Rebel

by Mike Shepherd

  “Gravity tends to limit our options in situations like these,” the admiral said, “but yes, that would be my choice. The incoming ships will be braking toward an orbit. We will meet them at a point that allows us to bring them under fire at the extreme effective range of our lasers, where their guns are barely able to heat water. That will give us time to talk. Hopefully, to talk them down.”

  “You might be able to talk the Navy down, but I’m not so sure about that Lord High Commissioner for Safety on St. Petersburg,” Vicky said.

  Mannie scowled. “We can take care of our own safety, thank you very much.”

  “Yes, but can you keep yourself safe from a Lord High Commissioner for your Safety?” Admiral von Mittleburg asked.

  “I’m hoping you will save me from that problem,” Mannie said. “We’ve smuggled some books on irregular warfare in from Longknife territory. It makes interesting reading. The Lord High Commissioner may have no idea what he’s in for, but then, suppression of guerrilla wars can be very bloody to all concerned.”

  “We will try to save you from that,” Vicky said.

  “If your Lieutenant Blue is correct, and Wittenberg is leading the cruisers in, its skipper, Staale Sandback, will not be enthusiastic about firing the first shot, not on his own Navy, but he is an honorable man. Speaking of your Mr. Blue, it is one thing to switch squawkers from one ship to the next. It is another thing to have sensors report that the reactors match those the database has for those ships. How will he manage that?”

  Vicky shrugged. “I have no idea. I certainly have no idea how to do it myself. Do you know anyone on board more likely to come up with such an idea?”

  The admiral chuckled. “Not on my life.”

  “So, sir, shall we enjoy this delicious goulash before it gets too much colder and trust more twisted brains than ours to come up with what we need?”

  “I doubt,” Mannie said, “that there are more twisted brains in the worlds than those seated around this table.”

  That got a general laugh, and they returned to their dinner with a hearty appetite.

  CHAPTER 7

  EARLY the next morning, the Retribution led a small task force away from High St. Petersburg Station. The Rostock quickly slipped into the lead while the putative Attacker and Kamchatka pulled up the rear.

  Vicky and Mannie stood beside Admiral von Mittleburg on the flag bridge of the Retribution. Lieutenant Blue had a station just off to their right. Mr. Smith had pulled up a seat at the lieutenant’s elbow and was dividing his attention between the sensor station and his own computer.

  The admiral eyed the spy but kept his opinions to himself.

  “Tell me, Lieutenant Blue,” Vicky said when the young officer paused from what he had been so intently doing. “The reactors on the Sovereigns are not the same as the heavy cruisers they are trying to pass for. How do you propose we pull that off?”

  “We can’t, Your Grace. Reactors can’t be faked.”

  “So, as soon as their sensor team gets a good look at the reactors on those ships,” the admiral snapped, “they will know we are faking it.”

  “Yes and no, sir.”

  “That is not an answer, Lieutenant,” the admiral growled, his poor humor getting worse.

  “It’s the only answer I can give you, sir. What the other ships’ sensors will actually get off all our ships, including the Rostock and the Retribution will be hash, sir. One of my petty officers came up with this noisemaker idea that we’ve installed in all four of our ships. They will generate all sorts of static where a sensor usually finds data on reactors. When the captain of the oncoming cruisers asks his sensor officer to identify the ships coming at him, he will have to painfully answer that there is something wrong with his instruments. He has some data, but it might be right. It might be wrong. He just isn’t sure.”

  Mannie barked a laugh. “I’ve never met a Navy officer who didn’t like to be sure of himself. That is going to be one painful report to make and receive.”

  “No doubt,” the admiral admitted dryly.

  The short line of ships decelerated to pass close aboard St. Petersburg, then accelerated into a much higher orbit. At apogee, it would bring them close to the incoming ships, putting the decelerating convoy’s vulnerable rears in the Retribution’s crosshairs while the cruiser’s guns were far out of range.

  That would be the critical time for this battle. If it was to become a battle.

