To Ride the Chimera

by Kevin Killiany

  “None yet.”

  Morristein palmed open his door and launched himself down the short corridor to the bridge.

  One JumpShip had run when the Soledad had jumped in-system four days ago, its K-F wave-front damaging one of its orphaned DropShips. A quick check of local star charts had revealed a half dozen agricultural worlds, a few industrial centers ravaged by the Blakists and a combination artists colony and tourist trap. With no one in the wilderness of the ex-Republic it could summon to relieve Savannah, that ship had run and kept running.

  Whoever these raiders were—and only raiders would jump into a system in combat formation—they had no idea a Lyran battalion had seized Savannah. Some wayward pirates were about to get the shock of their lives.

  At this range, it was possible that signals from the newcomers’ automated identify friend or foe transponders hadn’t reached them yet. Or it could be the mystery ships had jumped in “dark,” a standard pirate and raider tactic since the dawn of the K-F drive.

  “Make signal, all general channels,” he ordered as he crossed the threshold into the command center. “Inform the newcomers they are now in Lyran space. Order them to stand down and prepare to be boarded.”

  He noted Vincent wasn’t occupying the captain’s chair in the center of the bridge, evidently preferring to float near the duty stations. He supposed the position gave him a better vantage of the screens, but the captain’s repeater screens served the same purpose.

  “They’re deploying DropShips,” the ensign on scanners reported. “Tally six.”

  That was not good. If there had been enough time for the sensors to report DropShips detaching from the JumpShips, there had been enough time for the ships’ transponder signals to reach the Soledad. The intruders were coming without identifying themselves.

  “Is the San Jeronimo up to speed?” he asked, securing himself to his chair.

  “Yes, sir.” Vincent pressed a hand to the earpiece of his headphones. “Captain McCethan reports San Jeronimo at battle stations, intercept course laid in.”

  Morristein nodded. The fast and heavily armed Kuan Ti–class assault DropShip ordered to blockade the jump point was a match for any mix of fighters or DropShips a band of raiders was likely to cobble together. Or would have been under most circumstances.

  Three JumpShips is more than anyone anticipated, Morristein admitted to himself. And that bowstring-tight formation…

  Best keep this fight as far from the Soledad as possible.

  “My compliments to Captain McCethan and tell him to proceed with intercept.”

  “Transponder signal,” announced the communications officer.

  Vincent bounced to the woman’s station, gripping the back of her chair to steady himself. Morristein tapped a contact, pulling her display up on his own screen.

  Covenant Worlds? He read the unfamiliar IFF signature. Local strong-arm with delusions of grandeur?

  “Signal in clear on general channel seven,” the comm tech added.

  “Multiple bogies!” the ensign on scanners called out. “They’ve launched fighters.”

  “How many?”

  “A wing, sir,” the boy answered. “Maybe two. One of those DropShips must be a carrier.”

  “Amend that,” Vincent said. He’d bounced across the bridge to hang over the young ensign’s shoulder.

  International law required combatants to identify their affiliation, not broadcast details of their force composition. Determining that required sensors, and officers who understood what those sensors told them.

  “With that mass and energy…” Vincent turned to face Morristein. “It’s a Miraborg. Current tally twenty-four fighters inbound, varying masses. No solid IDs yet.”

  A Clan DropShip? “Covenant” with whom?

  “Get me Captain Henry,” he ordered.

  “Apopka here,” Janet Henry’s voice responded instantly from the overhead speaker. “Go ahead, Soledad.”

  Morristein hesitated. He was captain of the JumpShip, not commander of the military forces he was transporting. Colonel Daily had left his fighter carrier behind rather than risk it against a world with no appreciable air defense, but had not ceded command of the craft to the Soledad. Technically he could not directly order the deployment of the aerospace fighters aboard the Okinawa-class DropShip, but the situation demanded centralized response with no time for all of the formalities of offering compliments and making suggestions. He didn’t know Henry well, but he decided to count on her pragmatism outweighing her adherence to protocol.

