The leader turned to glance at him, and another signal reached him. “Waeferer. yai enmidres okid. No saen Atanaas, buero naes ettekendi. Pudra ber si astes saen amidres? Nu pudrames yescapad ken sua cascara.”
He didn’t understand any of it beyond his apparent title as Wayfarer, but the trepidation in the other pilot’s voice came through clear. With a shake of his head, Gabe signaled back. “Go. If you’re in some kind of trouble, then leave me. I can’t ask you to die for me.” The slender rig hesitated, and Gabe made a sharp, painful motion with one arm. “Go! The Lord can look after me.”
The slender rigs looked at each other. When they looked back, they made the same farewell gesture that Eagro had used. “Cuidse du Atanaas, Waeferer.”
Then they shot away. Gabe watched them as long as he could, and then he turned his attention back to the space ahead of him. His sensors hadn’t picked anything up yet, but he knew what had to lie ahead. The fleet wouldn’t have sent out scouts, not while they were running silent, but the Directorate would be patrolling the area every chance they had. It had to be them, and he wasn’t going to let whoever these slender rigs represented be exposed to that danger, not over a rig pilot who was dead anyway. He braced himself for a plasma burst out of the gathering dark, something that would spell his end.
A signal reached him out of that darkness. “… the hell … can’t fix its … is …”
Gabe blinked in surprise and strained to pick up more through the static. He caught a few more words—ones he understood, and though obscured by static, no trace of the warbling voice of his strangers. A check of which frequency they were using told him it wasn’t a standard Directorate channel. In fact, it seemed like a Wayfarer signal.
Anger filled him. Was it a lure of some kind, meant to draw in stragglers from the fleet? He keyed his own transmitter, hoping he still had the range to make contact. “This is Gabriel Miller of the Wayfarer Defense Forces. Identify yourself.”
The distant transmissions stopped abruptly, and then a stronger signal reached him. “Gabriel? We … you aren’t coming …stay where you …”
Gabe started another reply when something struck him. The voice had seemed familiar. He cleared his throat. “I repeat, this is Gabriel Miller of the Wayfarer Defense Forces. Respond if you are able.”
For a moment, the static cleared, and recognition dawned as he heard Nakani’s voice come over the communications net. “Angel-One, this is Hope-Three. We’ve got you. En route. Hold tight and we’ll get you out of there.”
He felt a sudden burst of joy at the sweet sound of rescue, followed swiftly by a wave of gratitude. Yet in the wake of his thankful prayer, Gabe noticed that his interface was starting to flicker. A check on his power cell levels told him he’d spent an awful lot of his reserves talking, and a burst of anxiety went through him. “Hope-Three, my energy levels are at critical.” His interface blacked out his sensors, replacing them with a bright red text message stating that his energy was about to run out. He spoke quickly. “Be advised that there are other rigs in the area. They are not, repeat, not hostile. Don’t shoot.”
The text flickered , and then Gabe found himself falling back into unconsciousness, this time as the systems on board the rig tried to conserve energy by putting him all the way out. He struggled against the darkness waiting to take him, desperate for his last message to reach his rescuers. “Hope-Three, do you read? Hope-Three …”
Then there was nothing.
Chapter Thirteen
Captain Wong watched the main display and cursed softly.
His scouts had completely failed to locate the enemy fleet. Their efforts to sweep the system had made a lot of progress—nearly half the area surrounding the planet where the Wayfarers had been found was now clear—but his opposite number must have planned for a longer withdrawal than he had anticipated. Worse, thanks to Nevlin’s orders, he had been forced to watch the three-ship detachment he had been trailing slip out of engagement range, leaving him with no trace of enemy contact, no clue that he could use to lead him to their main fleet.
Fortunately, the situation meant that at the very least they would not cascade out of the system. Wong had come to know his opponents well over the past few days, both by intensive study of the personnel dossiers on their various officers and by personal experience. If this Admiral Delacourt had been willing to abandon her forces, they would have done so to escape already, and no such signal had been detected. They wouldn’t leave their small detachment behind, and the blackout on broad communications systems which protected them would make it impossible for them to link up.