  The Wittenberg, Augsburg, and Ulm continued to lead the transports, each ship keeping a comfortable five-hundred-kilometer interval. The trade convoy from Presov now docilely trailed the first group, a thousand kilometers from Golden Empress 3 to the Biter, then five hundred klicks between each freighter.

  The clock ticked off the seconds as the ships closed.

  “Retribution will be in extreme range of Wittenberg in one minute,” Lieutenant Blue reported.

  “Very well,” Admiral von Mittleburg said. “Open a communications channel between me and Wittenberg. Wide beam and in the clear for anyone who wishes to listen in.”

  “Done,” a chief communications tech answered, and a small window opened on the main screen.

  “Hello, Staale. I hoped to meet you in better times.”

  “Hello, Admiral von Mittleburg. Are these not the best of times?”

  “My lasers are charged and yours are not.”

  “As I have told those with me, I see no reason to charge my lasers. Should I?”

  “Time will tell.”

  A new window opened on the forward screen to show a red-faced balding man with three chins. “Charge your guns, Captain. Charge them, damn you! I have ordered you to power up, and you keep refusing.”

  “And I have told you time and time again, Lord High Commissioner for Safety,” Captain Sandback said, as if to a tiresome child, “that it would be suicide for us to come in here threatening to fire on the Retribution. This must be worked out. To use force is only to commit suicide for all of us.”

  “We have the right,” the red-faced man shouted.

  “You are interfering with the free trade guaranteed by the Empire between planets of the Imperium,” Mannie said, tossing his oar into the troubled waters. “Boarding free-trading freighters of St. Petersburg is tantamount to piracy.”

  “We did it to protect them,” was smooth as oil on silk . . . and just about as worthless.

  “A Navy cruiser was escorting them. I saw no threat to them,” Mannie spat back. “Unless, of course, the threat was you.”

  “I am the Lord High Commissioner for Safety on St. Petersburg. I have a warrant signed from the hand of the Empress.”

  “But not the Emperor,” Mannie pointed out.

  “They are one and the same,” had a lot of bluster behind it.

  “We have received no such Imperial Proclamation to that effect,” Mannie pointed out.

  “Maybe I’m carrying it.” The Lord High Commissioner seemed suddenly less sure. “What I do know is that I am backed up by three regiments of security specialists, and I will assure that St. Petersburg remains safe and law-abiding.”

  The commissioner’s eyes seemed to narrow. “Oh, I see that you have the Grand Duchess Victoria aboard. Good. We understood that her safety was in some question. You will immediately transfer her to my ship for her own safety.”

  “Strange,” Vicky said, “it was the people of St. Petersburg who secured the safety of my person. It was recent arrivals from Greenfeld who did me harm.”

  “Canards, no doubt. Lies and damn lies to cover up the danger you are truly in.”

  “Little man, I am on a battleship of the Imperial Navy. I doubt I could be more safe.”

  “Nevertheless, you will obey my order and report immediately to the Golden Empress 1 for safekeeping.”

  “Or tight imprisonment?”

  “Do not risk the ire of the Empress.”

  Vicky half laughed. “Sorry, little man. I have risked her ire and dodged her assassins ever since she became pregn
ant, and I became one too many people between her child and the throne.”

  “Is that the way the wind blows?” Captain Sandback said.

  “I’m afraid it is, Staale,” Admiral von Mittleburg answered. “The Navy has protected Her Grace through over a dozen assassination attempts, most of which could be traced back to the palace. There is no chance that I would turn her over to someone holding a warrant from the Empress’s own hand.”

  “I believe I begin to understand better many of the things I have been told or overheard. Admiral, my squadron will stand down. Mr. Lord High Commissioner, this is between you and the, ah, people you say you have come to protect.”

  “I’ll have your head for this. I have three regiments, over ten thousand men at my beck and call.” The red in his face was reaching new heights. In any cartoon character, this would have anticipated a truly glorious explosion. All Vicky could hope for was a heart attack.