  “Launch fighters,” he ordered. Then, just in case, added, “Please.”

  “Already scrambled, sir,” the carrier’s captain answered, her word choice making clear her acceptance of his command.

  “Keep the Apopka to close-defense position,” Morristein ordered. “Deploy fighters to support the Jeronimo.”

  “Suggest holding six back to form defensive screen, sir,” Henry answered. “In case any of the bogies get through.”

  “Agreed.” Morristein bowed to her better knowledge of her fighters’ capabilities. “We’ll deploy our Mark-VII to your command.”

  Duke Vedet had replaced one of the Soledad’s deep-space shuttles with a military landing craft. It was of limited use in space, but Vedet had believed its six pulse lasers made it a viable close-defense option for the unarmed Star Lord.

  Six aerospace fighters, a landing craft and the Okinawa-class fighter carrier in close defense formation: enough to handle anything that fought its way past McCethan’s Kuan Ti and the rest of the Apopka’s wing? Morristein hoped he wouldn’t have to find out.

  He reminded himself that in a solo facedown of this sort, who they were was more important than what they were. His small task force represented the might of the Lyran Commonwealth Armed Forces. The LCAF outmassed and outgunned anything a minor Free Worlds League state or Republic castoff could muster.

  “Put the incoming signal on bridge speakers,” he ordered.

  “—your choice,” a baritone voice said.

  “Missed that, Covenant Worlds.” Morristein kept his voice clear and level. No need to bluster. “Be advised that you are interfering with a lawful police action of the LyranCommonwealth. Stand down and order your fighters to return to their berths or face the consequences.”

  “This is Warden Thaddeus Marik of the Covenant Worlds,” the baritone voice responded with an equal lack of bluster. “And no invasion of our sovereign nation is lawful.”

  Morristein blinked at the name. He considered the various implications of a widely known former member of the Republic of the Sphere’s failed oligarchy now calling himself “warden” of a new nation-state for all of four seconds before discarding it as irrelevant.

  “We will debate whether an ad hoc association of worlds constitutes a sovereign nation some other time, Paladin,” he answered. “The fact remains that no Covenant Worlds are recognized as such by the LyranCommonwealth. More to the point, Savannah has been supplying arms and materiel to our enemies.

  “Therefore, I order that you withdraw immediately or face the full force of the Lyran Commonwealth Armed Forces.”

  He watched the chronometer, mentally marking the point at which his words reached the rogue paladin commanding the upstarts and predicting when Marik’s reply would reach him.

  “DropShip formation splitting up,” the sensor officer reported before the second hand reached the halfway point. “Tally four boosting toward planet.”

  “Again no hard ID,” Vincent said before Morristein demanded useful information. “But from mass and burn it’s probable there are two Unions, one Fortress, and one Seeker planet-bound at one-point-five g’s. The Miraborg is staying with the Merchants, with the last six fighters deployed as a screen, and a DropShip is positioning itself between them and the Jeronimo’s approach vector. Not enough burn to be sure of mass, but best guess is an Intruder.”

  Doing the math, Morristein deduced a heavy battalion was going after Daily’s battalion o
n the surface. An even fight for the Sixth, if they weren’t already neck-deep in a firefight with Savannah’s planetary militia.

  “Send all data to Colonel Daily,” he ordered. He glanced at the chronometer, confirming that Marik’s reply was overdue.

  “Obviously your forces deployed before you received my transmission,” he said into the overhead mic. “I’ll repeat my order that you withdraw from the system or face the full force of the LyranCommonwealth.”

  “In that case, I’ll repeat the choice which you say you missed,” Marik said conversationally. “Unless you surrender the Soledad unconditionally, we are going to take out your sail. Then we’re going to pare away enough hull and structure to make a jump suicidal.

  “Your options, Captain Morristein, are surrender now and live, or have our construction crews space your remains later. Your choice.”

