She ached to go with them, to push one of the troopers away and take his seat, trying to justify to herself that her skills would be useful, that they were going to need a good combat hacker, but she hung back, watching as they filed into the cabin one at a time, the last of them glancing back at the corridor, flashing her a smile as he closed the hatch. With a loud clunk, the shuttle detached, beginning its journey towards the transport, and for a long minute, she looked at the lock, the weight of responsibility crushing her soul.
Stepping back onto the bridge, she looked at the sensor display before returning to her station, pulling her lap console into position and bringing up the electronic warfare systems, logging into the communications suite to take advantage of Ingram's work.
“Report,” she said, still focused on her console.
“Profitable Venture and Due Diligence have launched their assault teams, thirty seconds behind ours,” Scott said. “First docking in a hundred and forty seconds. If nothing changes, the Xandari transport will leave the system in three hundred and ten seconds, and we'll be in combat range for ninety-one seconds of that.” Shaking her head, she added, “Still no sign of activity from the station, Captain. I don't like it.”
“Some chatter between the transport and the station,” Ingram said. “Nothing I can decode, though. I've logged it all for future analysis.” Shaking his head, he added, “If we had the equipment on Alamo...”
“If we had Alamo,” Armstrong replied, “We wouldn't be out here in the first place.”
“And miss all this fun?” Arkhipov said. Harper smiled, knowing that she should silence them, but reluctant to stop them talking. They'd grown together as a crew over the last few months, the same rapport that Alamo's bridge crews had always enjoyed. Something to be savored, not rejected. She only wished that she could join in.
“We're in,” she said, nodding as her probes worked their way into the freighter's systems. The security was tighter than she'd hoped, but at least it was something she recognized. The same United Nations firewall they'd used before, an old design with a few interesting tweaks. Nothing she couldn't handle.
Her hands flew across the controls as she issued commands, deflecting the clumsy attempts of the enemy sysop to guard their ship, pushing deeper into the freighter’s system. First the manifest, which confirmed her suspicions. That ship might have Xandari commanders, but it had a slave crew, all locked down in the lower levels. All of whom would be butchered in their pens if the Xandari thought their ship was about to be captured. She could do something about that.
Unsurprisingly, the security systems around the slave detention areas were the best-protected of the ship, and the enemy sysop moved frantically to attempt to block her progress. With a smile, she danced around his attempts to block her, slicing into the firewalls with rapier-like precision, disabling the network a piece at a time. After disabling the monitoring systems, she moved for the kill, the hatches that had been locked down as soon as Daedalus jumped into the system.
Thirty-nine people were confined in there, more than three times the number of Xandari on board. Should they successfully make their escape, the crewmen were doomed, the situation worsened by the boarding party on its way. Her hands rattled across the keys as she freed the prisoners, one hatch at a time, slamming open and locking back. Reaching for a headset, she broke into the internal communications system, then cursed. Someone had managed to shut her out, but with a look at the sensor display, it wasn't going to make any difference.
“Ingram,” she ordered, “have the boarding shuttles aim for the rear of the transport. With any luck they'll run right into a slave revolt in progress. Have Major Ingram report as soon as he has secured the bridge.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he said, a smile on his face. Harper settled back to watch the screen, her squadron moving into position towards the freighter. Any second now, the action would begin. She glanced back at the sensor display, Arkhipov frowning as he looked down at one of his readouts.
“Captain,” he replied, “There's something strange happening at the station. They're cycling their airlocks, and it looks like...” The technician paused, then with a grimace on his face, he continued, “Biomass. Captain, they're throwing people out of the airlocks.”
“We're getting a signal,” Ingram said.
“I doubt they're calling to surrender,” Scott added.
“Put them on,” Harper ordered, and the image of a Xandari in full battle dress appeared on the screen, sneering as he looked at the bridge of Daedalus. Behind him, a man was kneeling on the floor, another Xandari standing over her, pistol ready to execute him.
“You will end this attack at once,” the Xandari said, “and surrender your ships, or I will execute every slave in this system.” Leaning forward, he added, “You are weak, Captain, and I intend to demonstrate that. There are hundred and nine of your people here, including some from your Battlecruiser Alamo.”
“My God,” Armstrong said. “That's Ensign Gurung.”
The trooper glanced up, smiled, then yelled, “Don't do it, Lieutenant! Don't...”
A shot echoed around the screen as the Xandari pistol barked, Gurung's body collapsing to the deck. Another prisoner was brought forward, this one a Neander wearing civilian garb, roughly dragged to the floor to take Gurung's place.
“Last chance,” the Xandari said.
“Scott,” Harper said, turning to her, “Is there anything we can do?”
“Twelve minutes before we could get close,” Scott replied, “and even then, I'm not sure we have the forces to secure the station.”
Turning to the Xandari, Harper said, “I will offer your crew safe passage from this system if you stand down at once.”
Shaking his head, the enemy officer replied, “Weak, as I thought. I give you one minute to surrender, or I will execute the prisoners, and all of those deaths will be on your hands.”
