Capital Starship (Ixan Legacy Book 1)

by Scott Bartlett

  “I’m beginning to feel like a head of state,” he remarked to the marine sitting in the crash seat beside him, a corporal named Yung.

  “Well, sir, you do command a starship with a city aboard it.”

  Husher inclined his head slightly. “True enough. Strange times.”

  Tyros, formerly of the Tumbran Federation, now belonged to the Interstellar Union. To Husher’s knowledge, that hadn’t made much difference to the colony’s composition. It still numbered around a hundred thousand beings, and it still welcomed all comers from other species. There were sizable Winger and even human populations, despite the strained relationship humanity had had with the rest of the galaxy ever since inheriting dark tech. Even during the peak of what Husher readily admitted was human tyranny, humans had felt essentially welcome here. He liked Tyros.

  Before the formation of the Interstellar Union, the Tumbra had run what were called Coffee Stations—essentially, space stations where humans weren’t welcome. Husher didn’t like the idea of that, so much, but then, the United Human Fleet had had a strict rule that aliens weren’t allowed on their warships, so maybe they were about even on that score.

  There weren’t any Coffee Stations, anymore. The Tumbra had voluntarily closed them as soon as the IU was formed, in the spirit of unity.

  The ride down through the atmosphere was bumpy, though not nearly as bad as some reentries Husher could remember, in and out of shuttles. Attitude stabilizers had gotten a lot better in the last twenty years. Then there was the time he’d executed an emergency orbital insertion inside a faulty reentry suit…

  “Sir, we have the go-ahead to touch down on top of Piper Hall,” the shuttle pilot radioed to Husher’s com.

  “Acknowledged. Take us down.”

  “It’s a beautiful winter day down there. I recommend keeping your jumpsuit zipped up nice and snug, Captain.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  Ten minutes later, he followed two squads of marines into the airlock. Two more squads had already deployed on top of Piper Hall and were busy securing the rooftop.

  The shuttle airlock’s outer hatch hissed open, and Husher stepped out into a cutting wind that pelted his face with ice. Through the blizzard, he could see silhouettes of marines running around the roof, generally behaving as though they were in a warzone.

  He wondered how the governor would react to him bringing eighty marines along to dinner, edgy after years with nothing to shoot but practice targets. How do I let Fesky talk me into these things? To think Admiral Iver was about to send me on a diplomatic mission…

  A hulking form in winter combat gear appeared out of the storm. “All clear, Captain, other than this blasted ice,” the form said in a slow drawl.

  “Thank you, Major Gamble.”

  Major Peter Gamble was commanding officer of the marine battalion assigned to the Vesta. The man had a flair for leadership that Husher sometimes envied, as well as a strong grasp of tactics, as evidenced by the combat simulation scores that Husher reviewed regularly, for all his marines.

  “Shall we head down into the hall?” Gamble asked.

  “By all means.”

  A rooftop elevator opened at their approach, either manually operated or programmed to recognize Husher’s likeness. It only fit a squad at a time, and so Husher had to wait on the ground floor with the first squad for the other three to join them.

  A Tumbran appeared nearby, its spherical, hooded eyes peering up at the marines from atop its oblong head. “My,” it said. “There certainly are a lot of you.”

  “You don’t have to feed us all,” Gamble said. “Just the captain. My marines have already eaten.”

  “I’m certain our chefs can find a way to accommodate anyone who wishes to dine,” the Tumbran said, turning to waddle down the hall. “Follow me, please.”

  They trailed the Tumbran through a series of corridors filled with commemorations and tributes to the life of a Tumbran who’d been named Piper, after whom the hall was named. It had been his sacrifice, along with that of Captain Keyes and his CIC crew, that had wiped out the majority of the Ixan fleet, a move that proved instrumental to winning the war.

  As he passed a portrait of the stoic Tumbran, Husher could almost hear Piper’s voice in his head, delivering one of his trademark digs—so dry that it sometimes took minutes for the recipient to realize they’d been insulted.

  I miss that little bastard.

