The Burning Crown (Stone Blade Book 4)

by James Matt Cox

  "That doesn't make sense," said LaRue, "They're... at least five minutes from impact. That's forever long enough to spike missy."

  "Position on escorts."

  "Fischer is tight, sir. Sultan is plus-jitter."

  "Open a secure channel to Sultan," barked Templeton. Then, "Doug, are you scanning missy."

  "Sure am, Ozz. Itchy trigger fingers?"

  "Low sigma on that. Prepare a high micro. Ten light seconds absolute, positive jitter."

  "Aye, sir. Contact?"

  "Negative. Let me know when you have the jump plotted but do not execute." Templeton turned to his weapons officers. "Guns. I want a swarm of fifty nail-tens ready to launch."

  LaRue looked at him. "Sir?"

  Templeton smiled. "I have an idea, Viv. This stape is plenty awake and not wearing a stupid hat. Let's call his bluff!"

  "Missile swarm minus four minutes," reported Jones.

  "Polar. Comm, notify Sultan to execute jump."

  "Aye, sir."

  Several scanners flashed and complained when the Sultan executed her microjump. Almost immediately afterward even more scanners hashed up.

  "Interference, sir," reported one of Jones' junior officers, "Gravitic inter..."

  "They're grinding us!" Jones sounded offended at that fact. "They're grinding us, skipper! That's a hades of a powerful rig to get that much hash this far."

  "Just within missile lock, Hed. SOP says scatter the escorts then close and hose. They think we just sent all our escorts away."

  "Missile swarm minus three minutes."

  "Guns," said Templeton, "Set the swarm for moderate cloud dispersion. Set your triggers for gravitic detection and make the safety distance one minute."

  The junior missile officer looked at Templeton but acted quickly.

  "Skipper," said LaRue, "did you say gravitic trigger?"

  "Indeed I did, Viv, with a one-minute delay."

  "But..."

  Templeton held up his hand. "Start jamming, Hed. Let's raise the stakes."

  "Aye, sir. Bothlow, you heard the skipper!"

  Several readouts and repeaters changed when the jamming started. The image of the hostile ship fuzzed and flickered.

  "Scan, give me cones based on last positions."

  The main readout lit up with projections of all the ships' courses and possible vectors given rational acceleration. The Jackson Lee's cone intersected the hostile's at just over six minutes.

  "Launch missile swarm! Guns, get me some big missy online. Helm! Vector hard back and starboard. Comm, inform Fischer to vector-evade."

  Templeton watched as his missile swarm approached the one fired against them.

  "Missile-active minus ten," he said, "Hed, close our eyes before those nails arm!"

  Jones powered down the scanners and deployed their armor shells. After a tense minute and a half several readouts beeped.

  "Missile swarm detonated, sir," reported Jones, "No misfires."

  "Activate scanners. Guns, point-defense is weapons-free. Make sure none of their missy kisses us!"

  "Aye, sir." Rick Richards, the senior gunner, dispatched the order with a feral grin.

  "Clever," said LaRue, "You knew those missiles would blow as soon as they armed!"

  "Six-sigma," grinned Templeton, "Bet me ten our gunners don't have any targets."

  "Do you think we blinded the hostile," she asked.

  "I'd love it but I doubt it. Scan. Report."

  "Contact reestablished, sir. Launch detected from hostile. Big swarm, sir!"

  "Deploy interceptors. Guns, give me two swarms of nail-fifties. First swarm set to proximity trigger and standard scatter. Second swarm set to track and crack. Light her up and shut her down. One minute delay between launches."

  "Aye, sir!"

  "Comm. Command to Fischer. Two swarms, same parameters."

  "Aye, sir."

  "Point defense active," said Richards, "You lost your bet times two, sir."

  "Pity, that," said Templeton, "Launch first swarm."

  "Aye, sir! Three minutes to impact."

  Templeton sat back and waited. Their interceptors took out most of the second swarm but they had a good track on the rest. Richards launched the second swarm and the hostile began firing point-defense.

  "He's down or he's shamming," said LaRue, "Missiles?"

  "Negative," said Templeton, "Power up Big Boy. Let's see if we can take some prisoners."