  “Yes, good High Commissioner,” Captain Sandback said, so very evenly, “but you are there, and I am several thousand kilometers of vacuum removed from your guns. If I was not worried about sending the wrong message to my old friend, Admiral von Mittleburg, I would charge up my lasers. Then you would see how your ten thousand machine pistols stood up to a mere dozen 9.2-inch Navy lasers.”

  A new window opened. “Captain Hans Wirtz of the Biter, Admiral. We have, ah, recovered our freedom of movement, sir. I am advised that the guard detail that St. Petersburg has attached to each of its freighters has also regained full control of their ships.”

  “Mannie?” Vicky said, nudging the mayor of Sevastopol.

  “So we put a squad of Rangers on each ship. It seemed like a good idea.”

  “And your Rangers,” Captain Wirtz added, “have full battle armor, something the security detachment that boarded our ship did not. Confronted by the prospects that they would bleed, and those with guns facing them likely would not, the security people surrendered to the obvious.”

  “Well, I will not surrender,” the Lord High Commissioner spat. “Captain, your course is for the space station.”

  “I beg to differ,” Admiral von Mittleburg said. “You will not come alongside my station with your lightly armed men. I like the air in my station, and it is hard to maintain it when there are bullet holes all over the place.”

  “Captain, increase your speed,” the commissioner demanded.

  “Your Lordship, I can’t increase my speed,” came from off his screen. “We are decelerating toward the station. If we go any faster, it won’t be there when we get there.”

  “You know what I mean. Get us there and shoot anything that gets in my way. You have lasers. Use them.”

  “You use them,” Admiral von Mittleburg growled, “and we will blow you out of space.”

  “Admiral, Captain Wirtz again. I’m the closest to those transports. While the Biter doesn’t have the greatest of shots at his engines, I do have a decent one. More likely I’ll put them off-line than blow them all to hell. Of course, with his rocket motors perforated, he’s likely to miss the station and head off to freeze in space. After their air goes bad, of course.”

  “Captain! Fire on that man,” the Lord High Commissioner screamed.

  “Fire,” the captain ordered.

  All three of the Golden Empresses fired all of their pulse lasers and long guns immediately.

  Of course, no one took any time to aim them, so they dissipated their lasers into empty space although one shot from the Golden Empress 2 did come close to the engines of the Golden Empress 1.

  “Blow Reactor 2 to space,” came over the net in what Vicky took to be the voice of the skipper of the Golden Empress 1. Immediately, all three transports dumped one of their two reactors.

  “Now, my Lord High Commissioner of blowhards,” that voice continued, “we have one reactor. We can use it to slow this tub full of your asses so that it ends up close to the station and we all get out of here alive, or we can use it to reload our lasers. No doubt we will be blown out of space before we finish the reload, but the call is yours. What will it be?”

  The red face tried to say something, but suddenly, he was speechless as he clasped his chest. A moment later, he collapsed and disappeared from the screen.

  “My God, I think he’s having a heart attack,” came from a man in a merchant captain’s uniform now visible on screen. “Medic! Do you goddamn security guards have any decent medics with you? Damn it! Somebody help him!”

  “We will send our ship’s surgeon,” Captain Wirtz of the Biter announced. “Hold your deceleration and course steady so we can make the transfer.”

  “You better make it quick. I don’t see this guy lasting too long.”

  “The longboat is away with a medical team,” Captain Wirtz announced.

  Vicky turned away from the screen. “Well, I didn’t see that coming,” she admitted.

  “We created the situation,” Admiral von Mittleburg said softly, “and a lot of good men, and at least one bad one, provided the miracles. Interesting, is it not?”

  “Are all days in the Navy like this?” Mannie asked.

  “Some are more exciting than others,” Vicky allowed.

  “Now, about those ten thousand lightly armed thugs wanting to dock at my space station?” the admiral asked.

