“Your are correct, Caine Riordan: we do not have traitors. It was one of your people: Dr. Danysh. We do not know how, but he entered the keel access tube and deployed a feedback device that caused cascading overloads. It did not disable our power plant, but has blocked all electrical current to the bow of the ship, including the bridge and its command circuitry. The engines shifted into standby mode the moment they were no longer under positive control. Now hurry: you have little time left. When you commence planetfall, inform me of—”
The channel crackled and died as Caine rounded the last bend, saw that the shuttle’s forward and dorsal boarding tubes were sealed. However, a dim light shone from the dog-legged passageway that connected to the aft airlock nestled between its drives. He reattached his collarcom. “Bannor, do you read me?”
“Five by five, skipper. Where are you?”
“In the shuttle’s aft boarding tube. Get going.”
“I leave when the shuttle’s flight crew tells me the hatch is closed. But be careful: there’s been comchatter about shots fired in the after compartments.”
“Yeah, I heard them.”
“Then don’t waste time talking to me when—” Bannor’s voice was suddenly muffled; he’d leaned away from his audio pickup. “Dr. Lymbery, I need a green light on that cluster-munition drone. Dr. Sleeman, sensor status?”
As Caine rounded the corridor’s final bend, he heard metal groaning behind him: the rotational arm was starting to deform. It almost drowned out Sleeman’s response to Bannor: “Passive sensors are tracking back along the attacker’s firing vectors.”
Riordan ducked through the hatch of the shuttle’s rear airlock—and tripped over something.
Caine fell forward: something soft, warm, and wet broke his fall at the same instant his collarcom crackled back to life. “Captain Riordan, you are on board, yes?” Humanity’s premier crash-lander, Raskolnikov, sounded impatient.
“Yes, I’m—”
“Excellent. We are leaving. Strap in.”
But Caine, seeing what he had fallen on—or into—almost recoiled back out the auto-closing hatch, which bumped against his spine and pushed him closer to—
A tangle of bodies. And blood.
“Captain Riordan: strap in!”
“Go—go; I’ll…I’ll be there. Soon. Undock and go.” It wasn’t a prudent order, but Riordan needed five more seconds to memorize the forensic details of the murders he’d discovered:
—Rena Mizrahi, body twisted, eyes open, arrestingly pale, three bullet-holes in her torso, one center-lined on the sternum through which blood had flowed freely. A dated Steyr-Aug ten millimeter caseless pistol lay just beyond her limp fingers.
—Gaspard’s assistant Dieter, crumpled in heap, like a marionette with all its strings cut. He had been killed by a single round to the back of his head which had exited at the top of his left eye’s orbital ridge. A gory red and maroon hole revealed brain tissue.
—Oleg Danysh, laying his length across the deck, an Embra-Mitsu dustmix pistol still locked in his hand. He had been hit four times in a tight pattern stretching from the base of his neck to his right upper chest. The other entry wounds—arm, leg, hip—were equally wide: almost certainly the handiwork of ten millimeter fast-expanding hollow points from the gun beside the late Dr. Mizrahi’s hand.
Riordan jumped up, sprinted toward the combination ship’s locker and main cabin access foyer. The drives behind the bulkheads on either side of him shrieked with sudden, deafening urgency. He yanked open the hatch to the foyer/locker, dove through—
The shuttle pulled sharply to port, away from the crippled Slaasriithi ship, and then upward, rearing like a horse and twisting as it did. Caine’s body went sideways as he entered the foyer. His gut and floating rib slammed into the coaming, bent him like a pretzel just before tossing him aside, rather than back down the passage toward the airlock. “I’m in,” he grunted into his collarcom.
The hatch behind him rammed shut as the shuttle’s next maneuver threatened to throw him across the foyer.
But having been in enough desperately maneuvering vehicles to distinguish sudden engine thrust from a hit, Riordan was able to ride the wave of motion. He rolled sideways as he neared the door into the cabin and hung there until the shuttle righted. He slammed his palm at the door release, then tumble-crawled through the opening door—
Just as the shuttle dove sharply. He bounced off the ceiling. The craft veered briskly to port: he crashed into an acceleration couch.