  “You’re bluffing, Warden.” Morristein sneered the title. “This is a Star Lord JumpShip. You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Our Kong shipyards on Connaught build Star Lords,” Marik said without heat.

  Morristein dismissed the claim that Connaught was building Star Lords. Lyran military intelligence would have known. And if there were Republic JumpShip facilities within reach, Duke Vedet would not have wasted his time on a minor irritant like Savannah.

  “A lie, Marik,” he pronounced.

  The silence stretched as his words crawled through the distance separating the JumpShips.

  “Think what you like.” Thaddeus Marik’s voice remained maddeningly calm. “The fact remains that without your surrender, we will maroon the Soledad here and wait until you and your crew starve to death. Then it’s only a matter of repairing any sabotage you thought of while dying using parts we have onboard. And slopping around a bit of bleach to remove the stench of your decomposition.”

  “Sir!” Vincent reported, ignoring the open microphone. “The attackers are flaring wide to bypass the Jeronimo. Captain McCethan is ordering fighters to intercept.”

  “Make no mistake, the Soledad is now property of the Covenant Worlds,” Thaddeus Marik was saying, his words transmitted before Vincent had spoken. “Your only choice is whether or not you and your crew live to be repatriated.

  “You have until the first shot is fired to decide.”

  Morristein chopped the air with his hand. Vincent correctly interpreted the gesture, relaying to the communications officer the order to kill the radio.

  Whatever assets the Covenant Worlds possessed couldn’t match what the LyranCommonwealth could bring to bear. In theory. However, they weren’t facing the might of the LyranCommonwealth. Just a single JumpShip that had ferried a battalion of expendable troops to a backwater world. This thrust at Savannah was a minor, punitive sortie while Duke Vedet focused on his campaign against Stewart.

  Depending on how the war against the Commonwealth worlds went, it could be weeks before Duke Vedet realized he hadn’t heard from the Savannah mission. And likely more weeks before he became curious enough about their fate to dispatch anyone to find out what had happened.

  If he had the resources to spare.

  If anything, he’d send a scout ordered to quickly assess the tactical situation and return. Whether fire was exchanged with the Covenant forces holding the jump point or not, the Soledad would almost certainly be presumed lost. The most they could hope for from Vedet was the minuscule chance he’d order a punitive strike to avenge them.

  Despite Morristein’s invocation of Lyran might, this was not a confrontation between the LyranCommonwealth and the Covenant Worlds. This was between him and Thaddeus Marik: whatever resources he had against whatever forces the self-styled warden could bring to bear.

  “Attackers have revectored,” the scanner officer reported. “Wing has split. Twenty are bearing on Soledad. Four are on course through the sail.”

  “Through?” Morristein echoed. “Not to?”

  “The fighters have passed skew flip point,” the officer replied. “They cannot stop in time.”

  “Time to weapons contact?”

  “One minute twelve seconds.”

  Morristein studied the situation tank. He could feel the seconds slipping away from him, but he forced his mind to slow down; to think.

  Our fighters are outnumbered almost two to one. And with a Miraborg and an Intruder to contend with, the San Jeronimo is no threat to their JumpShips. If they abandon us, the San Jeronimo and Apopka might make Savannah, but unless Daily wins, that’s just delaying the inevitable.

  If the Covenant force really was willing to damage the Soledad…

  “Tactical channel,” Morristein said.

  The communications officer flipped a toggle on her console and a green light glowed on the arm of the command chair.

  Morristein cleared his throat. Glancing at the chronometer, he made a note of the day and time his career ended.

  “Captain McCethan, Captain Henry.” He cleared his throat again. Just as he didn’t technically have the authority to order them into combat, he did not have the authority to enforce his next order. He could only hope their common sense would prevail.

  “The San Jeronimo and Apopka are to stand down from battle stations,” he ordered. “All fighters return to berths.”

  “General channel,” Morristein said. A second telltale came alive.

  “This is Captain Bernard Morristein of the Lyran Commonwealth Star Lord JumpShip Soledad,” Morristein said clearly. “We surrender.”