  Keeping pace with the Tumbran, going was slow, which made sense given the alien was around half the height of the average human. But at last, they reached the banquet hall, where long dining tables faced each other across meters of empty marble floor.

  A lone Tumbran stood at the opposite end of the hall, hands folded in front of her stomach, which poked out a bit from underneath her tunic. She stood in front of a broad, floor-to-ceiling banner, blood-red in color. Several identical banners hung all around the hall. The garish wall hangings didn’t seem in keeping with Tumbran sensibilities, but maybe they’d wanted to do something a bit different with the hall dedicated to one of their most cherished heroes.

  “Governor Jomo!” Husher called across the hall. “It’s good to see you. Apologies for the heavy marine presence, but my XO can be a bit—”

  “Captain Husher, be on your guard,” Jomo cried.

  Drawing to a stop, Husher tilted his head back, studying the Tumbran more closely.

  Without warning, the blood-red banners fell to the floor, revealing enormous alcoves behind them. Those were more in line with Tumbran tastes, and so were the statues and artwork they featured.

  But Husher didn’t have much time to study the decorations. He was too distracted by the hulking, three-meter-tall figures that lurched from the recesses.

  Eyes narrowed, body rigid with shock, Husher stared at the alien behind Jomo, his mind churning as it tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

  Other than its incredible size and musculature, the giant closely resembled an Ixan, with its dark-green scales, its clawed hands, and its creepy, sinuous smile.

  Husher gasped, then, as he realized just who he was looking at. Teth.

  “Hello, Husher,” Teth said, reaching down to grasp Jomo’s head with one massive hand, its fingers extending down the Tumbran’s entire face.

  With a casual flick of his wrist, Teth snapped Jomo’s neck, and she went limp, falling to the floor.

  “Attack,” Teth hissed, and the other Ixa darted across the marble toward Husher and his marines, moving with astonishing speed.

  Chapter 16

  Defense Platform 5

  Mug in hand, Fesky settled into the command seat for what she expected would be a long, uneventful watch.

  At least I don’t have to deal with Kaboh, she reflected as she sipped from her still-piping coffee, which she took with a dash of cream and nothing else. The smarmy Kaithian Nav officer ruffled Fesky’s feathers, that was for sure, but he was being allowed to rest in case the captain’s visit to Tyros ran long enough to warrant a second watch to take over. In that event, Kaboh would have the command.

  Unlike Captain Keyes before him, who’d often stated that he had no desire to allow his CIC to become a cafeteria, Husher allowed his CIC crew beverages, as long as they were kept in tight, plastic mugs that amounted to adult sippy cups. His one other stipulation—besides no alcohol, of course—was that each officer was responsible for making sure the cup’s lid was sealed between sips. The first time they spilled hot liquid on themselves, other officers, or on sensitive equipment, he said, was the last time they would find themselves in his CIC. So far, Fesky hadn’t had the opportunity to witness whether that was true.

  In her peripheral vision, Ensign Winterton’s whole frame went rigid. “Ma’am, sensors have just picked up a warship matching the profile from the data package sent to us by Admiral Iver. It’s coming around Tyros’ moon.”

  Fesky’s gaze locked onto the ensign, marveling at how level his voice was, given this dumbfounding revelation. “T
hat shouldn’t be possible,” she said, punctuating her words with a clack of her beak. “The system’s sensor web is still active. It should have picked up an unidentified ship on the dark side of the moon long ago.”

  With a curt nod, the sensor operator returned her look with one of calm. “Regardless, Commander. The ship’s there.”

  Fesky gathered her fragmented thoughts with a significant effort of will. It was Winterton’s job to use the Vesta’s sensor suite to document the environment and report it to the commanding officer. That was what he had done, in as efficient and professional a manner as she could possibly have asked for. Now, it was her job to figure out what the hell to do with the information he’d given her.

  “Coms, call Lieutenant Commander Kaboh to the CIC.” As much as Fesky disliked the Kaithian, he knew his station well, and Husher would want all of first watch on for a developing combat situation. “Tactical, prep four Gorgon missiles with telemetry parameters and order them loaded into forward launch tubes.” Four was a lot, but she didn’t want to take any chances with a destroyer of unknown capabilities. “Coms, let’s try a transmission—”

  “Ma’am,” Winterton cut in, “the unidentified vessel just launched two dozen missiles.”

