfigured the console. The TFN allowed its operators to configure the system to suit themselves, something the Colonial Militia had not seen fit to duplicate. Just another piece of evidence, she decided, that the raider officers came from the Federation. She had the system ready just in time to meet the first offensive, a series of missiles launched towards her craft. They were using standard TFN training simulations, which started easy, but rapidly grew harder and harder, forcing her to juggle multiple problems at once. By the time she was finally overwhelmed, she was sweating heavily and thoroughly exhausted.
“Acceptable,” the officer stated. He placed a hand on her shoulder in a manner that puzzled her. It was neither reassuring nor lecherous. “You are hereby assigned to my section. If you fail to live up to my standards, you will be punished.”
He read it in a manual, Sandy realised, as he reset the console and strode off. He placed his hand on my shoulder because he thought he had to do it, because he read it in a manual. What sort of person is he?
“They say he overdosed on something,” the young man next to her whispered. “He has no feelings at all.”
Sandy could believe it. The raiders had done enough damage to their fellow humans to make it clear that they were murderous bastards, at the very least. An unfeeling person would quite happily bombard civilian populations, if he thought it would serve his purpose.
And yet he’d done her a favour, if not quite in the manner he might have intended. Being a tactical officer would allow her a chance to learn more, she hoped, but it would also limit her. It was clear that her new superior intended to force her to work hard, ensuring that she would have little time to spy on the rest of the crew. But she had to get a message out, somehow. And she also needed to find a way to remove the collar.
And the longer I stay here, the more compliant I will be in their crimes, she thought, numbly. She'd thought she’d known the risks, but they hadn’t really sunk in until she’d actually taken the tactical console. I’ll be as bad as them. And my own people will hunt me down.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“That’s the last of the ships, sir,” Dana reported.
Jason nodded. He disliked linking up with the rest of the ships in hyperspace; few officers cared to hold position in the murky environment when normal space was much safer. But there was little alternative. Xenophon might not be the most developed world in the Bottleneck Republic, but there was a Colonial Militia base only three light years away and starships regularly visited the planet. A distress call could bring help far too quickly for his comfort.
He looked down at the display, checking the ships. Ford had been as good as his word; there were three new light cruisers and two destroyers, all crewed with a mixture of experienced crewmen and new recruits. The winnowing process had thinned them out, unsurprisingly, but they’d taken on more than they needed to compensate. None of the crews were fully ready to go into action, he knew, yet the raw material was there. They just needed to be bloodied, to be tainted so they couldn't walk away. And then there would be nowhere for them to go.
A thin smile touched his lips as he looked at the freighter. She was smaller than the average freighter, designed more for speed than bulk. But she was key to the operation, assuming that everything went perfectly. If it didn't ... well, the one advantage of lurking in hyperspace was that hardly anyone would know that they were there. They’d slip away, leaving the planet's guardians none the wiser.
“Good,” he said. “And the freighter?”
“They're ready,” Dana assured him. “They can move on your command.”
“Then tell them to jump when ready,” Jason ordered. “And hold the rest of the fleet at full readiness. I want to jump in as soon as we receive the report from our scout.”
***
Commander Vincent Lombardi looked around his command centre, checking that his crew were carrying out their duties. It was hard enough to keep crew on orbital battlestations under normal circumstances, but everyone was on edge after hearing about the attacks on alien refugee camps. The fact that there was a camp on Xenophon’s surface was enough to concentrate a few minds, even among crewmen who thought that being on a starship was more impressive to the ladies than serving on an orbital battlestation. But then, ever since the Dragons had been pushed out of the Fairf
ax Cluster, it had been the starships that had won the glory. There was little left for the orbital stations.
He allowed himself a tight smile as he surveyed the orbital display. Xenophon had nearly fifty freighters in orbit, all carrying supplies to and from the colony world. His operators couldn't see it, but he could; the economic recovery was well underway. Given time – and some breathing space – he was sure that Xenophon would rapidly exceed its pre-war position and become a major asset to the sector. The government was already investing in industrial nodes that would allow them to supply the sector with more than just starships or food. If the economy had been warped by the war, Xenophon would be in a good position to take advantage as it was slowly put back on a peacetime footing.
A portal flared into life above the planet and he leaned forward, interested. There was no scheduled arrival, although that meant nothing. The Fairfax Cluster’s independent traders had never been very scrupulous about filing flight plans, even before the war. Besides, none of the local governments would risk damaging the fragile economy by insisting that they did, not when the traders could simply go elsewhere. There just weren't enough trading ships to handle even the basic requirements, let alone ship aliens to a central collection point.
Should have purchased the ones from the Federation, he thought. The end of the war had left the Bottleneck Republic determined to build up its military so it wouldn't be pushed to the wall again, but it had limited the funds available for other purchases. Much of the shipping the Federation Navy had sold off had gone to the corporations, rather than the independent traders. We could have purchased them ...
He pushed the thought aside as a small freighter appeared. The portal closed behind her as she brought her drive online, then headed towards the planet. Vincent checked her IFF and relaxed slightly as he saw that she was a fast freighter from Fairfax. They were not an uncommon sight in the Fairfax Cluster, carrying small cargos that couldn't be stored in a stasis pod for one reason or another. Or simply carrying datachips. Vincent’s second cousin worked on one of the freighters; he’d claimed that he'd once been paid a thousand credits just for transporting a datachip from one world to another. It had all gone to him too, rather than the CO.
“Sir,” the sensor operator said. “The Speedy Gonzales is requesting permission to dock.”
Vincent blinked in surprise. Did the ship carry special orders from Fairfax, orders too sensitive to be beamed through hyperspace? Or was someone playing games?
