by Jay Allan
Semmes stood in place, his expression leaving no doubt he thought that Wells was insane as well as incompetent. But Stanton had a different look on her face, one of dawning realization.
“It’s a lovely fantasy you spin,” Semmes said, “but you’re forgetting the station’s AI will shut down all functionality. They’ll have to destroy the equipment, if they can even find it. They only have two hours, then the squadron will move in and take the station back.”
“No, Colonel, you’re forgetting the recent breakout from Cargraves Prison. Who do you think facilitated Dr. Holcomb’s escape? And where do you think the doctor is now?” He shook his head. “You’re underestimating them again.”
Stanton stared at Wells, her expression morphing into one of shock, of near-panic. “Holcomb is a weapons and communications expert, Everett. Could he cut the jamming system in two hours? Or could he reactivate the self-destruct protocols or overload the reactor?”
“I don’t know, Asha. But if I was you, I’d start thinking about how I’m going to deal with massive uprisings planetwide.”
He wanted to feel satisfaction, knowing those who’d been sent to replace him now found themselves in a world of shit. But this was as much his fault as theirs, and despite the fact that he faced the almost certain end of his career, he was still loyal to Federal America. Sure, he understood the rebels, more at least than Stanton and Semmes and others like them, but he did not believe they had a right to revolt. They were citizens of Federal America, and he condemned them for attacking their own government. And he knew there were thousands of inhabitants of Alpha-2, perhaps close to half to population, that remained loyal to the Earth government. The road to independence for Alpha-2 was a terrible one. He’d tried every way he could think of to avoid it, but to no avail. And he realized the worst still lay ahead. For both sides.
Morgan pressed herself against the bulkhead, standing back from the corridor. Her people had done well, but they weren’t finished yet. Holcomb had made it clear he needed access to the control room to have any chance of disabling the jamming system. And the bridge was the last place the station’s guards were holding out.
“Colonel . . .” Sasha Nerov’s voice crackled through on the comm. The jamming was directed at the surface, but it was still affecting Vagabond’s comm, if less than completely.
“Yes, Captain?” She regretted the impatience in her tone the moment she uttered her reply. She knew if Nerov was calling her in the middle of the battle it had to be important, and most likely downright critical.
“We’ve got federal warships inbound, Colonel. Looks like eight ships, the entire blockading squadron.” She left unspoken the one thing both of them knew. Each of those vessels had a full platoon of shock troops, more than enough to board and retake the station.
“Fuck.” Morgan muttered the curse under her breath. “How long?”
“One hour, fifty minutes, at least for the first three ships. The others are strung out, coming in from their patrol stations. But they’ll all be in range in less than eight hours.”
“Three ships will be more than enough. There’s no way my remaining troops can repel over a hundred fresh federals.”
“Then you’ve got less than two hours, Colonel. Or all this was for nothing.”
“Understood. Morgan out.” She looked down the corridor. She had fourteen of her people here. Another dozen, at least, were down, and the others were scattered around the station, spread too thin as it was. She needed to rush the bridge, and damn the consequences. But she had to have more strength . . . and there was only one place to get it.
She tapped her comm unit. “Captain Killian . . .” She paused, almost changing her mind. But it was the only way. “I need your help. Can you get up here immediately with your people?”
“On my way, Colonel.” The connection was staticky, but she could hear it in his voice, the thing she feared.
Eagerness.
“In place, now . . . all of you. We have to hold the bridge until the squadron arrives.” Cross knew that wasn’t going to happen, but no thread of her experience as a leader told her she should be honest with her people, not now. They needed to believe they had a chance, and she had to feed that delusion any way she could. The fighting on the station had been brutal, with neither side offering or expecting quarter. And if her people were marked to die, she’d resolved it would be weapons in hand, fighting to the end.
She’d watched the battle out in the corridor, everyone on the bridge had. She’d been on her way to direct the battle personally, but she’d only gotten a few meters down the hall before she heard the sounds of fighting just ahead and scrambled back.
The guards outside had been in a strong position, with a deadly field of fire down the only approach available to the invaders. The rebels had been pinned down, but then something had lit a fire under them. They’d launched an all-out attack. They paid dearly for it, but they’d also reached the outer door to the bridge . . . and killed every federal soldier they found there.
Now the glow of a plasma torch cutting through the armored bulkhead was visible. In a minute, perhaps less, the rebels would be through . . . and the final battle for the station would begin. Cross only had half a dozen of her people with her—two security troopers and the rest bridge officers.
The final battle wouldn’t last long.
She walked behind a large console, ducking down and pulling her pistol from the holster. She stared at the door, aiming, ready, watching as the sparks from the torch moved up . . . then to the side.
The bridge was silent, save for the sounds of her people breathing and the crackling sound of the torch cutting through the bulkhead. Each passing second was slow, excruciating, but she held firm, waiting.
Waiting . . .
“Let me be perfectly clear, Captain. Anyone who surrenders in there is to be taken prisoner. Not gunned down, not slit across their throats. Not scalped.” She had heard the rumors and she had no intention of tolerating barbarism from anyone under her command.
She wasn’t sure Killian realized he was actually under her command, but if he pressed her too hard, he would find out.
