Within ten minutes, he was back in his Condor, and seven other Haymakers were too, prepping their birds for flight and guiding them toward the launch catapults. Gaston spotted three more Haymakers running across the flight deck.
“Voodoo, what’s going on?” Perry, another Haymaker, asked him over a squadron-wide channel. Perry hadn’t returned to his Condor yet.
“There’s been a mutiny, Perry, and they have the captain. Sergeant Caine is trying to escape in a shuttle with the senator. Says it’s important. I’m going out there to cover them. If any of you want to remain behind, I’ll understand. Just leave your birds on the flight deck and go surrender with the rest of them. Me, I’m heading out for one more flight.”
Before long, fifteen Haymakers waited in their Condors atop their catapults. The only one left was Husher, who was already out there.
Caine’s voice came into his helmet, over a two-way channel. “We’re ready, Gaston. We’re launching multiple shuttles, to increase the odds of Senator Bernard escaping.”
“Just tell me when to launch, ma’am.”
“Launch now.”
He switched to a wide channel. “Haymakers, launch!”
They did, as one.
Gaston wasn’t used to giving orders, but then, there was nothing usual about this situation, and no one questioned him. “Fluid-two formations, everybody. Sergeant Caine has authorized the launch of multiple shuttles, so I won’t tell you which one the politician’s in, because I don’t know myself. If we favor one of them, the enemy will just target that one anyway. So we’re going to have to protect them all.”
Since Gaston normally paired up with Lieutenant Husher in fluid-two, he didn’t have anyone to fly in formation with, so he went it alone. It took a minute for the enemy to catch on to what was happening, but before long, the first missile flew.
Gaston punched his acceleration up to eight Gs, screaming toward the Banshee. He shot it down, and started looking for the next.
“Voodoo.” It was Lieutenant Husher, his voice coming over a two-way channel. “Voodoo, what in Sol are you doing?”
“We’re making sure the politician escapes, Spank. The Haymakers got your back.” Gaston’s tactical display showed Husher flying near a shuttle that was moving away from the Providence at top speed.
“This is suicide. Those warships are going to swat you all down like flies.”
“It’s not suicide. It’s about doing our part. If we can get humanity just one inch closer to surviving…well, we’re willing to die for that inch, Spank.”
Radio silence. Then: “God damn it, Voodoo. It’s been good flying with you.” If Gaston didn’t know better, he would have said Husher sounded choked up.
“You too. Give em hell for me, all right?” He switched off the channel to focus on taking down the next missile headed toward a shuttle.
Already, his tactical display told him that only thirteen of the fifteen Haymakers who’d left the Providence survived. Then, thirteen became twelve. Eleven. Nine.
When the warships began focusing exclusively on the Condors running missile defense, and not on the ones escorting the shuttles, Gaston knew they were succeeding.
“Stay away from the missiles for as long as you possibly can, Haymakers,” he said over the squadron-wide. “Fly like you’ve never flown before.”
Gaston piled an Ocharium boost on top of his already considerable speed, causing him to accelerate faster than his body should have been able to tolerate while remaining conscious. This is more Gs than I was ever able to handle in the centrifuge.
He whipped his Condor around its short axis and fired into the cloud of fifteen Banshee missiles chasing him. They still gained on him, but very slowly, allowing him to pick them off.
A second barrage of missiles followed immediately after, and one of those got him.
Chapter 40
Scrap Metal
Admiral Jacobs strode into the CIC with her head high and shoulders back, the crispness of her posture incredible given her age. Even in his current situation, Keyes could still admire comportment like that.
An entire platoon of marines had accompanied her, half of which secured the area outside the CIC. The UHF was still treating his crew like an enemy, as well they might, considering the stunts Markov and Gaston had pulled.
Laudano had kept Keyes appraised of both those situations in real-time, remarking that it wouldn’t bode well for him in court, that he’d brainwashed his crew so thoroughly they stood ready to throw away their lives for him.