It was an admirable attitude, one that Wong confessed the Directorate failed to follow in difficult circumstances. There were worse flaws than the inability to look past the needs of the few to the needs of the whole, and a certain sort of honor could be seen in the actions of the Wayfarers.
Wong frowned, disturbed by the treacherous thought. These Wayfarers were traitors, not fellow warriors. They had perpetrated murder and destruction on Eris at a scale only the Wild Colonies had matched. There should be nothing admirable about them.
Yet in the past few days, he’d seen no sign of a ship equipped with a mass driver, or even any assembly of ships modified to generate that type of force. He strode over to his console and tapped a few buttons, sifting through the various sensor readings of the Wayfarer ships, and his frown deepened. Not only were those ships completely incapable of committing the type of planetary bombardment which had crippled Eris, the grand majority of them were entirely civilian crafts. The same dozen or so ships had been involved in their defense each time, and those ships …
Wong stiffened as he recognized a pattern in those readings. They had carried battle damage, repaired battle damage, before any actual contact with his forces.
It was possible that they had taken damage during their capture of the Concord—such an explanation would handily dismiss the scars the grand old carrier had shown as well—but that capture had supposedly been done so quickly that the Directorate forces had barely any chance to respond. Indeed, even the damage to the Concord herself was inconsistent with what he had been told. To his eyes, it looked far more like the old ship had been involved in a sustained firefight—before he’d ever seen her!
A flicker of unease ran through Wong as he studied the images of his enemy. Had the Directorate somehow gotten it wrong? There could be a different enemy present, perhaps the mysterious contacts that had clashed with his scouting forces a short while ago. The memory brought only pain and regret along with it. He’d lost seven pilots to only two confirmed kills, and they had hauled their own dead rigs away before his scouts could recover them. It left him no closer to any clue of their identity, technology, or purpose, but the reports of his scouts had left their lethal expertise clear, and their presence in the battle space was unnerving, to say the least.
Wong made his decision and nodded. There was too much going on that needed an explanation. Perhaps the Admiral would agree, given the chance. Since it had become clear that the fleet had lost track of the Wayfarers, Nevlin had retreated to his flag deck, where he could “observe the movements of the fleet” from a “clearer perspective”. Wong doubted that the Admiral was doing any such thing, but it was not the type of thought a flag captain should entertain about a superior officer. Regardless, the anomalies were important enough to disturb whatever contemplations the admiral was engaged in at the moment.
He crossed the command deck, aware that the eyes of his bridge officers were on him. They gave no sign of distraction from their duties, but the movement of their captain was always in the back on their minds, and he knew they had to be wondering what he was going to say to Admiral Nevlin now. Wong wondered that himself, even as he climbed the stairs to the flag deck and pressed the button to request entry.
Wong waited a moment, and couldn’t restrain a frown. The response should have come easily, whether the Admiral wanted him to enter or simply to wait outside, but Nevlin did
not activate the intercom to say either way.
For a heartbeat, Wong believed that the computer had somehow malfunctioned and that the button had not sent the signal to the admiral’s console. He pressed it again before he could stop himself, but still no response came back to him. With considerable difficulty, Wong kept himself from looking for his executive, Commander Hummel. It would not look entirely appropriate to ask his exec if the ship’s systems were working properly, especially when he had no reason to suspect the competence of his staff in maintaining those systems.
Wong reached for the button a third time and stopped. It came to him, with a sudden clarity that brought him to a brutal halt. Admiral Nevlin had seen the indicator—and had ignored it. Rather than acknowledging his flag captain, or even asking him to wait until he was finished with more important matters, the Admiral was pretending he wasn’t there. Or Nevlin had acknowledged Wong was there, but wished to indicate that he was of no consequence.
