by Nick Webb
“That’s right they did. And these people now? They’re doing the same. We’ll need counseling when it’s all over because of what we’re asking of them. But for now? To save civilization? You do what needs to be done. You ask for the sacrifices necessary to do the saving. You ask the impossible now while we have to, and sort the rest out later. Understand?” He sounded different than before. More confident. Like the old Tim.
It was a brief conversation—she had been pressed for time, trying to get this mission organized in such a compressed timeframe, and he was on his way to Earth for the manuscript translation mission. It felt necessary though. She’d ordered people to their deaths many, many times before.
But this time felt different.
“My fellow officers: thank you for volunteering,” she began. The hundred or so officers were standing in front of the small cargo container she’d scaled to see them all—they hadn’t enough time to set out seating, and it would be a short speech anyway. “I won’t sugar-coat this, and you all probably had a feeling this was the case.” She took a deep breath. “It is very likely that this is a one-way trip. And by very likely, I mean—well, you know what I mean.
“Our civilization is under attack, again. This time by an enemy that we know very little about. They attacked the colony at Zion’s Haven, and our forensics teams are there trying to piece together how it all went down, trying to glean something, anything that will help us. All we are sure of is that our enemy is vastly powerful. And that’s where you heroes come in. We need to stop them before they strike Earth. And to stop them, we need to know their capabilities. And to know that, we need to fight them. But given our lack of knowledge, and our lack of ships, it makes little sense to risk the entire fleet.
“And so we intend to engage them with a smaller fleet, composed of older, mothballed ships that are too damaged to salvage for regular service. You are to pilot this fleet, and engage the enemy, relentlessly, ferociously, holding nothing back. We need to draw out all their tactics, their weaponry, their defenses—we need to know what we’re dealing with before we throw our main fleet at them. And when we have gathered as much intel as we can, if there are any of us left, we can withdraw to fight another day.”
She watched their reaction. From her vantage point, she could see into every one of their faces. And to a man, to a woman, their reaction was . . . stoic. No grimaces, no looks of concern, no fear, no nothing. Just determination.
Tim was right.
She motioned to a man standing to the right of the cargo container. “This is Commander Shin-Wentworth. I’ve chosen him to lead the task force. He’s a veteran of the battle of Penumbra, as are many of you. I’ll let him speak for a moment before some final words.”
She stepped down from the cargo container, and waved him up. He cleared his throat hesitantly before talking. “I, uh, I don’t know entirely what to say. My background is science, and I never imagined leading a starship into battle, let alone a task force of them. But Admiral Proctor says I’ve got the chops and I have to believe her, given all that she’s done.” He took a few deep breaths. “My . . . uh . . . my family died on Britannia.”
He stopped. She studied his face. There were no tears. But his lips pressed together tightly. “My parents. Two brothers and their spouses and kids. When they died, a part of me died too. When Britannia died, I think we,” he pointed out at the assembled crowd, “I think we all died a little.” He cleared his throat. “And now, on Paradiso, where the enemy is headed, is my wife. And my two kids. That’s why I’m here. To prevent another Britannia. That’s why you’re here. To throw ourselves at the enemy and fight like hell and make them pay for even thinking about attacking our kids, our families.” He beat a fist against his hand. “I would give anything—anything—for my little nephews back, and my brothers. I would give anything, do anything, fight anything, kill anything to keep it from happening to my wife and kids, to another one of our worlds, another one of our homes. And I think you all feel the same.” He finally sniffed, the first indication of real emotion, besides his words. “Sorry—I won’t, uh, drone on. I’m not really meant for this kind of thing. Once the Admiral’s XO sends out assignments, I’ll meet with the team leaders and go over some tactical plans. Thank you all.”
He stepped down. Beforehand, she’d wondered if he was the right man for the job. But that satisfied her. He’d do just fine.
Her comm device buzzed and Commander Urda’s voice sounded out for the whole bay to hear, given the utter silence. “Admiral, we’re one t-jump away from Wellington. Commander Zivic messaged saying the task force is ready to receive the crews.”