Harper's eyes widened, and she looked around the bridge, horror-stricken faces looking back at her. This wasn't war, not as she knew it, but something else. Brutal, savage and primal. Glancing across at the security station, she shook her head. There was no way to hack into their systems, not in the time. The freighter was usually stolen software, but the station wasn't. Hacking an alien network would be a task of months, not minutes, and both she and the Xandari knew it. She looked down at her hands, white knuckles gripping the arms of her command chair, then looked back up at the screen, taking a deep breath.
“The Triplanetary Confederation does not respond well to threats. I will destroy your station if you do not immediately surrender and turn over the prisoners to my squadron, and you will face war crimes charges for what you have already done.”
“Words,” the Xandari said.
“No,” Harper replied, turning to Armstrong. “Helm, re-plot trajectory for a course to the station. Execute when ready. Tactical, prepare missile salvo for immediate launch, and inform Major Molpa that he'll have another fight on his hands when he's finished with the freighter.”
“Kris,” Scott began, her face pale. “Aye, ma'am. Plotting firing solution.”
“Airlocks cycling,” Arkhipov said, all emotion drained. “Twelve more bodies.”
“And twelve more, every minute,” the Xandari said.
Rising to her feet, Harper yelled, “Fine, go right ahead, kill them all. Those deaths are not on my conscience, but on yours, and they'll haunt you and your damned people until the end of time. We'll never rest until we've crushed your people, made certain that they can never hurt anyone ever again, and if that means killing each and every one of you, so be it.” Turning to Ingram with fury in her eyes, she added, “Close the channel. Get that bastard off my screen.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he replied.
“Boarding shuttles have docked with the transport, Captain,” Scott added. “Major Molpa reports rapid progress. Looks like the slaves have alread
y secured several key areas.” She paused, then said, “Power buildup on the station.”
Nodding, Harper replied, “They're not going to let it fall into our hands.”
“A hundred people,” Armstrong said. “Some of them Triplanetary crewmen. We can't sit here and do nothing!”
“Would you have me surrender, Midshipman?” Harper asked, shaking her head. A war raged inside her, a voice demanding and begging that she think of something, come up with a way to save the day, but the laws of celestial mechanics ruled. Daedalus couldn't reach the station for at least ten minutes, not at maximum speed, and the strike force wouldn't be able to catch them for twenty. By then, all of it would be over.
“Power spike,” Arkhipov said, listlessly. He threw a switch, bringing the station to full view on the screen just in time to watch it explode, a collection of shattered wreckage tumbling through eternity, twisted corpses strewn throughout the debris.
“Track the bodies,” Harper replied. “I want to retrieve them later. For burial.”
“Yes, ma'am,” the technician answered. Silence reigned on the bridge, all eyes on the slowly-expanding debris field swirling in orbit. Hundreds dead, and all of them her responsibility. Armstrong glanced back at her, eyes loaded with accusation, before turning back to the helm, and she couldn't find the words to chastise her.
“Alter course, Midshipman,” she said, forcing the words out. “Bring us back into formation with the rest of the squadron.”
“Aye, ma'am,” Armstrong replied.
“Signal from Major Molpa, Captain,” Ingram said. “He reports the bridge is secure, and they'll be shutting down their engines in one minute.” Glancing down at the report, he added, “All systems functional aside from minor damage. He anticipates being able to depart the system within the hour.”
“Excellent,” she said. “Start work on transferring the captives over to the squadron, and have the prize crew stand-by.” She paused, and added, “What happened today was terrible, people, but there wasn't any other choice. If we don't get that freighter to Copernicus under our control, then millions of lives would be at risk, both out here and back home.” Looking at the screen, she added, “We'll avenge them. You have my word on that. Scott, you have the bridge.”
She stepped into her office, sitting down behind her desk, and pulled up a datapad. Another successful mission, a step on the way to the liberation of Copernicus. And more than a hundred people had paid the price for that victory, most of them civilians who had no place in the firing line.
Now they had to win. For the sake of the dead, if nothing else.
Chapter 8
Orlova smeared the last of the black paste on her face, glancing in the mirror to make sure she was completely covered, before sliding the cap over her hair, tugging it down low. She looked across at Kelot, shaking her head with a smile as he gingerly applied the makeup, his mouth twisted into a scowl.
“This is insane,” he said.
“You wanted to go on the mission,” she replied. “That means camouflage. We're going to have enough trouble sneaking through their security as it is, without making it easy for the guards to spot us.” Duvall walked into the room, already prepared for the infiltration, smiling as he watched the Neander tentatively rubbing the paste into his forehead, smearing it into his hair.
“I don't think that look's going to catch on,” he said. “We're all ready outside. The diversion is scheduled for fifteen minutes. That should give us more than enough time to reach the target.” He paused, then added, “You realize how risky this is, of course.”
“Liberating this planet is going to take greater risks than this,” Kelot grunted. “Consider yourselves lucky if this is as dangerous as it gets. When my people were freed, we took casualties in the hundreds, and more in our escape.” Looking at the resistance fighter, he added, “How big a price are you willing to pay for your liberty, Sergeant? Would you see this beautiful city of yours in flames, watch your people fall by the thousand under bullet, bomb and shell? Because that is the price freedom might demand.”