Riordan struggled to hold on to the couch, the world indistinct and grey as he swam up out of the successive blows and shocks. Far away, his collarcom crackled: “Captain, strap yourself in. I must resume evasive actions in three seconds.” The new voice—calm, unflappable, and deadly serious—was Qin Lijuan’s, who was now handling the shuttle as though it was a stunt plane. This was Qin’s forte, was why she’d been multiply decorated after the Second Battle of Jupiter.
Caine had clambered into the couch, struggling with the straps, when she resumed her corkscrewing evasive maneuvers. He looked out his passenger window—its cover had frozen in the half-closed position—and saw the rotational arm begin to flop like a limb with multiple fractures. Its crippled contortions carried Puller into view. One of the corvette’s laser-focusing blisters emerged and swiveled toward the berthing arms. Each docking clamp flared as if an invisible brace of gigantic arc welders were cutting at it. The clawlike protrusions flew back in pieces, tumbling end over end—and directly toward the shuttle. Closer. And closer—
—and missed the shuttle by five meters. The tube connecting Puller’s ventral airlock to the shift carrier exploded outward in a sharp orange flash: explosive bolts had blasted its hatch and outer coaming away from the vehicle, freeing it from the rapidly disintegrating rotational arm. Puller was dense enough that the rapid unmooring didn’t sling it off like a spinning top, but Karam was going to have his hands full correcting the significant three axis tumble.
The chaos at the bow of the Slaasriithi ship fell away as Lijuan tumbled the shuttle and boosted back along the shift-carrier’s keel, getting distance from the tangle of flying debris and thrashing rotational arms.
Caine had just started to become aware of his immediate surroundings—the whimpering of at least two passengers, his own rank sweat, his blood-splattered duty suit—when a flurry of bright flashes speckled the shift-carrier’s aft-mounted spheres, the ones which housed both fuel tanks and power plants. Riordan knew what he had seen: impacts by a dispersing pattern of rail-gun sub-projectiles.
Two of the globes exploded in silent, self-shredding fury, sent a wave front of small debris racing outward.
Straight toward the shuttle.
Chapter Thirty
In various orbits; BD +02 4076 Two (“Disparity”)
Nezdeh stared at the holotank and the view screens and reflected how aptly the changes of the last twenty seconds illustrated the tired Progenitor axiom, Good fortune arrives in bits and pieces, but bad luck comes all at once.
Moments after the target had finally been dealt a solid blow—two of her fuel tanks destroyed and her primary rotational armature coming apart in a roiling litter of modules and debris—the last two Slaasriithi cannonballs emerged from behind the planet. As they did, the third, closer cannonball commenced a six gee counterboost, slowing it at the same moment that Sehtrek reported it was now targeting Lurker with active sensors. Nezdeh ordered Tegrese to bring the starboard laser blisters to bear upon the enemy craft. It was not yet at optimal range, but there was nothing to be lost by trying to destroy or disable it, particularly before it initiated its own attacks.
But then Sehtrek called Nezdeh’s attention to two new drive signatures that had sprung into existence near the Slaasriithi hull: smaller vessels, drawing rapidly away from her. One staggered through hail of debris, and, trailing hydrogen, dove straight into the planet’s gravity well. The other seemed to emerge straight out of the debris cloud, accelerating rapidly. Two s
econds later, it illuminated active sensors and acquired target lock with extraordinary speed. The engine signatures of both craft were primitive—first generation magnetically-accelerated heavy-plasma thrusters—and the radar and ladar emissions were crude. So: these were not Slaasriithi craft, clearly. Aboriginal, therefore. But the one meant to fight and the other meant to make planetfall, both of which complicated her mission.
“Nezdeh, I await your orders,” Tegrese said urgently.
“I am waiting—for that.” Nezdeh pointed in the holotank; the orange delta signifying the human warship spat out a similarly colored flicker at Red Lurker. “The humans have launched a missile. No, correction: given its size and complexity, it is a drone.”
“It is not homing.”