“Thank you, Commander.” She stepped back onto the cargo container. “We all have jobs to do. Let’s go do them. And if we live to fight another day, God willing I’ll still be there, fighting alongside each of you. Dismissed.”
She stepped back down and approached Shin-Wentworth, about to run over some last-minute items with him.
SHELBY, THEIR ARRIVAL AT PARADISO IS IMMINENT.
How imminent? she answered her companion.
GO. NOW.
“Goddammit,” she whispered. Time. There was never, ever enough time. “Commander, it’s show time,” she said to Shin-Wentworth. “As soon as we arrive, you get your teams in place, and then we’re gone.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Britannia Sector
Donnelly Station
When the shooting started, Officer Heinz had gotten them into one of the data centers that overlooked the main hallway. He figured the vantage point would at least give them a temporary tactical advantage, perhaps let them figure out a way to hide until the IDF ship showed up to rescue them.
“My god. Who the hell are they?”
“I don’t recognize the uniforms,” said Heinz.
“But they’re wearing uniforms!” said Sepulveda. “These aren’t just a ragtag group of terrorists. They’re organized. Is this a state actor? RC? CIDR? GPC?”
“No idea, sir. That’s not my wheelhouse,” said Heinz. He hefted the assault rifle up to a hole in the window. “This is my wheelhouse.” He fired off three rounds, and, peeking over the windowsill to the deck below, Sepulveda watched three of the assailants drop, two with gushing holes in their necks, one screaming and holding his leg.
“Well, they’re human, at least. No interstellar wars starting today. Civil war is bad enough. Just think of the mess if they were Dolmasi. As if we didn’t have enough to worry about with the big bad Findiri on their way. And how the hell was my location leaked?” His thoughts were coming out in a stream-of-consciousness jumble.
“No idea, sir. But what’s clear is that we have to move. There’s over a hundred of them, and it looks like they’ll overwhelm the defenses sooner rather than later.”
Sepulveda found it remarkable how the officer maintained such a steady, no-nonsense voice in the midst of the chaos. He himself was on the ground, his hands over his ears to protect them from the pounding of the weapons. His two men? The picture of unflappable military professionalism. “Right. Let’s get off the station.”
They both turned to him. “Sir?”
“Out. Outside.”
“You’re kidding,” said Heinz.
He wanted to yell, but instead just snarled through gritted teeth. “Does it look like I’m kidding?”
Officer Tapper paused. “You know, he’s right. Goddammit, he’s right. In here we’re outnumbered a hundred to one. Out there? It’ll take them at least a few minutes to find us, and then how many of them will be able to suit up and come out after us before IDF shows up?”
“Brilliant. Let’s go,” said Heinz. He tapped his earpiece. “Heinz to Felt, you there? Yes, sir, I realize that. Yes, sir, he’s alive. Tell me—nearest airlock to our position? Uh huh. Got it. Thanks.” He looked up and pointed toward the door. “Just down the hall, next to the escape pod. Let’s go.”
By the time they closed the door behind them, Sepulveda could tell the main promenade of th
e station had nearly fallen to the invaders. The hail of gunfire almost deafened him. His heart pounded so hard it made it difficult to hear what Heinz was saying.
“Mr. President? Into the suit, now! As fast as you can!”
He was holding out a vacuum suit from a locker on the wall, and Sepulveda snatched it away and began stepping into it, pulling the surprisingly light fabric up his legs, torso, arms, and finally neck, where he was able to secure it into place with one of the vac-zippers.
“I’ve never worn one before—am I doing this right?”
“Fine, you’re fine. Just get that helmet on, plug it into the suit, check the O2, and lets get you the hell out.”
He paused for a brief moment before pulling the helmet on. Gunfire still raged outside the door, and it sounded even closer than before. “Wait—you? Get you?” He finally noticed that Tapper had donned a vacuum suit, but Heinz was still flanking the door, standing guard.