“They’re not doing it for me,” Keyes had said. “They’re doing it for humanity.”
That his crew had managed to coordinate Senator Bernard’s escape with a mutiny in progress made Keyes swell with pride, and it ignited a spark of hope inside him.
Jacobs carried herself with considerably more dignity than Bronson and his ilk, and it seemed odd to see her standing next to them. “You will be imprisoned in orbit over Hades,” she told Keyes, her face devoid of warmth. “Indefinitely. No trial is necessary, since the Commonwealth has declared you a terrorist, and not entitled to due process.”
“How convenient,” Keyes said. Like many, he’d always considered it a little on the nose to name a prison planet “Hades,” though it was in keeping with other planets that had taken their names from Ancient Greece. Located in a system accessible only from Caprice, the place was at once a prison for humanity’s worst criminals and also the largest source of Ocharium ever discovered. For both reasons, its defenses were the most robust humanity had ever constructed, and widely considered impenetrable.
“In case you were wondering what would happen to your precious supercarrier,” Bronson said, “I’ve been given the responsibility of overseeing its dismantling. For scrap metal, you understand.”
Keyes’s blood boiled hot, and he surged forward with a roar, breaking free of the marines restraining him. He raised his fist to strike Bronson, but the marines seized him again before he could land a blow.
“Always with the temper,” Bronson said, shaking his head and grinning.
Keyes trembled with shame, but not over his failure to keep himself in check, or even his failure to hit his former XO.
In his heart of hearts, he’d known since this war began that winning it would almost certainly require him to sacrifice himself at some point, along with his ship.
But now they were separating him from the Providence. He was losing her, accomplishing nothing.
And humanity would burn in the offing.
Chapter 41
Vengeance
“Captain,” Korbyn’s sensors adjutant squawked, “attacking the Gok battle group you’ve designated will not yield the most optimal engagement available to us. There is a smaller Gok battle group just seven million miles farther out, which we should be able to eliminate while taking far less damage. Continuing to select suboptimal engagements is…well, it’s suicidal.”
Wingleader Korbyn clacked his beak. “Leave such assessments to the strategic adjutant.”
“Sir, I sent my data to his console hours ago, and he should have made this recommendation himself. The fact that he hasn’t indicates a serious lack—”
“Contact the sensors adjutant who has the next shift and tell her she’s being called in early. You’re relieved from duty and confined to quarters the moment she gets here.” Korbyn said all of this without anger or indeed emotion of any kind. He felt like he’d been hollowed out and filled only with a drive to avenge the Fins. Nothing else remained.
The fact that the sensors adjutant felt differently made him a rarity among the Wingers. When his replacement arrived, the dissenting officer stood up, his feathers sticking up in multiple different directions. Then he marched stiffly from the bridge without another word.
“I wish to do the maximum amount of damage possible to the Gok forces,” Korbyn told his bridge crew, “divorced from all other considerations. If we bypass the target battle group, it could escape us. Anyone who objects ca
n consider themselves relieved from duty as well.”
No one objected. He now had a bridge crew consisting of Wingers who felt exactly as he did.
Nine other Roostships flew with Korbyn’s, taking their orders directly from him without question. That meant he was performing the function of a flockhead, even though his rank remained wingleader. No one seemed to care about this subversion of the chain of command.
Bytan would have condoned my actions. She’d be doing the same thing I am if she was still alive.
He turned to his communications adjutant. “Patch me through to the fleetwide.”
“It’s done, Captain.”
Korbyn clacked his beak—a habit that, not long ago, he’d fought to stamp out, both in his crew and in himself. “Fellow Wingers. The Gok will pay a heavy price for the genocide they have committed. One of my sensors adjutants, who I have just relieved from duty, called our line of action suicidal. I say: what of it? The Fins are gone, and all that remains to us is to avenge them. If we do not die in the process, how can we know that we’ve wreaked the maximum amount of vengeance possible?” It’s better if we die. For our failure to defend the Fins, we deserve it.