“It does not need to, not yet. We have an active sensor lock on the Slaasriithi ship, so they have simply established a reciprocal lock along our emission. We are doing the drone’s work for it. And as for the Aboriginals’ other weapons—”
Red Lurker shuddered. Sehtrek looked up. “Lasers. Two hits. Low power beams, visible wavelength. Highly diffused at this range.”
Tegrese had apparently forgotten she was speaking to a Srina. “What are you waiting for, Nezdeh? They could destroy—!”
Nezdeh turned, fixed her with a stare, regretted taking the seconds to deal with Tegrese. But the loss of some additional paint and laser-ablative layering was nothing compared to losing even one iota of dominion. “The Aboriginals cannot destroy us with their laser at this range. Which you would know if you had the proper mastery of your station: we have exhaustive data on their technology. Or had you forgotten that, along with your deference?”
Tegrese’s eyes widened, then tightened and grew tense crow’s-feet at their corners, but finally, her gaze lowered. “My apologies for both transgressions, Srina Perekmeres.”
“I shall forgive them both, this one time. Now: adjust rail gun targeting to correct mean point of impact to the engines on the Slaasriithi shift cruiser.”
Sehtrek leaned closely over his read-outs. “Nezdeh, the forward sections of the Slaasriithi craft are beginning to receive power again. She has just illuminated active sensors.”
Keeping the tactical initiative was looking ever-more questionable. “Portside lasers are to target the Aboriginal corvette. Commence fire as soon as you have an eighty percent confidence solution.”
“And their drone?”
“Shift one of our starboard laser blisters to PDF mode and commence streaming interception fire immediately. Inform me when it is neutralized.”
Tegrese’s voice was careful. “I mean no disrespect, but I must confirm: do you intend to dedicate only two starboard laser blisters to the closest cannonball?”
“Yes. Regaining control of this engagement means reducing the number of opposing threats. The human corvette will be the easiest to eliminate, and in so doing, we also complete part of our mission. We will then be able to re-concentrate on the more difficult targets.”
“And the human shuttle?”
Nezdeh resisted the urge to close her eyes in frustration. “The debris, range, and other threats are too great for us to engage it now.”
“We could use our own missiles to—”
“No: we must launch a full spread of missiles at the Slaasriithi before she is able to reemploy her own lasers in the point-defense fire mode. Once her PDF systems are active, we will be as powerless to damage her as the humans are powerless to damage us.” She glanced at the lead cannonball; it still had not fired. Which bothered her. “Commence all attacks,” she ordered.
* * *
As soon as the shuttle’s rapid acceleration down toward Disparity settled into a consistent trajectory, Caine unbuckled and struggled forward against the two gees to reach the bridge’s iris valve. He triggered it, pushed into one of the two support seats, nodded to Raskolnikov and Qin, who spared one precious second to nod back at him. “I understand there was gunfire back in the rear airlock, Captain.”
“There was. And three bodies.”
“Do you have any idea what happened?
“Not yet,” Riordan admitted as he strapped into his new seat. “Except that I don’t believe the set up.”
“The set up?” Qin echoed.
“The way the bodies are set up to make it appear as if they all killed each other. It looks plausible enough forensically, but I don’t buy the scenario. It’s extremely rare that everyone in a gunfight winds up dead. But we’ll figure that out later. If we get the chance.”
Raskolnikov turned a rueful smile back at him. “So you have seen top side of our lifting surface?”
Riordan nodded. “Took some hits from that debris you dodged.”
“Not me. That was Lieutenant Qin. She got us out of that mess.”
“Not entirely,” Qin grumbled. “My apologies, Commander Raskolnikov. I am afraid I have made your job much harder.”
“This?” Raskolnikov smiled broadly as he tilted his head at the pockmarked portside “wing” of the shuttle. Caine winced: it was one of those “so we die? so what?” smiles that he had seen on the faces of too many fatalistic Russians over the past two years. “This is not so bad,” Raskolnikov asserted. “We will keep nose up and minimize atmospheric heating on damaged area. You will see: all shall be well.”
And if it isn’t, who’ll be left to call you a bullshitter? But what Caine said was: “How soon before the ride gets rough?”
“Soon, Captain. You should return to seat.”