“Yeah, you. Tapper’s going with you. I’m buying you some time.”
“No. You’re com—”
“End of discussion, Mr. President. You do your job, and I do mine! Move! Now!”
The helmet on, he reached down to his wrist to check the oxygen level and seal. The green meter lit up to over eighty percent. He was no expert on space walks, but that seemed good enough for him. He gave Heinz a quick thumbs up.
“Into the airlock!” Tapper shouted. The gunfire outside in the hallway was sounding closer and closer, punctuated every now and then by a scream.
My god, is this really how I’m going out? Killed by fanatical gunmen just a few months into my presidency?
The airlock door closed behind them, and Tapper began working the controls to pump the air out and get the outer hatch open.
“Dammit!” said Tapper, pounding once on the console. “It’s going to take two minutes.” He glanced around the small space, his eyes finally resting on some grab bars drilled into the sides of the lockers. “There,” he said, pointing. “Hold on tight, Mr. President. We’re doing an explosive decompression.”
“Is that safe?”
“Safer than getting shot.” Tapper held tight to one of the bars with one hand, his other hand hovering over the console. He’d strapped the assault rifle to his back. “Ready?”
Sepulveda clutched the bar with both hands and pulled his body in tight to the side of the locker. He closed his eyes. “Ready.”
Tapper tapped the button and the hatch began to open. A gale-force wind, strong enough to knock Sepulveda off his feet had he not been holding onto the support bar, blew past him. What surprised him more was the rush of adrenaline that surged through his body, allowing him to keep himself held rigidly to the locker without so much as a waver in the face of the powerful wind. President S.! He’s pretty good!
And as soon as it started, it was over. Sepulveda felt a hand slap his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see Tapper unstrap his assault rifle and wave them both toward the dizzying interstellar blackness beyond the hatch. The officer’s mouth was moving but he couldn’t hear a thing, save the rustling of his own suit against his skin.
Tapper reached over to Sepulveda’s helmet and tapped a button. The radio commlink scratched to life.
“Move!”
He released his death grip on the bar and followed Tapper toward the hatch. Outside the station was another support bar that he pointed at, and Sepulveda grabbed it, pulling himself outside.
As soon as he passed the threshold of the hatch, the artificial gravity disappeared, and he felt his boots energize with what he assumed was enough magnetic force to keep his feet firmly attached to the station’s outer metal skin. Sure enough, he took a tentative step, swaying a bit with the unfamiliar sensation of zero-g, but finding his footing firm enough to take another few steps.
“We’ve got about ten minutes until IDF gets here, sir. The enemy will know we’re out here before long. Let’s find either a place to hide, or a more defensible spot.” Tapper scanned the surface of the station. “There,” he said, pointing with his assault rifle to an array of communication dishes. “Let’s move.”
Sepulveda followed Tapper, who moved at a brisk pace to the array. Once there, the officer motioned him toward one of the dishes. “Crouch behind this and don’t move.”
He did as he was told. “And then what? We just wait? Wait for them to pick us off?”
“Like Heinz said, they probably want you alive, or they’d have just slagged the whole station like they did Interstellar One.”
He couldn’t hear a single sound from outside his suit except what came over the radio, which made what happened next seem so surreal he almost didn’t believe it. A hole appeared in the dish above him. Then another. And then finally a whole chunk of it just blew right off.
“Shit. They’re firing at us,” said Tapper.
“Well there goes that theory.”
“Move!” Tapper pushed Sepulveda from behind the dish toward the second row of the array behind them, then shoved him flat against the surface of the station. He whipped back up and brought the assault rifle to bear on the hatch they’d escaped from. The only way Sepulveda could tell he was firing was from the recoil acting on the man’s body. Pulse after pulse, for what seemed like a minute.
“Shit. They’ve flanked us. Another hatch over there,” he pointed off to their right. “And a third,” he pointed to their left.
