Augustus paused by the shaft entrance, waving Vronn inside.
‘All of them?’
‘They’re attacking the Gettysburg group now,’ Wyllym said. ‘I’m … doing what I can.’
‘Where’s the rest of the Navy?’ Augustus asked, as the last soldier filed through. The torch line was past the halfway mark. He ducked inside and began climbing, hoping not to get run over by another car or blown to bits by a sentry system.
‘Don’t know,’ Wyllym stammered. ‘You have to broadcast for help … use civilian channels.’
‘Help? From who?’
‘Anyone,’ Wyllym breathed. ‘Their shield tech works … rail fire ineffective …’
‘You’re kidding me …’
‘They’re not all protected,’ Wyllym said. ‘Can’t tell which. We need he—’
Augustus felt a dizzying wave of sickness overwhelm him. Gravity abruptly vanished, and the transmission from Wyllym dropped.
The quick-thinking OMSPECs above him seized the opportunity and began pulling themselves ‘upwards’ as fast as they could.
‘… God in heaven,’ he heard Wyllym breathe. ‘Are you alright?’
Augustus was still feeling a little queasy.
‘I’m fine, why?’
‘The Archangel,’ Wyllym said. ‘It’s here!’
‘What do you mean, “here”?’
Gravity suddenly returned, and an OMSPEC tumbled past Augustus as he held on for dear life.
34
JAKE
For several moments, the fighting ceased.
The Archangel, which had been half a million kilometres from us just moments ago, was now less than ten kilometres away.
We had been fighting for our lives when a disc brighter than the sun opened in the black of space. The Archangel emerged from a womb of light, the mysterious radiance centred on the gap at the mothership’s core.
Time stopped. I think everyone – Ceti, Navy, ghost and highborn alike – understood the significance of that moment: humans were in possession of a ship that could bridge the stars. The hopes and dreams of a race at the brink of extinction sailed through that seam in the fabric of spacetime.
It was like witnessing the birth of God.
But since we are His flawed, imperfect creatures, the killing resumed.
Before the Archangel’s surreal entrance, the opening salvo from the Gettysburg – eight independently targeted railguns launching tungsten sabots at twelve kilometres per second – shattered the spines of five ships. One of those was the Pretoria, whose exploding hull riddled the Breakaway with blistering fragments of molten shrapnel, disabling the port thruster and sparking an internal fire.
The remaining rounds also landed direct hits on three Ceti corvettes in the vanguard, including the Griefmaker. I know this because I saw the same line of shells that obliterated the Pretoria intersect with her conning tower, except the Griefmaker was unharmed.
With rail fire raining down on the fleet, Vladric Mors ordered the rearguard to engage the attacking Navy task force – all except for the Gryphons, of which there were now fourteen. Inexplicably, those fighters began attacking Navy ships, destroying a dozen Keating corvettes before the Gettysburg captain fully understood that the Gryphons had changed sides.
Dusty’s faith in Vladric Mors began to falter when he realised no shielded Ceti ship made any attempt to defend the ones that weren’t. In fact, some were openly attacking unprotected Ceti ships as they turned towards the Archangel, which had opened every one of her bay doors.
Rank madness had descended on Corinth. It was every ship and every man for himself. Ceti fired upon Ceti; Navy upon Ceti; Gryphon upon Navy; and all against the unshielded.
But Dusty wanted to believe. Still thought he could trust Vladric.
‘Griefmaker, I could use cover from this rail fire,’ he said. ‘Can you come left thirty degrees to assist my approach?’
I felt another stab in my skull and tried to warn him.
‘Dusty, don’t—’
He saw it a fraction of a second after I did, recognising the danger as the Griefmaker’s turrets swivelled aft and opened fire. I felt my stomach rise into my throat as Dusty pushed the Breakaway away from the line of fire.
A terrifying shudder rocked my seat. I heard groaning metal and the scream of fire alarms. We were hit.
Dusty was devastated.
‘Griefmaker, cease fire! Friendly at your six!’ he pleaded.