  "Aye, sir," said Richards, "Initiating spinal cannon charge."

  The readouts dimmed as Richards began feeding power to the massive particle cannon built into the Jackson Lee's hull.

  "Charge is at thirty percent. Forty. Fifty. Six..."

  The room rocked and bucked as a massive explosion wracked the Jackson Lee. Half the readouts went dark and klaxons began sounding. Three smaller explosions rocked the ship and took out even more readouts.

  ***

  "Engineering! Power down! Power down now. Report, Paddy!"

  Templeton floated up against his straps as the gravity died. Several readouts flashed and cleared to report the ship's status. He liked nothing he saw there.

  "We're being hailed, sir," said Belaada.

  "On screen."

  The main readout cleared to show Senior Commander Alice Wilson. The other working readouts cleared and reset themselves as the battle simulation terminated.

  "What happened, Ozz," asked Wilson, "Our scanners showed major damage."

  "Something blew, Alice," said Templeton, "That's all I know. Stay clear, sir, until..."

  "Belay that, Ozz. We're vectoring in now."

  "Bridge from engineering," came Chief Engineer Don Paddington's voice, "Critical faults in power systems, skipper. Cascade failure took out the linkdrive and the main thruster array. Fusion plant is weak but stable. Hull breaches in pressure segments 12, 15, 21, 22, 23 and 32 through 38. I don' know what caused it but we're working like hades to contain it."

  "Damage control," said Templeton.

  "Already on it, skipper," said Paddington.

  "Switch to bat-back, Paddy. Initiate emergency containment protocols."

  "Aye, skipper."

  Belaada's voice, droning in the background, snapped into focus.

  "... Fischer and Sultan are vectoring in, Commander," she said.

  Templeton turned his attention to Wilson. "Yes, Commander?"

  "Your call, Ozz. How can we help?"

  He thought hard a moment.

  "Initiate evacuation protocol, Anna," he said to Belaada, "Commander, I'm ordering an evac down to minimal crew. We can transfer to the Fischer, Sultan and Randal Isaac if you're willing."

  "Of course, Ozz. I'll have DC and medics waiting."

  ***

  Templeton sat at a table with Paddington and Wilson, all of them aboard her light cruiser. She poured them all a quick shot then activated her datacaster.

  "So what happened, Paddy," she asked.

  Paddington and Templeton were the last to leave the Jackson Lee, now effectively a floating husk until they could return with investigation and recovery teams.

  "Torque me if I know," said Paddington, "We were clickin' along, smooth as polysilk. Nothing got over tolerance three during the maneuverin' and combat. Not 'till we started chargin' Big Boy. The caps were just over sixty percent when half the main power systems blew. Poosh! Just like that we lost twenty-seven an' have another fourteen in stasis." He thought a moment more. "For truth, skipper, if I didn't know better I'd say it was the transfer arrays. That's where the mess started. But it can't be that. We just replaced 'em last month. Brand new ones, too, an' just out of the crates! We spent near two weeks testin' 'em. Hard!"

  Wilson nodded and deactivated the 'caster. "We'll leave that for now. Ozz, I'm ordering the Fischer to stay here and guard the Lee until we can make it back with enough personnel to find out exactly what happened. And we will, I promise you that!"

  ***

  Roger Parl paced between the bridge and passenger sect
ion of his fast courier, wishing it both faster and past its current obstacle. When he stopped in the bridge to stare at the main screen his pilot looked up and shrugged. Nothing to be done now but wait. Of the few Star Crown worlds in range he deemed this one, Faircoast, the wisest choice, if not the closest. Now this! He had a cube full of information of critical interest to House Brightcrown and its Laird and here he sat, stuck in high orbit and waiting for GC to clear him to land.

  "Send the request again," said Parl.

  "Aye, sir," said the pilot, "Sending. I doubt it'll go through any faster, though."

  "Burnit, man..." Parl calmed himself. "Sorry, Rick. Laird Brightcrown needs my information rather desperately and we're stuck here in orbit!"

  "I know, sir. If you'd trust me to deliver it..." Richard Ambith, Parl's pilot and friend, let the words trail off expectantly.

  "It's not a matter of trust, Rick. Believe me. What I have is thermal and very dangerous. I have no doubt of your loyalty to Crown or cause, my friend, but trust that it's best for you that you don't know what I have."