Caine shook his head. “I need the radio for a minute.”
Both pilots shrugged, scanned their mostly-green system monitors, began checking for ground beacons or automated telemetry feeds guiding them toward approach paths: neither one was showing up on their instruments.
Caine snagged a thin-line headset, activated a secure channel to Puller, scanned the black vault above them. Well away from the Slaasriithi ship, the corvette’s twin, blue-white thrusters brightened—just as its hull seemed to flare. One engine went dark and Puller started to lose way, veering closer to the planet. “Bannor!”
A moment of paralyzing silence was supplanted by static and then an open channel. “Caine? Glad to hear you guys are okay. Heading planetside?”
“Screw the small talk. What the hell are you doing?”
“Helping our hosts, sir.”
“Damn it; you are to go dark, break contact, and run like hell.”
“Sir, with all due respect, mounting a covering attack was within my prerogatives. It ensures that they don’t shoot at you. A logical extension of Mr. Downing’s orders, sir.”
You god-damned barracks-house lawyer. “We’ll argue that some other time. For now, you’ve taken your best shot and given them something to shoot at until Yiithrii’ah’aash got his ship running again. Now, get Puller and your crew out of that battlespace. You’ve already lost one thruster—”
“That’s coming back on line. They didn’t tag us too hard. And now that the Slaasriithi ship is powering up again—”
“Major, before her power comes back, she could take another burst of rail gun penetrators to her power plants or engine. Or bridge. And then you’d be stuck facing the attacker on your own.” Riordan dropped his voice. “Bannor, someone has got to live to report this. This shuttle is going down hard and I don’t know how many—if any—of us are going to walk away from it. And remember: this is happening just one system away from the Slaasriithi homeworld.
Bannor’s reply was not immediate. “Sir, are you thinking that this might be a prelude to a general attack?”
“No. If it was, our first warning would have been an enemy battle cruiser showing up and converting us all into subatomic particles. But it’s equally alarming that someone is playing this kind of hard ball deep inside Slaasriithi space for a lesser reason. The Custodians have to be informed, as well as both our government and that of our hosts. And Puller is the only hardened target on this shooting range who just might get out in one piece. You’re small
enough and fast enough to hide and survive to tell the tale. So get going. Now.”
“But Downing said—”
“Major Rulaine, you’ve discharged Downing’s orders. Now you’re taking mine. Log it as my responsibility, and contest the order later, if you like, but right now, you go!”
“Yes, sir.”
Caine had never heard Bannor sound glum before. High overhead, the darkened thruster of the Puller flickered back into life as the haze of the atmosphere began increasing, diffusing the twin pinpricks of the corvette’s drives. Within the space of two heartbeats, they vanished.
For the first time since the attack had begun, Riordan had a scant moment to pull back from immediate events and consider the bigger picture. Whoever was behind this attack had infiltrated one or more saboteurs into the legation within twenty-four hours of its being announced, and had sent an assault force unthinkably far into Slaasriithi space. The enemy was, by any conceivable measure, incredibly resourceful, bold, and dangerous.
Riordan found he was still looking at the spot of thickening sky where Puller had disappeared. I hope they make it. But if they don’t—Riordan activated the preset comm link for the Slaasriithi ship, asked over his shoulder: “Is the channel for Ambassador Yiithrii’ah’aash’s ship secure?”
“Scrambled and encrypted,” Raskolnikov confirmed. “Your two minutes are up, Captain. Things become interesting, now.”
“Acknowledged,” Riordan replied, activating the link and listening for a reply. As he waited, he glanced out the cockpit.
They had descended far enough that Disparity’s planetary curve had leveled out into a horizon line. The clouds were coming up at them, along with stratified drifts of faint green dust. Yiithrii’ah’aash had mentioned atmospheric spore layers, many of which soaked up and reflected UV, thereby adding to the planet’s surreal green-blue appearance. Auroras flickered high above: BD +02 4076, being at the approximate peak of its nine-year solar activity cycle, was emitting a growing wave of solar particles. Which meant sensor degradation and a better chance for Puller to get away. Conversely, it portended radio problems, possibly an impending blackout—
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