The Price of Freedom

by William R. Forstchen

  The leading edge of the Lexingtons forces were visibly nearer the rebel carrier as the first of Hawks patrols engaged them. Blair switched to his targeting computer and saw the cluster of blue and red dots begin to swirl around each other as both sides fed forces into the fray.

  Blair glanced outside the cockpit to check on his rump squadron. Both Broadswords were present, as were two of the three Sabers. His eye was drawn to the distant battle. Red, blue, and white beams arced across the night sky, appearing from Blair's perspective to connect star to star. It was weirdly beautiful, even the bright flashes that marked the end of one ship or another.

  The carrier behind Blair opened up, the heavier weapons of her anti-boat batteries lancing out to engage the fighters that wandered into range. A trickle of light ships, Ferrets and an odd Arrow, still emerged from the Intrepid's bay as ground crews brought them up from below and spotted them for launch. The latecomers were fed into the blazing fight in singles and pairs, adding their guns and missiles to the Intrepid's weight. The frigates and smaller escorts began to creep closer to the dogfight, interposing themselves between the fighters and the battered, vulnerable ship behind.

  Blair listened to the babble on the primary channels, the curses and shouts of victors, the screams and pleas of the dying, Hawk's and Panthers commands as they tried to hold the wolves away from the carrier, and Sosa's calm voice as she coordinated the disparate elements of the defense. Blair glanced at the fight, at his assembled charges, and then checked his nav map.

  "Well, boss," Maniac said, "we don't stand a chance in that. What do we do?"

  Maniac closed up on his right flank, flying a Rapier with markings from an old cruiser, the TCS Caledonia. Behind

  him straggled three other early model Rapiers, the balance of Marshall's "squadron." The fire behind Blair intensified as several Confed fighters broke from the main group to begin their attack run. The light escorts opened up in earnest, attempting to swat them down before they could begin their torpedo runs.

  He looked at the map again, then out his cockpit at the huge, red gas giant that dominated one quarter of the view. He stared at it a moment, while the edges of a plan took shape. "Thor Leader to Thors, assume course one-nine-one, Z minus fifteen. Maximum burn."

  Maniac appeared a moment later, as Blair knew he would. "We're running away?"

  "No," Blair replied, "remember what you told me about Hawk?"

  Maniac paused. "You mean the asteroids?"

  "Yeah," Blair answered, "we're gonna do the same thing. We'll dogleg around the fight, swing down behind the gas giant, then come around and hit Lex as she passes."

  "I like it," Maniac replied.

  Blair used his short-range laser link to file his attack plan with the Intrepid's CIC, then led his force out and away from the fight. Once free of the immediate vicinity of the battle, he cut his Thunderbolt sharply over and dove hard for the large gas giant that was the system's third planet. He pulled his fighter into a tight orbit, settling himself inside the planets uppermost layer of atmosphere. A close approach would mask his ships within the planets clutter, making him functionally invisible. His phase shields began to register damage as the upper atmosphere lashed at his ship.

  The close presence of the planet masked almost all of Blairs communications, though snippets of chatter did get through. It was obvious even from a few brief sentences that the Intrepid and her fighters were in trouble. The carrier had been hit once again, though she still seemed to be in the fight. Her fighters had broken and were falling back while the Lexingtons howled after them in hot pursuit.

  His tactical plot skipped and jumped as the Lexingtons drive plume came into sight. "All right," he said, "ease forward until you can start your lock-on sequence. Sabers, you stay under cover. If we botch this, then you'll take over as a second wave." He goosed his throttles, powering his Thunderbolt forward and out of its tight orbit. He switched his ordnance control to his torpedo, then began his countdown cycle.

  The two Broadswords eased out from behind the planet's bulk and began their own targeting sequences. Maniac and company held to their flanks, ready to guard them during the vulnerable time it took for their AIs to defeat the Lexingtons phase shielding and transmit a firing solution to the torpedoes.

  He watched the Lex power closer, sliding from a port quarter to three-quarter view as the torpedo's reticule crawled towards the center of his HUD. The Lexington reoriented and launched another small cluster of fighters. Blair saw both bays were in operation, a fact that both chilled and reassured him that his decision to defect had been the correct one.