“Understood, Colonel.” The ranger’s voice was matter-of-fact, with no trace of defiance or resentment. And that made her even more nervous.
Morgan looked down the corridor. The two troopers with the torch were almost done; in a few seconds her people would swarm inside the station’s control room. The fortress would be theirs. For an hour and a half. Then the federal ships would be there . . . and her battered and exhausted forces would try to hold out against the fresh federal shock troops, an effort she knew would be futile.
“Prepare to assault!” Her people were exhausted. The fight to take the station had been a hard one, and they’d lost heavily. But she knew they could do this. So could Killian and his people. Whatever she thought of the rangers and their ways of battle, they were effective fighters. For all they unnerved her, she was glad to have the bushwhackers with her.
She watched as the torch reached the end of the door. The two soldiers pushed forward, and the heavy metal hatch crashed to the floor inside the control room.
Her people poured through, firing as they did. The enemy was shooting as well, and she saw one of her people fall. Then another.
Two of the enemy had been hit as well, and they were lying over the consoles they’d used as partial cover. Morgan dove for her own cover, snapping up to firing position behind a large structural support. She saw one of the federals behind a workstation, turned away from her, moving to target one of her people.
Her pistol snapped up. It cracked. Once, twice. The federal fell back, his hands moving to his neck as blood poured from a clearly mortal wound.
She was already slipping around the edge of the girder, moving along the periphery of the bridge. The assault had bogged down into a firefight, her people and the surviving federals exchanging fire from whatever cover they could find.
She’d been surprised how
easy it was to shoot the federal soldiers, how deeply the call of battle had taken her. She might feel differently later, that the emotions conflicting within her could break out of the place she’d penned them in. Probably would. The troopers on the station weren’t colonial security forces or anti-insurgency forces from Earth, forces she regarded as little more than bullies in uniform. These were Federal America regulars, and if the personnel assigned to station security weren’t quite the veteran soldiers who’d fought at her side in the war, they weren’t different enough to prevent her from feeling something about the fact that she’d just shot them down.
She crept forward, looking out across the bridge. She caught a glimpse of an officer—the station commander, she realized immediately. The federal was staring toward the door, exchanging shots with two rebels.
Shoot her . . . shoot her now and this is over . . .
She moved slowly, silently, bringing the pistol to bear. She aimed carefully, methodically . . . but she didn’t shoot. She couldn’t.
She lunged forward before her mind had time to react. When it did, it was screaming at her to stop, but it was too late. The impulse had taken her. She raced across the cold metal floor of the bridge, right toward the federal commander.
The officer heard her, turned to face the onrushing threat. She brought her weapon around, a pistol not very different from Morgan’s own. But the rebel commander was on her before she could fire. Morgan slammed into the federal, and the two fell back, struggling, grappling.
The federal’s pistol fell from her grip and skittered along the floor. Morgan’s was still in her hand, but her adversary was reaching up, gripping her arm.
The federal fought well, but she had to use both hands to hold back Morgan’s pistol . . . and that was all the advantage the rebel needed. She slammed her fist down—a solid punch in the face, then another.
And another.
The federal still struggled, but her strength began to wane. She looked up, her face a mask of blood, staring with shock at her assailant.
“Surrender.” Morgan twisted her pistol arm free, and she pointed the gun down at the federal’s face. “It’s over. Don’t make us kill the rest of your people.”
The federal commander looked back at her, blinking, trying to keep the blood from running in her eyes. Then she turned her head, getting the best view she could of the bridge. She hesitated, clearly struggling with the choice. Finally, she exhaled hard and looked back at Morgan.
“I surrender.” She moved her head again, looking out across the bridge. “All of you . . . surrender. The fight is over. There is nothing to be gained by throwing your lives away.”
Morgan felt a wave of relief, tempered by the controlled paranoia of a veteran. It would only take one rogue federal to put a bullet in her head. But she knew in her gut her people had won. They had taken the station.
The fight was over. At least for a little over an hour . . .
CHAPTER 33
COMMAND CENTRAL
ORBITAL FORTRESS
FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)
EPSILON ERIDANI II
“Access denied. Command-level passcode required.”
The voice of the station’s AI lacked personality. Morgan wasn’t sure why the federal armed forces gave their electronics such fake-sounding voices. It would be just as easy to program natural, human-sounding tones.
She was frustrated, too, angry at her inability to access anything on the command system. Her people controlled the station, but she knew there were enough federal troopers on the way to kill all her soldiers three times over. The station’s defenses were strong, powerful enough to hold off all the federal ships. But she couldn’t access the defense programs . . . and the automated system wouldn’t attack vessels with federal transponder codes, not without manual override.
She punched another series of keys, staring anxiously at the screen as she finished.
“Access denied. Command-level passcode required.”
“Damn!” She slammed her fist down on the console.
“Let me have a look at that, Colonel.”
Morgan turned around. Jonas Holcomb was standing there, flanked by two of the soldiers she’d assigned to follow him wherever he went.
“Dr. Holcomb, I thought you were working on the communications system?”