  Eyes on the situation tank, he watched for some sign anyone cared what he said.

  37

  Picasso, Ariel

  Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

  16 May 3138

  “We did not expect the captain-general to respond so quickly.”

  The round viscount reminded Nikol of someone, but she couldn’t quite place the memory. Perhaps there were generic similarities shared by civil servants who had comfortably secured their place at the pinnacle of their career and intended to hold position until retirement. Something that enhanced the sense of smugness.

  Though Minister—Fallow?—didn’t appear smug. He seemed understandably perplexed that a member of Oriente’s ruling house had appeared on his doorstep without warning. He was still standing, too startled to offer her a seat or to resume his own, behind a broad desk adorned with a neat stack of papers and three datascreens.

  If nothing else, the man can multitask.

  “The captain-general will not receive your request for another week,” she answered aloud. “Your courier discovered I was on Oceana and wisely chose to deliver the message to me while her JumpShip was recharging. It was her good fortune that I have been appointed to speak for the captain-general in all matters pertaining to the current Wolf-Lyran crisis. However, at the request of your courier, I sent her on to Oriente so that she might complete the letter of her original mission.”

  “Ah.”

  “I apologize for not announcing my presence when I arrived in-system. With the situation being what it is, I thought it best I travel incognito.”

  “Oh no, think nothing of that, Minister-General. A purely reasonable precaution.” Her host nodded vigorously. “Please do not mistake my surprise for any form of censure.”

  Nikol blinked at his use of her “title.”

  Just how complete is the grapevine out here?

  Evidently coming to himself, the viscount got her settled into a chair and established that she desired nothing to eat, drink or smoke before finally sitting down behind his desk. With three taps the datascreens went dark and an economical sweep of his arm dropped the stack of papers into a shallow drawer. Clasping his hands on the bare desktop, he made it clear that Nikol had his undivided attention.

  As he busied himself clearing the desk, Nikol took the opportunity to glance around the planetary administrator’s spacious but clearly functional office. A modest flat-image picture, displayed where a visitor’s eye would naturally fall, depicted a younger and decidedly more slender viscount standing
beside an excavation of some sort, one hand resting on a sign that read FARROW.

  Glad I saw that before I misspoke his name.

  “Two aspects of your request to the captain-general struck me, Viscount Farrow.” Nikol played her opening salvo. “First, that you felt it likely Ariel would be both attacked and left undefended. Second, that you addressed your appeal to Captain-General Jessica Marik, not to the government of the Marik-StewartCommonwealth. I wanted to hear your reasoning directly from you.”

  Farrow nodded.

  “What do you know of Ariel?”

  “No major manufacturing, no known military presence,” Nikol recited from the dossier she had read coming in-system. “A center for the arts, particularly trading in fine and decorative visual and kinetic pieces.”

  “Are you familiar with our sand sculptures?”

  “I have heard of them.” Nikol began to wonder where the viscount was leading her. “Though I have never seen one.”

  “You never will, unless you are present when one is being created. They are deliberately transitory, and tradition forbids that any be permanently recorded.” He indicated the picture of his younger self beside the sign. “The most you will ever see is an image of the artist beside his work, framed to document only that the sculpture existed, not what it looked like.”

  “I see,” Nikol lied.

  “Lady Marik, can you imagine trying to base the economy of an entire planet on the sale of paintings and the creation of sculptures that never last more than a fortnight?”

  “You’re saying Ariel has other assets.”

  “Civil servants and data management,” Farrow confirmed. “There are Ariel citizens involved with the nuts-and-bolts day-to-day running of planetary administration on a dozen worlds in this region. Keystone is perhaps the most dramatic example. The McMahon family is rightly focused on rebuilding the industrial infrastructure lost to the Blakists. All other aspects of planetary operations, from schools to sewers, are handled by our people.”

  Nikol nodded, accepting the information on face value but making a note to have her own people confirm it independently.