  The torpedo locked on—breaking his musing and forcing the moment of truth. The Broadswords tipped up, presenting their bellies to the carrier as they armed their active locks and readied to fire. He pushed his throttles forward,* sliding out of the planets shelter and pushing forward towards the ship. "Thor Leader to Thors," he said, "stand fast. I'll take the first shot. If I miss, or get blown away, then launch. Go for a fire-power kill, rather than a ship kill. It'll be enough if we knock her out of the battle."

  He watched his range counter dropping. He waited for the carrier's defensive batteries to fire, the ship to begin evasive maneuvering, or interceptors to launch against him. Nothing. The Lex continued straight on, intent on its distant prey and seemingly oblivious to the threat that was literally under its nose. Blairs ships had achieved the rare situation of having complete surprise.

  The carriers vulnerability screamed of incompetence. She'd advanced without escort after a desperate opponent, ipparently without even arming her defensive batteries.

  Blair used Paulson's sloppiness to his advantage, angling to his left for a solid, bows-on shot. His range counter continued to drop, until it showed he was within twenty-five hundred kilometers of the target. He fired the Mark [V, noting the red-blue flare of its drive plume as it launched away. "Fox One," he reported, "bearings set and matched. Running hot and true." He held his course, tracking the weapons approach. It bored in on the ship, ready to wreak havoc.

  His gut twinged at the deaths that would be on his hands. Catscratch, Vagabond, and the others he'd met had done nothing to deserve what he was about to deliver. He suspected many in the Lexington's crew would rebel if they knew what they were serving. He realized he didn't have it in him to destroy the carrier. He raised his eyebrows. Perhaps he didn't have to kill the carrier to make it go away.

  He opened the torpedo's "auto-destruct" cover switch and depressed the arming button. The torpedo closed on the carrier, moving into terminal guidance mode as it entered the ship's electromagnetic field. Blair mashed the button again, detonating the warhead about a hundred meters from its target.

  The fusion detonation enveloped the front of the ship, coruscating the phase shields in a shower of red, blue, and green. Plumes of static discharge spread around the bows and trailed back, like ripples in water. The shockwave hit the Lexington a second later, shaking the front of the ship like a terrier with a bone. Blair sighed with relief when he saw the ship's intact bows emerging from the near side of the blast. He hadn't hit it after all.

  The fireball conformed itself to the chin under the bows that formed the ends of the launch tubes. The fading energy swept along and through the weaker force curtains that protected the tubes' mouths. Blair saw secondary explosions ripple along the leading edges of the launch bays.

  A single Arrow launched into the middle of the maelstrom. It hit the swirling energy and tumbled out of control, swinging upward and slamming into the carrier's belly. The wreckage swept back into the starboard bay's mouth like a fly disappearing into a fish. Fires raged along the fronts of both bays, halting launch operations. The Lexington could recover fighters, but little else. She was effectively out of the battle.

  Maniac's close-in communications laser painted Blair's array. "Funny how the torpedo blew up like that, all nice and premature," Maniac said, laughing. "I'll bet nobody got hurt, and it looks like you got those bays knocked out goo
d and proper. This must be your lucky day."

  "What do you mean?" Blair asked.

  "My instruments say their hull integrity is intact. They got off lightly, other than being toasty-warm up front." He laughed again. "I have to give you credit for that. I didn't think you'd do it."

  "And?" Blair said, expecting the worst.

  "Don't worry," Maniac said. "I think you made the right decision."

  "Thanks," Blair said.

  "Besides," Maniac said, "you drove ber off. The Lady's turning away. Her fighters are withdrawing. Good job, hero." Blair thought that, for once, Maniac didn't sound sarcastic.

  "Fine," he replied, a little shortly. "Lets go home. We've got to get out of this system."

  Maniac chuckled again as he came alongside. "Right, boss," he said. "Anything you say."