One of the rounds penetrated our damaged engine and nicked its confinement generator, releasing plasma before the automated shut-off could engage. Superheated matter struck the main hull, triggering an explosion that sent the Breakaway into a yawing spin. As Dusty fought the controls, the Minotaur, overpowering the centrifugal forces hammering me into my seat, leapt into action.
For a horse-man, he moved with surprising grace, pulling himself through the narrow, red-tinged corridors with speed and precision, following the rush of air towards the danger. Plummeting cabin pressure signalled a general containment failure, and that the fire – also following the air – would meet him head-on.
Past the galley, the corridor branched around the reactor compartment, sealed within bulkheads a metre thick. Armoured conduits jutting out from the compartment like spokes served power to the engines; the Minotaur was getting pulled towards the blue flames undulating like waves along the deck grating to the right.
Shielding his face from the heat, the Minotaur saw the problem: one of Dusty’s hobby projects had wedged itself into the track beneath a containment hatch, preventing it from sealing. The horse-man grabbed a fire extinguisher, planted himself against the hatch, and wailed on the debris with all his might, even as flames oozed up his hooved legs. With a final, desperate blow, it dislodged, and the spring-loaded hatch slammed shut.
Turning the fire extinguisher on himself, he cursed furiously at Dusty, vowing that he would make him beat out the next fire with his goddamn flip-flops.
But the young, naïve captain never paid attention. He was too desperate.
‘Can anyone tell me what’s happening?’ he cried on open comms. The space outside the Breakaway was a treacherous debris field of lifeless or dying starship hulks spinning out of control. In front of it all, the crowning blow of Vladric Mor’s betrayal of Ceti was laid bare for all to see: the Griefmaker and a parade of Ceti corvettes – all shielded, no doubt – were landing inside the colossal hangar bays of the Archangel.
Before I could react, the Minotaur seized the gun controls from me, and the Breakaway’s four cannons began spitting shells towards the Griefmaker.
‘Die!’ he howled. ‘You fucking bastard! Die!’
Dusty was unhinged, muttering something unintelligible.
‘You wanted to follow him,’ the Minotaur accused. ‘Here we are! Now savour the fucking moment.’
I couldn’t tell if our shells landed. It would make no difference if they had. Others followed our example and fired at the Griefmaker, stabbing for revenge before a Gryphon or Navy warship blotted them from existence.
I imagined our own end was imminent.
‘Oh, God!’ Dusty cried, nearly throwing me off balance as he turned the Breakaway hard. I couldn’t remember when I had stood up. ‘That Gryphon’s coming for us!’
Without looking, I knew he meant One-Three.
Throughout the chaos, the damaged fighter was performing an incredible feat of ship combat. Manoeuvring with preternatural dominance, it was using the Gettysburg and her rail fire as cover, from which it would emerge to unleash weapons, firing thrusters to yaw, pitch or roll away from counterattacks at precisely the right time.
In a span of seconds, I watched One-Three destroy four Ceti corvettes, all while being chased down by another Gryphon, who was simply unable to hit it.
A Navy frigate ended the Gryphon’s pursuit with cannon fire as One-Three continued its rampage through the Ceti fleet.
No one had ever seen anything like this. It was spiritual to beho
ld. I shared a bond with the pilot of that Gryphon. I knew he was dying; I could feel his heart struggle to continue beating. He was determined to take as much life with him as he could, including ours. We were in his sights, and reflexively, I put the Breakaway’s cross hairs on him.
‘Jack!’ Dusty shrieked, as he swung towards us from just sixty kilometres away. ‘Shoot him! Shoot!’
And that was when the Minotaur said:
‘Enough, Jake. It’s time.’
A moment of clarity. Every part of me was in agreement with the horse-man, even as the missile flew off the Gryphon’s rail.
A lifetime ago, a police academy instructor had told me what to say, when the moment arrived.
‘Gryphon One-Three, renegade, renegade, renegade!’ I said, alerting every Navy asset on the battlefield that I was an undercover agent. ‘Ident Nine-Three-Six-Oxide at your twelve, cease fire, renegade!’
The bright red icon of death on my weapons display converged on us, and I closed my eyes as Dusty flung the Breakaway over in a desperate bid to evade.