“Check their codes,” he ordered, shortly. If the codes matched, they would have to allow the freighter to dock. “And then pass me the authorization codes.”
“Here, sir,” the operator said. “They check out as current.”
“Assign her a docking slot,” Vincent ordered. The codes informed him that the freighter’s orders came from the very highest authority on Fairfax. There would be questions asked on the planet below, he knew, but for the moment he had to accept them. “But inform her CO that the remainder of his crew must remain on the ship.”
“Aye, sir,” the operator said. “Maybe they're coming to bring us extra pay.”
Vincent snorted. Knowing the militia, the rumour of extra pay would be all over the planet within hours ... and it would be complete nonsense. In theory, Xenophon was supposed to be paying the officers assigned to protect her, but pay was often delayed by one or two months. Given enough time, the militia joked, the only people who would actually make any money would be the lawyers. Several rumours suggested that the wrangles over who picked up the tab were actually been encouraged by the lawyers. Or the Federation.
“I highly doubt it,” he sneered, rather sardonically. “It’s much more likely they bring bad news.”
***
Captain Laneway was dying. He knew the cause – a Dragon biological weapon, unleashed during the later days of the war – but he couldn't afford to get proper treatment. Paying for his children to be treated had been hard enough, forcing him deep into debt. The offer to pay off his remaining debts had been too good to be true, yet when he’d checked it out everything had seemed solid. All he had to do was take his freighter to Xenophon and hand over a small box to the station's captain.
It had crossed his mind that the box contained something illegal, but he’d been reassured by the simple fact that very little was actually completely forbidden in the Fairfax Cluster. He didn't live in the Federation, after all, and Xenophon had no sin laws. The payment – half in advance – had been enough to quiet his fears. He’d taken his crew to Xenophon and docked at the station. Now, all he had to do was wait for the CO and hand over the box.
***
Deep in the bowels of his ship, a detector registered that they had docked at the station. It checked and double-checked, then turned off the magnetic field preventing the antimatter charge from meeting matter. Seconds later, the explosion vaporised the freighter and shattered the orbital battlestation.
***
“I’m picking up a signal from our scout,” Dana reported. “The station is gone!”
“Good,” Jason said. A single orbital battlestation was a tricky customer. He had no idea how Mr. Ford had obtained the codes to allow him to slip an antimatter charge past the station's defensive shields, but the plan appeared to have worked perfectly. “Raise shields, then take us out into normal space.”
***
Commander Jean Hammond stared in disbelief at where the colossal orbital battlestation had been. It was as large as a superdreadnaught, with twice as much firepower; she’d known that it was almost completely invulnerable to anything smaller than a superdreadnaught squadron or a full wing of starfighters. The station had cost half the planet’s military budget for two years, yet it had been worthwhile. No one had committed an act of aggression in Xenophon orbit ever since the station had been declared operational.
Until now, she realised. Terrorists – normal terrorists – didn't have access to antimatter. It was one of the few products that both the Federation and the Bottleneck Republic explicitly banned in private hands. If someone had gone to all that effort to take out the station, they had something more in mind than random terrorism. Unless she missed her guess, the system was about to be attacked.
She glared down at her console as Primrose came to life. The destroyer had been completely stepped down, allowing the engineers a chance to work on her drives; no one had anticipated trouble at Xenophon. Everyone knew that there were raiders attacking alien refugee camps, but Xenophon was actually well defended. Or it had been, she acknowledged grimly. Now, the defence rested in the hands of a destroyer and a handful of automated weapons platforms.
“Commander,” the tactical officer said, “everyone in orbit is breaking loose and running.”
“Let them go,” Jean ordered. She would have liked to stop them – basic tactics suggested that one of them was spying for the raiders – but she knew better than to try. In the time it would take her to stop one of them, the others would make it into hyperspace. “Link us into the planetary defence network and ...”
“Contact,” the sensor officer snapped. There was a hint of panic in her voice. “I make fifteen portals; I say again, fifteen portals.”
“Take a deep breath,” Jean said. The destroyer’s senior sensor officer was down on the planet, along with her Captain and a third of the crew. “Then give me a list, calmly.”
The sensor officer swallowed, then looked up. “I make it five light cruisers, seven destroyers and three frigates,” she reported. “They’re charging weapons.”
“Bring up our point defence,” Jean ordered. She rapidly considered her options. The Colonial Militia was trained to place their bodies between the colonies and harm’s way, but Primrose was badly outnumbered and outgunned. “Then send an emergency distress call.”
“Aye, sir,” the communications officer said.
She sounded hopeful. Jean knew better. It would be at least two hours before anyone could reach Xenophon, more than enough time for the atta
ckers to lay waste to the planet and vanish back into hyperspace. And even if they did, they would need to mass a formidable squadron to take on the raiders. The Colonial Militia was too badly spread out to concentrate its forces quickly.
“The planetary defence force is launching fighters,” the tactical officer reported. “We’re linked into the planetary datanet; automated weapons platforms are standing by, ready to fire. Planetary defence grid armed, ready to fire.”
Jean shook her head. Xenophon hadn't built the interlocking defences of Fairfax and the other major colonies, let alone the colossal defences of Earth. They might bleed the raiders, but it was unlikely that they could stop them. All the starfighter pilots could do was die bravely.
“Picking up a signal,” the communications officer said. “It’s being transmitted all over the system.”
“Put it through,” Jean said.
“... Is the Colonial Liberation Front,” a voice said. It sounded masculine – and overexcited. “No more will our worlds be blighted by alien filth. No more will our worlds be sacrificed to the interests of Federation politicians who did not share our blood and suffering. No more!”
Knight's Move Page 27