“We’re not going to make it.” Sepulveda squeezed his fists, forced his racing thoughts to focus, and closed his eyes. “Tapper, stop. Hold the gun up over your head, let it drift away from us. Then we stand up very slowly. Understood?”
“Mr. President, I—”
“I said, understood?” He practically yelled it.
Tapper swore softly, but nodded. He released his grip on the assault rifle and let it drift above them, giving it a little tap to set it slowly spinning.
They both started to stand up, holding their hands high. He could see a few vac-suited soldiers scramble out of all three hatches and begin to advance on them.
“How much time until IDF gets here?” Sepulveda asked.
“Five minutes, Mr. President.”
In the distance he could see a shuttle approach them, coming from the direction of the enemy ships. He didn’t recognize any of the markings. Who the hell were these people? In his gut, he just knew that it was Senator Cooper. She’d paid off some obscure well-armed militia group. Russian Confederation folks? Or some splinter of the GPC? Either way, she was biting off more than she could chew, as he just realized that the attempt on her life and on his were taking place less than twenty-four hours apart.
“That shuttle’s coming to take us to their ship, sir. IDF’s not going to make it in time.”
“No shit.”
Something flashed out of the corner of his eye. He whipped his head to the right just in time to see the men who’d come out of the hatch start to float away from the station.
They were limp, and spinning.
Another flash to his left.
And then, his whole view lit up with gunfire streaking past. It came from behind him, and above, and slammed into all the targets on their right and ahead of them. A stream of rounds lashed out at the enemy ship in the distance.
“Well. Looks like IDF can put the pedal to the metal when they need to,” said Sepulveda. “Cavalry’s here. What did Felt say? Four ships? That ought to be enough.”
“Sir, that’s not IDF. Just a single gunship. Probably no match for the things that slagged Interstellar One.”
It shot in close to them. While large, and bristling with gun turrets, now that it had gotten in close to them he could see that it was indeed just a tenth the size of those two other ships out there. It came in closer and closer, alarmingly fast.
“Shit,” he said, and started to run. Tapper grabbed him.
“Wait, sir. A hatch is opening on it. Someone’s there in a vac-suit, waving us in.”
“So, not trying to kill us?”
&nb
sp; “Yes, but,” Tapper hesitated. “They’re not IDF. We have no idea who they are.”
Flashing from the other ship indicated that they’d shaken off their surprise and were responding to the new threat. He had to make a decision.
“They’re shooting at people trying to kidnap me. I’ll take my chances.”
The waiting open hatch to the ship was now just meters away. The figure standing in the opening had suddenly produced an assault rifle. Sepulveda froze momentarily, but then saw they were firing it to their left, toward some other vac-suited figures that were sprinting toward them.
“It’s now or never, sir. We’ve gotta jump.”
“If we miss . . .” He didn’t even want to think about the gut-wrenching idea of spinning helplessly in interstellar space, drifting away from the station.
“One, two, three,” Tapper wasn’t waiting for him. He grabbed his hand and together they made the leap. Sepulveda hadn’t even thought about it, but fortunately his mag-boots were smart enough to know he wanted off.
They sailed into the open hatch and crashed against the far wall. Sepulveda felt the welcome sudden return of gravity. He saw the hatch close and felt the vague churn in his stomach and inner ear that told him the ship was making some incredible accelerations, hard enough that the inertial cancelers were having trouble keeping up.
And then, through the window of the airlock, he saw a flash of light, and the star field was replaced by a red glow. He put his face up to the window and recognized the now-familiar hellish maelstrom that had been humanity’s second home. The graveyard of Britannia.
He could hear.
“Mr. President? Mr. President? You can take the helmet off. We’ve got air.”
He fiddled with the latches and pulled it off. The suited figure who’d waved them aboard had removed hers as well. A striking younger woman, her face bearing the faint outlines of some old scars.
“I think I recognize you—” he began.
“As well you should, Mr. President. And I’m fairly sure you’ll recognize her more.” She motioned to the door to the airlock, which was in the process of opening.