  "If it's that hot the Moot should know it," said Ambith.

  Parl smiled wryly. "They will, in due time. But just a hint of knowing this would have half a dozen Lairds and High Lords ready to split your liver open and damn the consequences. I hope you purged the logs as I asked."

  "I did, sir. Just a hint of that would have us both barbecued for the League and the Elder Guards. But... According to the official logs you were the only one aboard when we left Crown space. You left me at Fallstar to arrange maintenance."

  "Good. I'd have done it myself but you have the primary log key. You could have just logged me in and let me work."

  "Aye, sir, and I could have stayed on Fallstar to arrange maintenance, no blather, but when Laird Fyrelm messaged me personally I volunteered for the long links!"

  Parl did smile at that.

  "Sir," continued Ambith, "if you're not opposed we can probably make a good link to Fulco or Wotan."

  "But I am opposed," said Parl, "We've pressed too many links already, Rick. You know that. We need our drive recalibrated else we might mislink and end up in Brytan."

  Ambith shrugged. "At least there we'd have trustworthy LINC comm."

  Parl made no reply. Any such mislink would leave their remains scattered across parsecs or stranded with a fused drive array. As Ambith well knew!

  "Woodworld, then," suggested Ambith, "That's a short link with plenty of traffic between!"

  Parl shook his head. "I know the drive coils are above tolerance, Rick. We only linked here because of your skill. As much as I trust that, though, we can't afford to take the risk."

  Ambith re-sent the clearance. Nothing.

  "We could just..."

  The scanners beeped urgently.

  "Feces!" Ambith tapped in an evasion sequence but didn't execute it. "Strap in, sir! Bloody! It looks like that ship that chased us through the Nivan belt. Evasive?"

  "No! Not aggressive. This is Faircoast, for Crown's sake! They have full sensors and scanners. They can't possibly..."

  The small ship bucked and alarms sounded.

  "Double bloody!" Ambith began working as though he had six hands. "They fired on us!"

  Under Ambith's expert touch the ship swirled through a complex evasive but to little effect given the damage it received. No sooner had Ambith stabilized the vessel than the comm beeped.

  "They're hailing us," he said, "On main."

  The main screen cleared to a visage that made both men hiss.

  "You," spat Parl.

  "Yes, my ill-guided friend. Did you truly think to obfuscate your path beyond our ability to track you? Pilot, your ship is damaged. Power down your systems and prepare to dock. I have ample room on my vessel to accommodate you."

  Ambith glanced at Parl.

  "Do not be foolish! There is a dismal delay before you will be cleared to land and I can offer you safe passage. Make no mistake, my next shot will not miss."

  "This is a populated world with full scanners," said Parl.

  "Indeed it is. Each of those is crewed by a person most... amenable to certain... pressures."

  Ambith cut the audio and turned to Parl. "If I evade quick we can get off a shot. We're not supposed to be armed and this boat still has some fight in her."

  "Anything from the port?"

  "Squelch. Sir. Roger, please! I know... Heaven's flames!"

  The man on the screen stepped aside and another took his place. Ambith restored the sound.

  "Serjeant Ambith. You know who I am. I am transmitting my credentials and authority now." He did so. "You may check at your convenience. Now, if you desire."

  "Do it," said Parl.

  Ambith checked and they verified. It also recorded in the ship's log.

  "Good. As a matter of security I order you to dock to this vessel. Failure to do so will be considered treason against the Crown and the League. The decision is now yours." The connection terminated.

  Ambith looked at Parl.

  "Do as he says, Rick. You need not die too."

  "But..."

  "Power down to minimal and maneuver to dock. Don't think about charging the guns, either. This close they won't need a lot of signal for missile-lock."

  Ambith maneuvered carefully but slowly.

  "Is there anything I can do, Roger?"

  Parl took out and melted the datacube they'd spent so much time and effort acquiring. Then he pulled the clip from his laser, placed them both in the console by his seat and biolocked it.