He knew his words would sound insane from any rational perspective, and the fact that no one contested them was a testament to how foundational the Fins had been to the Wingers’ identity as a species.
“Launch all Talons, and spare no ammunition to annihilate the Gok battle group I’ve designated. Only after every Gok ship has been obliterated will I get in touch with new orders.” Providing I’m still around to give them.
At last, they reached the ugly Gok warships, who pounced eagerly on the Roostships, their cruisers spewing missiles, their carriers belching fighters.
Korbyn watched the tactical display blossom with hundreds of Talons launching simultaneously. To intercept Gok missiles, at least a couple of the Winger pilots simply flew their craft into the rockets rather than attempt to shoot them down.
For their part, the Gok warships didn’t bother defending themselves from the Talons. They left that to their own fighters, even though they were woefully outnumbered.
Instead, the Gok ships pointed their weapons at the Roostships and fired away. It occurred to Korbyn that before the Fins had been slaughtered, he’d never witnessed an engagement where neither side had any interest in self-preservation. So this is what that looks like.
When the battle was over, only three Roostships remained of the original ten. Korbyn immediately got back on the fleetwide and ordered the other captains to make for the nearest Gok battle group, which was the one his former sensors adjutant had indicated.
The only difference was that now, that battle group outnumbered them.
Chapter 42
A Seed of Hope
Husher gently guided his Condor under an overhang on the surface of Pirithous, one of Zakros’ two moons. Its other natural satellite, Sisyphus, was colonized, but Pirithous would never accommodate a colony barring a prolonged terraforming project, and since more suitable prospects were within easy reach, no such effort had been made.
Which served Husher’s purposes just fine. He double checked his pressure suit’s integrity while Fesky nestled her Condor beside his. Satisfied that his suit would protect him from Pirithous, which lacked an atmosphere, he switched on his helmet’s lamp and exited the craft, stepping out onto the moon’s sky-colored regolith.
He waited for Fesky to perform her checks and join him in the darkness, which was lit only by the stars and their suit lights. They’d landed on Pirithous’ dark side, with the hopes that it would shield their fighters from detection. Finding an overhang big enough to store them had been a stroke of luck. I think we’re entitled to a little bit of that.
“What are we doing here, Husher?” Fesky said, and he noticed that she spoke to him over a wide channel. If Bernard and the others wanted to hear their conversation, they could.
“You know what we’re doing, Fesky. We’re meeting with Keyes’s old associate, Ralston.”
“Yes, but what are we actually doing? I’m not clear on the point of this mission. Are we still pretending that we’re rebuilding the UHF, as it was ‘meant to be,’ or whatever that was about? Because if we are, military personnel don’t normally get mixed up with civilian matters.”
“We’re no strangers to bending protocol, Fesky. And when humanity’s life as a species is on the line, I think it’s called for.” At least, that’s the thinking that led us to this point.
“What are we doing?” Fesky asked again.
“We’re planting a seed of hope.” In truth, Husher was nearly out of hope. But it was the last thing that remained to him to say.
Apparently, it was enough. Fesky didn’t speak again. Emerging from under the overhang, they quickly spotted the shuttle waiting for them nearby. Its airlock opened as they approached, and they stepped inside while it repressurized the compartment.
Inside, Senator Bernard, Corporal Simpson, and Piper occupied crash seats normally used by marines. There was also a squad’s worth of marines distributed throughout the shuttle. Bernard smiled at Husher and Fesky, but other than that, the mood was somber. No one spoke.
The Tumbran looks funny in a crash seat designed for someone twice his size. The thought raised Husher’s spirits just enough to allow him to return Bernard’s smile.
He poked his head inside the shuttle’s cockpit to find that their pilot was Skids, which broadened his smile a little more. For a moment, Husher allowed himself to believe that maybe everything would turn out half-decent. “Skids, it’s good to see you. I need to send an encrypted message to the other pilots who escaped the Providence.”