  Seether sat in Paulsons plush, jump-capable shuttle, reading the captains report on the Lexington's damage. The portside bay had lost the final alignment stage of trie bays' firing coils. The pilots, their morale already battered by the defection of two of their senior officers and the loss of five comrades' ejection pods to the rebels or to space, had refused to essay the bay without the final stage being repaired. Paulson had caved in to their deputation, effectively ending offensive flight operations from the port bay until it was fixed. It would figure that an alignment coil required depot echelon maintenance. For want of a nail…

  He had to admit to himself that he would have done the same thing if he had been in the pilots' boots. They needed the alignment coil to ensure the launch cradles' accurate retraction and the final positioning of the fighters as they emerged from the tubes. Without it, each launch was unpredictable, as was cradle retraction. The combination could be fatal.

  The starboard bay had suffered even more physical damage. An Arrow had detonated and had lodged in the bay's throat. Its ordnance had exploded, sending burning fuel and pieces of payload into the launch area proper. Six Project personnel had died.

  The carrier would be out of action for a month, perhaps six weeks. Admiral Petranova was throwing a ring-tailed fit over the damage to her sole fleet carrier. More importantly, The Project was losing its main portable platform. Their remote base would have to pick up the slack, lengthening mission times and increasing the risks of detection until they could get another asset like the Lexington under their control.

  Those assets, like competent and loyal carrier skippers, weren't exactly growing on trees. There would also be a time delay in closing up shop on the Lex, sterilizing the work area, and moving the test platforms elsewhere. Seether was amazed at how much damage could be wrought during one three-hour nap.

  He looked slowly up at Paulson, the architect of this mess. He found himself surprisingly in control of his temper. His emotion control drills were paying off.

  Paulson paced between the starboard portholes and the airlock, his actor's face outwardly calm. Only the tic above his right eye gave some indicator of the man's state of mind. "My God," he said quietly, over and over, "what a disaster."

  He looked up from his pacing and saw Seether watching him. "You have to support me," he blurted. "You've got to back me with Petranova!"

  "Stop your whining," Seether replied. He felt his temper heat a notch as Paulson tried to wriggle off the hook he'd sunk into himself. "You were given the Lexington with the understanding that you'd obey my orders." He ticked off the points on his fingers. "You chose to take off after the rebels on your own initiative, you left the escorts behind, you didn't sweep for ambushes, you committed your pilots to battle piecemeal, and at the first sight of trouble you abandoned the fight and any pilots who'd ejected. The choice to commit was yours… and so are the consequences."

  "B-but you were in charge," Paulson said. His voice hardened. "I'll take you down, too, you son of a bitch, if you don't back my play. I'll expose the whole lot of you."

  Seether felt his temper heat. How dare this man try and threaten him, threaten all they'd worked for, to save himself? Paulson was nothing more than a professional bureaucrat, a bottom feeding glad-hander whose principle skills were blaming others and shedding his mistakes the way a duck shed water.

  "I think everyone will agree that even I have to sleep sometime," Seether replied. He had made just enough of a mistake in leaving Paulson unsupervised for the captain to cloud the issue. The man might yet wriggle out of this.

  Not this time, Seether thought grimly. He stepped up to Paulson, who looked at him with mixed desperation and aggression. Paulson stopped pacing, unknowingly placing his back to the airlock. "You'd better back me up," he repeated, "or else."

  "You're right," Seether said, dissembling, "I am somewhat responsible." He smiled. "But I think forgiveness is possible. You didn't know any better."

  Paulson smiled nervously, not liking Seether's tone but grasping at the proffered straw. "You think so? What'll happen to me?"

  "Oh," Seether replied, "I think you'll be reassigned. Probably a deep space command. A very deep space command."

  He handed the sheaf of papers to Paulson with his left hand, who instinctively looked down and raised his hands to take them. Seether flicked his right wrist, flipping the laser knife from its concealed pouch up his sleeve. He snapped it open and hit the power button with one deft movement. Paulson had taken the papers when Seether slashed him across the throat.