“Let's just hope it doesn't come to that,” Orlova said.
“Hope,” the veteran said, shaking his head, “Hope won't win you a battle.”
“But the lack of it might cost you one,” she replied, reaching for her pistol, sliding a clip into position. “Come on.”
With an exasperated sigh, the Neander pulled on his holster, struggling to fit it around his waist, and Orlova looked at him critically, waiting at the door. Kelot was a tough fighter, but his infiltration skills were limited at best. If it came to leading men into battle, getting into the thick of the fight, he was a good soldier. Sneaking into a base required something different, a discretion she was unconvinced he possessed.
Duvall was little better. She didn't doubt his courage, and he'd volunteered for this mission as soon as she'd told him about it, but he'd spent his career watching prisoners, only drafted when the Xandari arrived. He'd never so much as thought about fighting a guerrilla war. They'd have been better off with some of the prisoners he had been guarding, a sneak thief, perhaps, or a good pickpocket.
Shaking her head, she led the way down the corridor. It was rare enough that you got to choose the men you led into battle, and you had to win the war with the tools you had, not the ones you wanted. Both of them were loyal, brave, and good shots. Hopefully, that would be enough to win the day.
The first time she'd visited Kepler City, the streets were full of life, happy people going about their business. Now it was a cold, depressing place, and the glorious starlight above only showed the contrast with the misery below. As they made their way through the alley, she caught glimpses of the main thoroughfares. People walked in clumps, looking around with suspicion at anyone they didn't recognize, the watchful eye of the black-uniformed security force watching everything.
Some of them, a few of them, were on their side, waiting for the moment to cast off their uniforms and fight for the freedom of their people, but far more of them had voluntarily joined the Xandari. Too many. During the Interplanetary War, the United Nations had found friends on Mars and Callisto, a couple of attempts at counter-revolution in the early days, before things could settle down, but this was worse than anything they had ever experienced. Their war had been fought in space, away from the populated worlds, and while the stakes had been even higher than the Copernicans faced, at least their homes were never occupied, no enemy troops walking down their streets.
The curfew came into effect before they had walked a hundred meters, a doleful bell ringing a warning for the few remaining passers-by to return to their homes at once, or face the risk of imprisonment or execution. As time had gone by, the crackdown had only worsened, as though the Xandari were almost trying to summon a revolt, press the people far enough that they would have to take repressive measures to stop them. Perhaps that was the idea, to give them an excuse to assume direct control.
No lights shone on the three of them as they made their way through the darkened alleyways, briefing passing a wiry woman with a guilty look on her face, a robe pulled tightly around her. Someone else on an errand in the dark, something important enough that she was willing to risk detection. Duvall glanced at Orlova, shaking his head for a second before pressing on, moving into the lead.
He didn't know who she was, either. Just another faceless figure, or a Xandari spy monitoring their movements. Orlova looked around, tensing herself for the shouts that would announce their detection, sirens blaring as they raced for cover, trying to pick her way across the occupied territory of the enemy.
No noise came, and they pressed onto their target, drifting apart to avoid being watched. Kelot hung at the back, and Orlova glanced at him, inwardly shaking her head. At night, in camouflage, he didn't look any different from anyone else in the city. A little taller, more muscular than the norm, and perhaps with an excess of facial hair, but not dis
tinguishable from anyone else. His people had never seen this world, and on Earth, his ancestors had been massacred by hers, wiped from history, only the intervention of a long-forgotten alien race saving them from extinction.
And now they were fighting side by side, facing another enemy from old Earth, scattered by the same aliens on an inhospitable world that had forced them into a different evolutionary path, a philosophy that glorified the strong and condemned the weak. All of this was so damned unnecessary. The universe was endless, room for all, for a million colonies, ideologies and beliefs. There was no need for one power to force its will upon another.
So far, she'd spent her entire career fighting to prevent just that, to give the Confederation, the Neander, the Koltoc, the Copernicans the right to choose their own destiny. A constant series of wars and battles, that seemed to have no end, to blur into one. She walked down these dark streets, following Duvall, and memories of past battles flooded into her mind, fought long ago on worlds dozens of light-years away.
“Captain?” Duvall whispered, dropping back towards her. “We're here.” He gestured at a tall building, festooned with communications equipment. “Broadcasting House. The only place on the planet with the infrastructure they needed to operate the drones.” Shaking his head, he added, “I still don't understand why they didn't build their own set-up.”
“Thank Alamo for that,” Kelot said. “At a guess, we've caused enough trouble for their fleet that they don't have the equipment or the engineers to spare. Do you know the place?”
“My brother used to work here,” Duvall replied.
“Used to?” Orlova asked.
“I haven't seen him since the first day of the Occupation. The news agencies weren't in favor of giving in to the Xandari, and made that perfectly clear.” Shaking his head, he added, “They went off the air for twenty-four hours, and when they came back, all the faces were new, and they were suddenly supporting every move the Government made.”
Battlecruiser Alamo: Pyrrhic Victory Page 7