“I believe I can deactivate it, Colonel, but I’m afraid it will take considerably longer than an hour. I have also checked the safeguards on the reactor and vital systems. They are all equipped with my own protocols, which means it will take a considerable amount of time to gain sufficient access to destroy the station. I’m afraid holding against the federal fleet is a prerequisite to completing our primary mission.”
Morgan looked up at Holcomb, surprised at the animated tone in his voice. She’d expected him to be in a near state of shock, as civilians often were when they got their first taste of real battle. But Holcomb was energized, and his eyes had a sparkle they had lacked when Cal Jacen had first brought the scientist to Dover.
What must it be like for a mind like his to sit idle? No outlet for his brilliance, no stimulation. It must have been a nightmare.
“Whatever you can do, do it now.”
“We can attempt to breach the reactor core manually, though without the right equipment, that won’t be easy either. But perhaps we can hold the station.” He glanced down at the workstation, then back at her. “With your permission, may I give it a try?”
Morgan leapt up from the chair. “Do you think you can regain control of the defensive systems?”
“I don’t know. I mean, yes, I almost certainly can. The real question is, can I do it in time?” He sat down, staring at the workstation for a few seconds. Then he put his hands on the keyboard, his fingers moving so quickly Morgan could barely follow them.
“Can I help you in any way, Doctor?”
“I’m afraid not, Colonel. Nothing beyond seeing I am not disturbed . . . and hoping for the best. Good thoughts may not accomplish anything, but we’ve got nothing to lose.”
Morgan just nodded. Then she turned toward the two guards. “No one is to disturb Dr. Holcomb.” She glanced back at Holcomb. The scientist was already deep in concentration, his eyes fixed on the screen as his fingers flew over the keyboard. “He is to have anything he requests . . . and if anyone gives you a problem, call me at once. Understood?”
“Yes, Colonel.” The two soldiers replied in unison.
Morgan took one last look at Holcomb.
A few weeks ago he was a political prisoner, held captive in the deepest, darkest hole in all of Federal America. And today he is our last hope.
She turned and walked away. The next hour was going to be the longest one of her life.
“All shock troops to the ready rooms.” Quintel sat in Emmerich’s command chair. In wartime, a commodore like Quintel would serve in a pure fleet command role. But on blockade duty, he filled two roster slots, one as the squadron’s overall commander and another as Emmerich’s captain.
The three ships closest to the station had enough shock troops to retake the facility, he was sure of that. His caution urged him to wait until some of the other vessels arrived, but he rejected that outright. He didn’t know why the rebels had gone to so much trouble to take the station, but he suspected time was more precious a resource now than having a larger edge in numbers. He knew his casualties might be a bit higher this way . . . but then again perhaps not. If the rebels had enough time to prepare, maybe even to gain control over some of the fortress’s systems, things could get bloody fast.
“Laser batteries on standby.” Quintel didn’t intend to bombard the station. There would be minor damage, no doubt, from the boarding actions and the ensuing battles, but if his ships opened up, the destruction would be widespread—and he didn’t want to do that unless it was a last resort.
“Laser batteries report ready to fire on command, sir.”
“Standby targeting on designated systems.” Quintel’s peo
ple had detailed schematics of the station. If the boarding force ran into unexpected trouble, he could support them with targeted bombardments. That would cause significant damage to the station, but much less than an indiscriminate barrage.
“All batteries report ready. Targeting confirmed on designated station systems. Entering weapons range in six minutes, Commodore. Projected docking in eighteen minutes.”
Eighteen minutes. And then his shock troops would retake the station.
“We hold here, do you understand? I don’t care what comes down these corridors, we don’t fall back. We fight it out right here. Here!” Morgan had put each of her people in place, handpicking the locations. Her troopers had dragged crates and furniture into the hallway, building barricades and setting up makeshift cover. The soldiers who were coming outnumbered her people five to one, and they were fresh. She had twenty-three troopers left. They were exhausted and low on ammo. Their only advantage was knowing where the enemy would come. The station was large, but the docking bays were all on one side . . . and a pair of corridors led to them all. The federals might defeat her forces—they almost certainly would—but they’d have a fight on their hands, she’d make sure of that.
She glanced down at her chronometer. Less than twenty minutes before the federals would attack. And if her people were going to make their last stand here, she was going to be with them. But she had enough time to get back to the bridge and check on things one last time. Holcomb had been working feverishly, trying to regain control of the station’s AI. She had no doubt the scientist could do it—the man was clearly brilliant. The problem was doing it in time. That was a resource that was rapidly dwindling.
“Everybody stay sharp. I’ll be back before the federals get here.” She turned and moved toward the elevator, jumping in the car and hitting the button for the bridge.
As the elevator raced up, so her mind raced about the upcoming fight. She’d already played it out in her head, but a new thought emerged: she could at least get Holcomb off the station, as well as Nerov and her crew. They had all done their part, and she owed them a chance at escape. She knew the federals would have control of the spaceport again, but with the blockading forces converging to attack the station, perhaps Nerov could get past them and make a run for it. There was nothing waiting for any of them on Haven now but defeat and persecution, and for all they had done for the cause, none of them were natives. They didn’t deserve to die in someone else’s war.