  Arterial blood sprayed inside the shuttle, spattering Seether, the richly appointed chairs, the bulkheads, floor, and overhead. Paulson, a stunned expression on his face, dropped the papers and raised his hand to his throat. A stream of bubbles blew from his opened airway as he tried to scream. Seether heard only a gassy noise as Paulson went to his knees. Seether stepped forward and hit the inner airlock door. Paulson's chest heaved as he tried to draw air into his lungs and inhaled only blood.

  The shuttle's alarm chimed as Seether hit the override. The inner door slid open. Seether grabbed Paulson by the hair and flung him into the lock. He quickly closed it and hit the "Emergency Purge" control. The outer door blew, launching Paulson into space with the unrecovered atmosphere.

  "See," Seether said, "I've forgiven you already." Paulson, his face frozen in a rictus of agonized horror, drifted alongside a moment, then began to fall back as the shuttle's autopilot made a small course correction.

  Seether turned and looked at the inside of the shuttle. The place looked like an abattoir. He looked down at the blood on his hands, on the knife, and on his clothes. He considered advising Petranova that he'd dealt with Paulson, then changed his mind. Ludmilla Petranova, Third Fleet Commander, wasn't on his list of favorite people, not after the reaming she'd given him over Paulsons debacle. She'd learn about Paulsons fate through channels. It would remind her of her status within The Project.

  He shrugged, returned the knife to its pouch, and went forward to program the shuttle for jump.

  Chapter Eight

  Senator James Taggart leaned over the wet bar. His cloak of office lay casually thrown over a chair back, alongside the gavel that marked his position as the year's Master of the Assembly. The gavel conferred no special powers outside the Great Hall, but its presence in the small committee rooms lent him a certain weight and respect not usually accorded a freshman senator.

  The days Ways and Means Committee meeting had been reasonably successful, or at least no more rancorous and chaotic than usual. The committee decided what programs lived and died, which military bases closed, which planets received largesse, how much taxes increased, and who paid them. It was a key committee and a plum assignment. It was also a royal headache.

  He sighed. He supposed it was inevitable that he and his colleagues would be called the "God Squad," but they simply didn't have the money to meet basic expenses, much less to fund all the projects that the senators begged them to consider. His esteemed colleagues often fought like dogs over scraps, with entrenched interests locked in mortal combat over sparse resources.

  Unfortunately, many of the contenders were deserving. So ma
ny planets desperately needed help, and with tax receipts down, they had little to give. Their task was to reach above the squabbling and find projects whose impact would be out of proportion to their funding, rather than the other way around.

  The funding issues and Ways and Means problems didn't cut much ice with politicians who had built their careers on larding up their home planets, or faced reelection and were desperate to take their restless, unemployed constituents at home some tangible proof of their efforts. Threats and bribes flowed freely as elections closed in on those whose heads were on the block.

  Och, Paladin, me boy, don't take on like that, he chided himself, th' others're just tryin' tae do the best they can for th' folks back home.

  He was lucky that, unlike the bottom feeders infesting the Assembly, he didn't have to whore himself to take care of the home folks. His own planet, Altair, was a soldiers' colony. Altairians appreciated soldier's talk, the blunter the better. He had promised his people only to try his best. He felt proud to serve them, proud they placed their trust in him.

  He rubbed his finger along his jawline. "Now where hae' I put that wee bottle o' single malt?"

  The door chimed, announcing a visitor.

  "Come in."

  Geoffrey Tolwyn entered, wearing an everyday uniform. Taggart took that in, along with his sober expression and stiff back. Tolwyn rarely came to the Senate in anything less than full dress, and then only to address full committees. The fact that he would deign to visit a single senator in his office suggested something was up.

  Tolwyn looked around the small room. He nodded in approval. "You're doing well, Paladin, to rate an office this close to the Assembly Hall."

  "I'm gettin' by, Admiral," he said, smiling. "To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?"

  Had Tolwyn come to gloat? He had gotten his defense budget, or nearly all of it, in a tough fight against Taggart's faction, who had fought to expand the merchant marine and subsidize shipbuilding. His esoteric arguments for more commercial hulls to haul freight had failed against Tolwyn's visceral appeals that cutting the budget equalled emasculating the military.