  “Two dozen?” Fesky shrieked, causing the Helm officer to start. She strove to settle herself. For a moment, she’d been annoyed at Winterton’s interruption, until she’d realized that it rendered the order she was about to give entirely pointless.

  “Coms, get me the officer in charge of Defense Platform 5,” Fesky snapped, mentally cursing herself for not having established contact with the platform already. It was at that moment it dawned on her that seventeen years of peace had softened her, and now there was a chance she’d pay for her mistake with her life, as well as the lives of everyone aboard.

  No. One destroyer will not take down the Vesta. “Tactical, fire Gorgons.”

  “Aye, Commander.”

  “That’s not all. Set point defense systems to engage at maximum range, and reassign forward tertiary laser projectors to point-defense mode as well.”

  “Should I order Banshees prepped to help take down some of the incoming missiles?”

  Fesky considered the proposal for a moment. The latest generation of the Banshee missile was a faster, sleeker version of the ones used during the Second Galactic War, though it was still a fairly classical armament, all things considered. “No,” she said. “Prep four more Gorgons instead, and six Hydras. We’re going for the kill.”

  “No response from Defense Platform 5, ma’am,” Ensign Fry said.

  “That’s fine.” We’ll deal with this on our own.

  “Ma’am,” Winterton said, and Fesky found herself glaring at him while resisting an urge to batter him with her wing.

  He’s just doing his job. “Yes?” she said, managing to sound mostly collected.

  “The enemy vessel just launched two more missile volleys in quick succession. Both were equal in number to the first.”

  The impact of the sensor operator’s news made Fesky rock backward in the command seat by a degree or two, and she started to vibrate. Over the years, she’d gotten much better at controlling the Winger tendency to wear emotions on the wing, but her usual self-control had officially abandoned her.

  “Helm, full reverse thrust. Now!”

  Chapter 17

  Progenitors

  Two squads of Vesta marines ran forward, fanning out in front of Husher and dropping to one knee, firing round after round at the reptilian berserkers speeding across the hall toward them. The other two squads formed up behind, firing over their fellow marines’ heads and effectively creating a wall of speeding lead that crashed into the oncoming aliens, again and again.

  It didn’t slow them. The first Ixan reached the kneeling marine rank, knocking one soldier to the floor while plunging a claw-tipped hand through the exposed armpit of another. The alien’s movements were swift and sure, like the reptiles the Ixa resembled.

  Husher’s windpipe closed, and his mind’s eye was filled by a burning star that streaked across a night sky and lit up his family’s home like a summer bonfire.

  He felt an arm close over his forearm, snapping him back to the present, and he glanced sideways to see Major Gamble, wide eyes overscored by a crooked, throbbing vein. “We’re getting you out, now,” the major screamed into Husher’s face. “Marines, fall back!”

  Four marines were down already, bleeding out on the floor and utterly incapable of falling back. The others—those who’d heard Gamble’s order, anyway—attempted to obey, stutter-stepping backward while firing on the hulking aliens full bore, slapping fresh clips into their guns as needed.

  “Get back to the elevator!” Gamble roared.

  “Belay that,” Husher yelled, shaking the major off his arm.

  “What? Why, sir?”

  “Because it can only fit a single squad. The rest of you will be pinned against the elevator doors and slaughtered. We’re going out the front.”

  “But we don’t know what way that is.”

  “We’ll figure it out.” Husher drew his P600 service pistol and emptied it into an Ixan sprinting toward them along the side of the room. “We’re leaving, now. To me, marines!”

  Thank God for embedded ear pieces. If it weren’t for those, it would have been impossible for the marines to hear his order over the tumult.

  By the time they extracted themselves from the hall, they’d lost about a squad’s worth of marines—a quarter of the soldiers that had come inside with them. And he hadn’t seen a single Ixan go down.