  "You know, Rick, you remind me of my roomie back at the Academy. Way back when I first enlisted and didn't have idea one about what to do with my life." Parl buttoned his collar and straightened it. "When things got tough he'd always say 'Hey! Let's load up a good sim and splatter some bad guys.' He wasn't a good player but he sure did enjoy it. We can't splatter these bad guys and if we try we'll just get stomped."

  "Roger..."

  "Don't, Rick." Parl spiffed his tunic. "Just make sure you live through this. That'll be hard enough but you can do it. In fact, you are to remain strapped in with the cabin door closed but not locked until they breach it themselves. That's an order."

  That hurt Ambith! Parl knew about the blaster he'd tried to keep hidden and now it lay in the compartment with the laser, both of them biometrically locked to Parl. He also knew Ambith would fight with a boot lace, had he not issued that order. He also knew his friend would obey it as a last act of honor.

  "Just slam down a slosh for me someday," said Parl.

  The ships clanged as the boarding tube locked into place. Ambith wanted desperately to unstrap and help but Parl simply lifted an eyebrow. He rose, straightened his tunic, walked into the passenger section and closed the door.

  "Don't move! Drop it. DROP IT!!" A harsh voice shouted those words.

  Ambith worked quickly. Without releasing his straps he dumped the ship's log onto a chip. He heard the sound of heavy pulse pistols firing behind him. Voices clattered and chattered and the chip finally popped out. Someone pounded on the door. Ambith slid the small chip into his boot.

  Chapter 2. Beginnings.

  Reginald Michael Bradley Fyrelm, Laird Brightcrown listened with half an ear to the reports and requests the members of the lesser Houses associated with his brought him. True, they were staunch allies of House Brightcrown and these were concerns of great import to them, but he bore a burden far greater of which he couldn't speak. He gave the assurances he could and they all left comforted but he had none for himself. They knew the Laird of the House they chose to support would do everything he possibly could to help them. He would do so, of course. Anything else would violate more than just the Oaths he took. Now, though, he doubted his ability to deliver.

  By now he should have had Parl's report in his hand. By now he should have had the report plus ample time to digest it. By now he should be more worried about besting Parl at Royal Chess, a challenge at the best of times.

 
When Fyrelm sent Parl, his best intelligence-gathering operative and a true treasure for House Brightcrown, out on an assignment he knew he would complete it both quickly and thoroughly. Parl vanished, of course. He always did. Then, a few weeks or months later he returned with everything Fyrelm asked of him and more besides.

  Not this time. Three months ago one of Brightcrown's House Knights received word, several times relayed, that Parl had indeed found information of great magnitude. Parl dared not disclose its nature, he wrote, but he would deliver it and more to his Laird soon. Then nothing. Many rumors reached House Brightcrown, the latest of an incident in orbit above Faircoast, but they had little of substance, nothing of detail and much of speculation. Still, he had nothing more. Now he feared the worst. He feared the worst for his friend Roger Sir Parl and for the Great and Noble House of Brightcrown.

  Fyrelm suspected the machinations of House Varl and he cursed the blood they still shared. Many lesser Houses flocked to the banner of Snughblak, a Noble House with little wealth. Save for its alliance with House Binkor-Sud, the Noble House of Snughblak would have its blood and its title and nothing else. Fyrelm cared little for Binkor-Sud, notwithstanding the fact that it represented the holders of the majority of the Crown's wealth since the chaotic days of the Interim and the youth of the Crown worlds. They didn't deal unfairly, at least not when they might get caught, but Fyrelm had little respect for those who worshiped, revered, lived and held nothing sacred save wealth.

  Neither House made any effort to conceal its alliance with the other, nor the reasons behind it. Snughblak needed money and Binkor-Sud coveted and desired Noble status. At least once per decade for as long as Crown history stretched, the resolution came before Hausmoot to ennoble Binkor-Sud. And, at least once per decade the resolution failed. Fyrelm suspected the Moot would see it again soon.

  Varl had no overt or obvious connection to Snughblak and nothing out of the ordinary with Binkor-Sud but Fyrelm suspected. He suspected Varl support to ennoble Binkor-Sud and, no doubt, to gain wealth for Snughblak. What they might do in return concerned Fyrelm the most. The resolution, of course, but that was the least of his concerns. He set Parl the task of unearthing their secrets and he still had nothing. And no Parl.