“Sure thing.” Skids didn’t sound much happier than the others looked. “It’s recording now, sir.”
Husher gazed into the camera, trying to resurrect his smile from moments ago. “Well, people, it doesn’t get much worse than this. We have found rock-bottom. The good news is, after this, everything should feel like winning the lottery. My advice is to spread yourselves throughout the Feverfew System and try your best to remain hidden. If you see any of our new UHF friends approaching, flee, as best you know how. I’ll be in touch about our next steps as soon as I’m done here, and we’ll figure out how we can leave this system then. I doubt that’ll be as easy as it was aboard the Providence, with Captain Keyes in command, but we’ll find a way. Husher out.”
“That’s the message, then, Lieutenant?”
For a moment, Husher considered recording it again. I could have done more to lift morale. Not sure the dark humor’s going to work very well.
But he doubted they could afford for him to spend precious minutes getting his word choice exactly right. “Transmit it, and take us down to Zakros. We’ll be going through the official channels. I don’t think trying to hide will serve us very well, down there. Set a course for the spaceport nearest Ralston, and broadcast it to the local officials, so they know we’re not hostile.”
“Yes, sir.”
An hour later, he was standing near the shuttle’s airlock while the senator and her companion, Simpson, made their way into the airlock, along with Fesky and Piper. The marines would remain aboard to watch the shuttle and to underscore the fact that they intended no harm.
Husher, Fesky, and Simpson left their firearms aboard the shuttle. Getting them through customs would have proven difficult, especially considering Husher and Fesky were technically fugitives.
Private Simmons saluted Husher before he joined the others in the airlock, and he saluted back, trying to put more energy into it than he felt.
Part of him didn’t expect to make it past the spaceport. But Bernard’s credentials as a senator went a long way, especially coupled with her overwhelming popularity—in stark contrast to President Hurst’s plummeting approval rating, which had fallen almost into the single digits, at least according to what Husher overheard a security official telling Bernard.
Getting Piper and Fesky through securi
ty took a little longer, in light of Hurst’s total ban of aliens living in or traveling to human colonies. But once Bernard assured a spaceport official that the aliens would be extremely unobtrusive, he permitted them through, too. Apparently, officials across the galaxy were defying Hurst’s order by refusing to implement it whenever possible.
Security personnel did perform thorough searches of Husher, Fesky, and Piper, in addition to insisting on installing tracking software on their coms, to be removed only when they left the planet. Other than that, they were free to enter the city where Ralston lived.
Senator Bernard ordered them up some transportation through a ride-sharing service. During the drive, Husher offered a silent prayer that Keyes was right about Ralston being worth all of this.
Sadly, Husher already knew the answer to that. Nothing could be worth losing the Providence.
Chapter 43
Chief Ralston
The house creaked, and Calum Ralston started, head whipping around. It was just the house settling. He knew that, but it wouldn’t stop him from nearly jumping out of his skin the next time it happened, and the next.
Turning around in his chair to face his kitchen table once more, he raised his coffee mug halfway to his lips before he remembered it had gone cold at least an hour ago. Make some more, he told himself, but of course he wouldn’t.
It had been this way ever since the First Galactic War, when he’d returned from a mission in the Ixan home system and was found psychologically unfit for duty. He’d been honorably discharged with full veteran’s benefits—benefits that had slowly eroded with each subsequent Commonwealth president. And he’d been left alone to rot.
Ralston often felt like he was rotting. Mentally, for certain. Every attempt he’d made to return to something that resembled a normal social life had ended with driving away whoever he tried to befriend, even though he lived in an area of town with many other people of Scottish descent. Hell, even the children that lived on his street avoided him, and whenever he looked in the mirror and saw his scowl, he understood why. He never meant to scowl, but his face always seemed to wear one.
Juggernaut: The Ixan Prophecies Trilogy Book 2 Page 13