‘Nine-Three-Six-Oxide, tally,’ the cool, laboured voice said. The missile passed over the Breakaway, seeking another target. ‘Name and rank, please.’
‘Reddeck,’ I said. ‘Lieutenant Jake Reddeck.’
‘What … what are you doing?’ Dusty asked.
‘Reddeck?’ the voice repeated. ‘Tyrell’s son-in-law?’
Was I?
‘Yes, sir,’ the Minotaur said. ‘That’s me.’
35
AUGUSTUS
Mike was dead, and Augustus would never know what had killed him.
Whatever his fate, the climb lasted just twenty metres – two deck levels – before the missing soldier’s vitals flatlined. Then the adversary began firing at them from above, leaving him no choice but to abandon the plan and breach the first deck they could.
That placed them on the Archangel’s bioreactor lab, an open deck the size of a football pitch with rows of canisters containing everything from slush tank bacteria to human heart cell tissue. Several greenhouse enclosures lined the perimeter, above which hung an overhead deck gantry with four exits to the main concourse, making the area completely indefensible from any location within.
Men with strange rifles were already darting into the lab. As the OMSPECs tried to find cover, Augustus considered that this would be the exact setting his friend Wyllym wanted for himself: dying among a lot of plants.
‘Buy me some time,’ he said to the nearest soldier.
‘Yes, sir,’ the lad said, without a trace of fear in his voice.
Augustus looked towards the firstborn Gryphon pilot who had sacrificed so much.
‘Vronn,’ he said, offering his sidearm. ‘Don’t let them take you alive.’
The lieutenant took the weapon without saying a word, then flinched as the first gunshot rang out beside him. OMSPECs fired rifles and heaved grenades from behind thin metal bioreactors. Augustus hunched beside one and activated his broadcast comms. Over the sounds of desperation, he spoke as clearly as he could.
‘Attention Orionis civilians and friendly forces. This is Commander Augustus Tyrell of the Navy Police. The Archangel is no longer under Navy control and should be considered hostile. Civilians should avoid travel to Corinth or Tabit Prime. Any warships loyal to the Orionis government are encouraged to assist in the protection of civilians from Ceti forces. All ships are cautioned to exercise extreme vigilance at this time.’
An OMSPEC was knocked off his feet by a blast; he disintegrated before he could hit the deck. Enemies were so close that Augustus could hear their voices.
Wyllym confirmed what he already suspected would happen.
‘They’ve landed on the Archangel,’ Augustus heard in his earpiece. ‘You have to warn the Chancellor!’
Augustus switched channels. Vronn was seated with his back to a bioreactor – frozen, ineffective, resigned to his fate.
‘Chancellor, the Archangel is lost,’ Augustus said. ‘Advise you recall all loyal Navy forces for the possible defence of Tabit Prime. Make secure preparations to be evacuated for your own safety. It’s been an honour to serve …’
‘Ty, your son-in-law is here,’ Wyllym said. ‘He’s on a Ceti corvette. I’m escorting him now.’
‘Sir?’ he heard. The voice was painfully familiar.
A Navy crewman with no name stepped around the reactor and levelled a rifle at him.
Augustus smiled, summoning the gentlest voice he could.
‘You were good for Danna, son,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry for everything.’
The weapon stock struck him, and there was darkness.
36
JAKE
‘Sir?’ I heard myself repeat. ‘Dad?’
‘This is Captain Wyllym Lyons,’ the voice of One-Three said. ‘What ship is Vladric Mors on?’
‘The Griefmaker,’ the Minotaur answered.
‘Then it’s too late,’ Wyllym said. ‘Jake, you have to disengage now. Set course for Eris or Helena.’
‘He called me “son”,’ I said.
‘You can’t help him,’ Wyllym said. ‘Stay with me, Jake.’
I looked towards my friend. It was hard to see or breathe. Dusty’s hands were still on the controls. They were keeping us alive.
‘Dusty?’
‘That’s some cool shit you said there,’ he said. ‘Real fast thinking, man. Bought us some time.’
His breathing was shallow. And I no longer had control of the Breakaway’s weapons.