The sting of such a dismissal wounded Wong deeply. He felt a flush of shame rise to his cheeks, and he let his hand fall back to his side. All his accomplishments, all his efforts on behalf of the Known Worlds, had been for nothing in the Admiral’s eyes. Nevlin believed him unfit for command, unworthy of his post, and had chosen, yet again, to humiliate him rather than to consider his advice.
For a long minute, Wong stared at the closed door and wondered what to do about it. The longer he stood and waited, the worse the discomfort grew. He had clearly been snubbed by his commanding officer, and the instant he turned away, his entire bridge crew would know it. Worse, by no longer waiting for an acknowledgement from Nevlin, he would be returning the rejection, the lack of respect, which had been expressed to him there. The crew would know, if they did not already, that Wong did not trust the man who had led him to this place.
Wong’s mind caught on that statement, and he pondered the reality of that question. Did he trust Admiral Nevlin? It made no difference, not when the man had command authority, and not when his duty required him to follow Nevlin’s orders, but that aside, did the admiral deserve his confidence?
While he pondered that question, caught in the limbo Nevlin had damned him to, he heard another officer ascend the stairs behind him. Wong turned in surprise to find Command Hummel there. She glanced to the closed door, her eyes cold and brittle for a moment, before turning her gaze back to him. “Captain, we have another report from Three-Five-R. Their patrol has run across more wreckage from the battle, but he believes there might be something for the combat analysis, sir.”
Wong blinked. It was a standard report, something that could demand his attention, but realistically a task his executive officer could easily have handled on her own. For that matter, it was a responsibility for the combat information watchstander, or failing that, the rig watchstander, to analyze the report and summarize it for him. He glanced back out over the bridge to see what had those officers so occupied—and froze.
The activity on the bridge had come to a halt as his officers paused to look up at him. There, despite the fresh humiliation Admiral Nevlin had inflicted on him, Wong found a defiant sort of respect in the eyes of his crew. One or two officers—Lieutenant Morris at his engineering station, Lieutenant Commander Erickson at the combat information post—actually went so far as to nod in reassurance in Wong’s direction. Wong felt a sudden surge of support from those silent exchanges and he slowly nodded back to them, acknowledging—and in truth, thanking—them for their confidence.
Then the moment was broken, and the bustle of the command deck returned. Wong glanced at the closed door, and then turned his back on it. He offered Commander Hummel a smile. “Thank you, Commander. I will be along shortly—I suppose my business with the Admiral will keep after all.” She nodded, offered a small bow, and then retreated down the steps, her stride unhesitating.
Wong waited only a moment longer before following her down. Whatever his doubts about Admiral Nevlin, he knew where his duty lay. If it meant that he could safeguard the lives of his crew and reward their faith in him, he would do whatever it took to finish the mission he’d been given. The Wayfarers might have escaped him once, but they would not do so again.
And once he returned home, Wong had every intention of making sure he never served under Admiral Nevlin again.
Gabe woke slowly, his eyes once again suffering under the assault of the lights in the medical bay. The fact that those lights had started to seem a bit familiar was just discouraging, and he groaned as a racking assault of body pains washed through him.
Extended use of a rig’s BCI typically created a mountain of fatigue for the user, but Gabe had gone far beyond the boundaries of “extended” this time. Unless he missed his guess, he’d been in the rig for nearly twenty hours of flight time, some of that spent unconscious. His body was going to be aching for days from the strain, though he hopefully would still be able to fly his rig—if the machine was even repairable.
He looked around, dazed from the experience of simply waking up, and his eyes fell on a figure leaning up against the doorway nearby. Nakani smiled at him, her normally fierce expression now just as intensely satisfied. “Well, Angel Boy, I believe you might owe me an apology. Didn’t I tell you you’d be grateful for letting us practice someday?”
Gabe worked some moisture into his mouth to speak. “I guess so, Ms. Nakani. Thanks for the pickup.”
Nakani grinned openly. “You’re welcome, you bastard. You came this close to packing it in even after I snagged you. Next time, let’s cut it a bit cleaner, all right?”