  What have the Ixa done to themselves? But the aliens were leaving him with no time to speculate, as they pounded into the hallway after their prey.

  The marines in the rear turned to fire upon the beast in the lead, and at last, it dropped—only to one knee, but it dropped. Its fellows charged past, apparently unconcerned.

  “Chief Haynes,” Husher said after switching to a two-way channel with their shuttle pilot.

  “Captain?”

  “I need you to have our ride waiting for us outside the front doors. We’re under attack. Tell the marines to deploy defensively around the shuttle.”

  “Yes, sir,” Haynes answered, the shock clear in his voice.

  In the seconds before their shuttle had touched down on the roof, Husher had used his Oculenses to access the sensors arrayed along the craft’s underside. Now, he tried to square the maze of hallways and doorways confronting him with his dim recollection of the Hall’s layout as seen from above. All the while, panic lapped at him like waves against the side of a capsizing boat.

  “I think it’s this way,” he said, gesturing down a side hall and meeting Gamble’s eyes.

  The major nodded. As always, the marine commander yielded to his captain’s judgment, even though his training and specialization made him better suited to this particular situation than Husher, in theory.

  But despite starting out as a Condor pilot, Husher had seen his fair share of ground combat back in the messy days of the UHF, and Major Gamble knew that.

  Captain Keyes had often wanted him deployed with the Providence marines, actually, and not just for his situational awareness, but also for his principles, which Husher had stuck to no matter the circumstances. Even when it had meant flying in the face of Command.

  Have I strayed from that? A smaller voice began to answer that question, from deeper inside him, but he quashed it.

  The brilliant glow of natural light caught his eye as they rushed through a corridor, and Husher skidded to a stop, glad that his fifty-four-year-old body could still turn on a dime.

  “We’re here,” he said. They’d lost at least another squad as they tore through the corridors—insanely brave men and women who’d spent their lives without hesitation, just to stall the Ixan charge and buy their comrades a few seconds more.

  Ixa. Alive, and on a Union world. It still made Husher feel like he was dreaming.

  They poured out of
Piper Hall’s glass doors, rushing down a short flight of steps and then across the snow-covered concrete. The marines wore combat boots whose nanoscale spikes served them well, here, though Husher wore parade boots, and so had to take more care.

  The waiting marines around the shuttle fired overhead at the Ixa who crashed through the glass, not bothering to squeeze through doors made for shorter beings.

  Husher switched to the two-way channel again. “Haynes, you do fly a combat shuttle, do you not?”

  “Sorry, Captain!” the chief said, and within seconds, the shuttle’s hull-mounted turrets were swiveling back and forth, firing on the charging foes.

  They reached the shuttle. When Husher slammed a fresh clip into his P600’s handle and turned to engage the Ixa again, Gamble placed an arm across his stomach, pressing him gently toward the airlock.

  “Captain, I really have to insist you get inside. The heroism’s appreciated, but my people won’t get safe till you are.”

  Nodding, Husher stepped inside the airlock, and the major sent two squads’ worth of marines in to join him. The outer airlock slid closed.

  Husher once again connected his Oculenses to the shuttle’s sensors in order to continue watching the engagement outside. The added fire of both the combat shuttle as well as the marines who hadn’t entered the Hall finally seemed to give the aliens pause, and they withdrew back up the stairs and into the building. Only then did they produce firearms of their own and begin to return fire.

  As the last marines piled into the airlock, with Major Gamble among them, Husher saw one of the Ixa—Teth, unless he missed his guess—produce a rocket launcher and aim it at the shuttle.

  Husher’s hand flew to his ear. “Haynes, takes us away, now. Now!”

  Haynes did, and the shuttle’s landing gear parted from the snowy ground, tilting away from the rocket that screamed from its tube and veered upward, seeking its target.

  Lightning-quick, Haynes engaged lateral thrusters so that the shuttle lurched in the opposite direction, toward the incoming missile, but at an upward angle that caused it to miss by inches. Husher knew it really was a matter of inches, because through the magic of Oculens, the rocket seemed to pass right before his nose, and he even tricked himself into thinking he felt a breeze as it screamed by.