  “Ah, yes,” Mannie said. “If you will allow me to borrow one of your communication circuits, I will see what I can do about having a lot of off-duty cops and not a few Rangers in full armor brought up on the next shuttles. There are plenty coming up with cargo for Brunswick, and there’s still stuff coming down from Metzburg. There should be plenty of room for troops.”

  “Good. I’ve got Marines, but not nearly enough to keep that number of people of unknown moral standards under control. Oh, Mayor, do you have jobs for them?”

  “Given a choice between letting them wander around idle,” Mannie said, “and us getting them to work, we’ll find something, though it may be farmwork in the outback and by.”

  “Just so long as they’re out of my hair.”

  “Well, Vicky this has been a most interesting day,” Mannie allowed after he’d finished his calls.

  “We must do this more often.”

  “We’ll be putting the finishing touches on the first shipment to Brunswick. It means meetings. Likely not as exciting as this one, and it may all go so smoothly that they just might bore you. Still, you and I might arrange for a quiet, candlelit dinner.”

  A shiver went up Vicky.

  Is this really me?

  “I doubt the admiral will miss me,” Vicky said, sounding almost coy.

  “Oh, no. I won’t miss you at all,” Admiral von Mittleburg put in, enthusiastically.

  “Then I guess I’ll go dirtside with you.”

  “Good,” Mannie said. His smile seemed more than pleased. Vicky found herself wondering just what thoughts might be behind that smile and found she liked the mystery.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE trip back to High St. Petersburg got more than a little exciting as the jump point spit up a powerful task force.

  Lieutenant Blue did the honors of calling them back to the flag bridge. “Admiral, Your Grace, we have company.”

  “What kind of company,” the admiral demanded.

  “Big company. It’s squawking as the battleship Scourge.”

  Mannie shot Vicky a worried glance.

  “It’s almost as big as the Retribution,” Vicky said.

  “Twelve 18-inch lasers for a main battery to our sixteen,” the admiral filled in.

  “Whose side is it on?” Mannie asked.

  “It was here a month ago, but they pulled it back for some odd reason,” Admiral von Mittleburg answered. “Who has it now is anyone’s guess.”

  “The battlecruiser Stalker followed it through,” the lieutenant added. “And now we have the Slinger.”

  “Those were Admiral Gort’s ships when he picked me up on High Chance,” Vicky said.

  “Gort was a good man,
” the admiral said.

  “A good man who took a bullet intended for me,” Vicky added.

  “One of those twelve assassination attempts the Navy has messed up for the Empress?” Mannie asked.

  “It was just luck. My good luck. His bad luck,” Vicky said mournfully, feeling the desolation of it again.

  “The old heavy cruiser Kasimov just jumped in, trailed by its sister the Yamal.”

  “They’re as ancient as the Kamchatka,” the admiral said. “The Scourge is nearly new. The Kasimov is over twenty years old. What have they got in common?”

  “Admiral, commlink opening to the Scourge,” announced the chief petty officer.

  “On main screen.”

  “Hello, Admiral von Mittleburg. I was hoping to see you again,” came from a sandy-haired captain of middle years.

  “Willy Brandl, I’m glad to see you again,” the admiral said, “although I admit to being a bit surprised. I’m not sure I’m prepared for such an influx of ships.”

  The time delay made for a slow conversation, but it did not stop it. “Sorry to pop in on you so unexpectedly, but it was either come here or report to High Homburg to be decommissioned and scrapped. Assuming the ships were actually scrapped and not put to another use.”

  “They are scrapping battleships and battlecruisers in midlife!” Vicky exclaimed in shock.

  “Some of us suspect they need bigger pirate ships. The Navy’s light cruisers have been shooting up heavy cruisers that seem to have transitioned from scrap to pirates in an amazing sleight of hands,” the newly arrived captain said dryly.

  “May I ask who sent you?” Vicky asked.

  “Not on an open channel,” he said. “But Admiral von Mittleburg, we are just the first of several. It’s preferred that we come out here. Putting us in orbit around Bayern would be a clear signal to some that the Navy is not doing as ordered. Really, I must ask, can you put us up?”