‘My name’s Jake,’ I said. ‘I’m a cop.’
‘There’s a lot of metal out here,’ Wyllym warned. ‘Change course or I can’t cover you.’
Dusty was frozen.
‘Are you in command?’ Wyllym demanded.
‘He’s our only way out,’ I said.
‘Is he?’ Dusty asked.
I felt the warning as he said it; the exact moment he gave up.
I lunged for him as the Breakaway lurched towards the Archangel on a suicide run. My actions were reflexive; one hand pushed the control stick over; the other punched Dusty in the helmet.
Lyons yelled something on the radio. I don’t know what.
Dusty was limp in his harness. Collision alarms sounded. I didn’t care. I didn’t want to hurt him. But he was broken, and so was I.
Then I heard – felt – the most awful noise you could hear in a ship: metal striking metal, a deafening, lingering crack. My inner ear sensed the ship take on another spin; whatever we had struck was a glancing blow somewhere aft.
I unstrapped Dusty, pushing him aside as I scrambled into the captain’s chair. Ripped his helmet off, put it on. Tried to make sense of the world. The Breakaway had lost her damaged thruster completely, leaving us with the centreline main and one manoeuvring jet. And I couldn’t fly worth shit in the best of times.
‘We’re alive,’ I said, fighting the controls as we corkscrewed forward. ‘I have command.’
‘The Gettysburg can cover an egress towards Eris,’ Wyllym breathed, his voice very laboured now. ‘I … can’t do anything else for you. Stay on my six. Good luck.’
I tried to keep the Breakaway on the Gryphon’s damaged rear as it turned and accelerated.
Rolling a few degrees per second, fires were raging inside the Gettysburg; there were more holes in her than I could count. She was so damaged I couldn’t believe there was any fight left in her at all.
The Archangel was just a bystander in this fight, but her bay doors were closing. If any more Gryphons had survived, they were aboard. The remaining Ceti ships were engaged in life and death struggles with Navy corvettes; the frigates Rio and Cologne were both dark and lifeless, drifting along the same path they had entered the fray from.
‘Gettysburg, I’m towing a Ceti corvette into your coverage,’ Wyllym announced. ‘Call sign Breakaway, she’s one of ours.’
As the battered cruiser turned towards us, I noticed the Minotaur watching me. He was horribly burned; skin was sloug
hing off his face. But there was no anger. He was thoughtful; introspective; admiring the human in me.
The Breakaway was a runaway dead shot now, burning towards the Gettysburg, where good people were dying to save my dreadful life.
I saw her break in two, and for a moment, I saw Danna in the light.
37
VESPA
Behind the brave face of a leader navigating a crisis, Chancellor Jade was resigned to defeat. Moving briskly from one decision to the next, the nightmares had prepared her for this moment for years. The Gift, she now understood, was a curse. Glimpsing the future was pointless without the means to change it. The Archangel was just one variable in the calculus of causation, a distraction from countless unknown, vital details she had missed – the greatest of which was herself.
By taking the Chancellorship, Vespa had assumed responsibility for the fate of humankind. Failure was not supposed to be an option. If she survived, she would have to accept the possibility that her premeditated actions had done more to doom Orionis than anything Vladric Mors had already done.
On the Tabit Genesis, the War Room was located on the main centreline of the original mothership. The microgravity environment was ideal for expediting the evacuation of government VIPs if necessary; a police gunship was docked directly outside the hull.
Real-time information from every Navy asset in Orionis was routed to this room. Unfortunately, the emergency response team of her government relied almost entirely on the Navy OPCOM leadership tier for strategic insight, and the members of that tier were either unresponsive or confirmed dead.
As the most senior Senator in the Orionis parliament, Brandon Tice was in attendance, assuming Augustus Tyrell’s responsibility for civilian safety. A Navy Police technician, Lieutenant Marson Andrews, was coordinating the intelligence feeds and deployment logistics. Colonel Haley Tors led the Chancellor’s security detail, and attending virtually was Captain Samson Jankovich, captain of the ONW Sacramento and commander of the battle group charged with the protection of Tabit Prime.
The Tabit Genesis Page 37