“A sentiment I believe I agree with, Captain Miller.” Susan’s voice was gravely neutral, and Gabe rolled his head to look in her direction. She stood at ease next to his bed, her gaze resting on him with no sign of looking away. “The last time I saw you injured, you gave me a promise to avoid it in the future.”
Gabe cracked a smile. “I tried to keep that one, Admiral. I suppose I’m just no good at it.” He heard Nakani snort from her post at the doorway, but he ignored her. Susan was the important one, after all. “So the Penance made it back to the fleet, I take it?”
“With some help.” Susan’s eyes flicked to Nakani, and Gabe nodded. Obviously there was more to that statement than she was telling him, more than she wanted Nakani to hear, but she continued in that calm, level voice. “The important thing is that you’re nearly to the Concord. When you arrive, I will be waiting for you. There’s something that you will need to see.”
Confusion threaded through Gabe, and he frowned. “When I arrive …”
Susan continued, overriding his words. “Ms. Nakani will transfer your rig to the Foundry. They’ve been instructed to give the CTR high-priority status for repair. Our rig forces have taken heavy casualties, and we will need to have you leading them, if you’re able.” She waited for a moment, and Gabe nodded again. He hadn’t let her down against the Bennett Securities forces, and he certainly wasn’t going to do so here. “Good. Then I’ll allow you to rest. I’ll see you soon.”
Then she paused, and reached out to lay a hand on Gabe’s arm—yet he didn’t feel a thing. He froze, but she spoke in a low voice before he could say anything. “I’ve missed you, Gabriel. Take better care of yourself. Admiral Delacourt out.”
With that, she faded away as if she hadn’t been there at all. Gabe stared at the spot where she had been standing, trying to process the situation with his brutally overtaxed mind. He’d heard occasional horror stories about what the BCI could do to someone who had used the interface for too long. It was part of the danger that clung to BCI implants, the psychological damage that could result from being a bit too closely bonded to the rig’s computer system. If he had been affected that way by his own prolonged flight …
Nakani’s laugh brought his head back around. The mercenary was still chuckling and shaking her head. “No, Angel Boy, you’re not crazy. Your admiral’s just discovered some kind of trick that she won’t tell anyone anything about. She popped up here a fe
w days ago and gave us the course to take us back to the fleet.”
She met his gaze and raised an eyebrow. “Of course, maybe she’d share the details with you, by the looks of it. Would you care to tell a girl who’s gone to the trouble of saving your life?”
Gabe grunted. “We’ll see.” Then he grinned. “If not, I’m sure I’ll find some other way to pay you back. Maybe I’ll even get the chance to put you into combat again. On our side this time, of course.”
Nakani snorted. “Some thanks that would be. I’m not sure you get how favors work, Wayfarer.”
“The Lord works in mysterious ways, Ms. Nakani.” Gabe stretched slightly, and sighed as an armada of aches and pains answered the movement. “So what brings my high-and-mighty rescuer down here, anyway? I would have thought you’d be giving Mccalister headaches.”
The mercenary rolled her eyes. “I just figured you would want to talk to someone who was actually here. And to make sure you know how much you owe me.” Nakani shoved herself away from the wall, brushing her prisoner’s uniform as if to get dust off it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, you sanctimonious little bastard, I think I’ve got a few maintenance routines to run. On my rig. That I haven’t gotten shot up twice in two weeks. If you’ll excuse me.”
Gabe watched her head for the door, and a thought occurred to him. “Wait.”
She stopped, and he struggled to find a way to phrase his question that didn’t make him sound insane. “Nakani, when you picked me up, did your sensors register anyone … else … out there?”
Nakani’s eyebrow quirked. “Been talking to your little green men, Angel Boy?” She shook her head. “Nope. Just your busted rig and empty space.” Then she hesitated, her expression turning a little uncertain. “There was something odd, though. The course your rig was on didn’t match what we’d seen from the battle. It was at a sharp angle, moving along at a rate that didn’t quite make sense. Did your tetherdrive manage that course change before it cut out?”
Broken Halo (Wayfarers) Page 20
