by Rick Partlow
The engineer pushed off from the floor and came up against the main command station, his hands flying over the controls. “Bridge,” he called over the intercom, “reactor power is restored: the plasma drive is online.”
“Good to hear your voice, Commander,” Patel replied. “We’re going to be holding off on the plasma drive until the shuttles get back…we’ve managed to recover some of the antimatter storage canisters and to be brutally honest, without them there’s no way we’re outrunning those Shipbusters on conventional power.”
“Aye, sir,” Kopecky answered. Then he closed his eyes and took a breath, looking as if he might collapse if there’d been any gravity. “Her name was Mary Boudinot, Colonel,” he said softly, not looking at the dead woman. “She was just 23, only six months out of the Academy. This was her first cruise.”
“I’m sorry, Commander…” McKay began, but Kopecky interrupted him.
“You have nothing to be sorry about, Colonel,” he said sadly, shaking his head. “You did what had to be done. But Ensign Boudinot…she gave her life for us, in a way, you know? And I just think we should try to remember her.”
“I’ll remember her, Commander,” McKay assured him grimly. In my nightmares. For years. “Vinnie,” he said to the Captain, who was helping the Security troops to free the other engineering personnel, “I’m heading up to the bridge. After everything is secure here, I want you to get with Lt. James and find out where Mironov got the gun and if he had any help.”
“Yes, sir,” Vinnie said, eyes still fixed on Mironov’s corpse. “Sir, you really think this guy was some sort of copy of Antonov?”
“Yes I do, Vinnie,” McKay told him. “He was either a duplicate of some kind or he’d been brainwashed into thinking he was. I got suckered,” he declared bitterly. “It cost that girl her life and now it might cost us all our lives.”
“Hell, boss, that’s not something I’d expect you to account for,” Vinnie insisted, shaking his head. “There’s no way you could have known that was even possible.”
“It’s my job to know,” McKay said flatly, then headed out of the room, making for the lift station.
McKay didn’t bother trying to contact Patel on his ‘link as he rode the lift back to the bridge. The Admiral probably had his hands full already and he needed the silence.
This is a fucking disaster, he thought, closing his eyes. They were over 200 light years from home, in the enemy’s home system, surrounded by Protectorate ships, disabled and now they couldn’t even be sure that they actually knew the way home even if they did get away. And if they didn’t use the wormhole matrix, they were not getting home.
And worse, what about the Decatur? They’d been counting on Mironov’s directions to take her home, but now…for all they knew, he could have been directing them to a Protectorate stronghold. They could already be dead. He knew that Antonov would never have let them return to Earth safely with the secret of how to navigate the wormholes.
By the time he arrived at the bridge, McKay was deep in a funk and pissed off that he was going to have to find a way to hide it from Patel. He needn’t have worried: the bridge was so abuzz with activity that the Admiral hardly noticed him enter and take a position behind the command chair.
One look at the main viewscreen told him why: the Shipbuster missiles were only minutes away, so close they could see them on the optical cameras. Wedges of blackness hunted the Sheridan like wolves, framed by the star-bright glow of fusion drives; and there were so many of them…
“The countermeasures are almost there,” Pirelli announced calmly, eyes flickering back and forth between the readouts at her station and the camera view onscreen. “Ten seconds.”
“Damage control,” Patel snapped, “what’s the status on the canisters?”
“We’ve recovered ten of the fifteen ejected canisters,” Devlin’s voice came over the intercom. “The others are too far away to get to them in time. The shuttles are loading the first three right now…five more minutes for those.”
“Get those loaded then get the shuttles into the bay,” Patel ordered. “We can transfer the rest internally and load them through the engineering bay’s service locks.”
“Aye, sir.”
Patel looked a question at Pirelli.
“Twelve minutes, three seconds till the Shipbusters hit us, sir,” she told him. “Countermeasures are on target.” There were small starburst explosions on the screen that lit up the dark wedges of impending destruction, and then two huge, spherical fusion blasts that whited out the screen. Pirelli grinned, checking her readouts. “Two of the Shipbusters prematurely detonated,” she announced. “And I read two more as losing their fusion drives…the blast knocked them off their course, they should miss us. Two more still tracking us, still accelerating.”
“Open fire with the Gauss guns, Commander Pirelli…maybe we’ll get lucky. Commander Devlin,” Patel contacted Damage Control again. “I need to know when those shuttles are secure in the bay! Commander Kopecky,” he called to engineering, “tell me the second the Eysselink drive is back online.” He glanced back, noticing McKay for the first time. “This is going to be uncomfortably close, Colonel. Thanks for taking care of Mironov before he could do any more damage.”
“He did enough,” McKay said, his voice flat, eyes on the viewscreen.
Patel shot him a glance but withheld comment.
“The antimatter canisters are secure, Admiral,” Commander Devlin reported. “The shuttles are moving into the docking bay now…just a couple more minutes.”
“If they don’t get inside in the next five minutes, Mr. Devlin, you’re fired,” Patel deadpanned.
“Understood, sir,” Devlin said, a grim humor in his voice.
McKay watched the approaching missiles and didn’t feel fear so much as a crippling guilt. It would have been different had there been something for him to do, some duty he needed to perform, but as he could only stand and watch, he had the luxury of stopping to feel guilty. Would Shannon have seen through him? he asked himself. Would she have been more suspicious?
“McKay,” Patel looked to him. “You might want to strap in,”
“Yes, sir.” He moved to the acceleration couches behind the command chair and belted himself into one, eyes never leaving the screen and the approaching missiles.
“Gauss rounds hit one of them,” Pirelli reported, “but it’s still on target. Two minutes.”
“Admiral,” Commander Kopecky called from engineering, “the antimatter injectors are connected, field is ready to power up on your order.”
“”Excellent, Commander, stand by for my order.” He switched over to Damage Control. “Commander Devlin, the shuttles?”
“They’re all inside the bay, sir,” Devlin reported. “We’re still getting them secured to the docking locks---if we accelerate, they could break loose and cause some serious damage, but you can activate the field.”
“Mr. Sweeny,” Patel said, a relieved sigh in his voice, “activate the drive field, station keeping only.”
“Aye, sir,” Sweeny said with the grin of a condemned man who’d just been handed a reprieve, “station keeping only.”
The view on the exterior cameras shifted as the drive field began propagating outward from the emitters in the pods on either side of the hull. Space-time warped outward and the ripples slammed into the oncoming missiles, ripping them apart in flares of fusion fire.
“Shipbusters have detonated against the field,” Pirelli announced. “Sensors are back online. Oh, damn,” she said softly. “Sir, we have two ramships coming in at 20g’s. They’re using Eysselink drives.”
“They must keep most of their pirated antimatter here in their home system,” McKay guessed.
“They have to be running on computer control, too,” Patel deduced. “The crew must be in g-sleep.”
“If they have a crew,” McKay countered, remembering Vinnie’s idea from earlier. “It would be just as easy to give the computer a target and say �
�hit that,’ then let them go. Shipbusters with Eysselink drives.”
“Now that’s disturbingly innovative of him,” Patel grumbled.
“They’ll intercept us in less than an hour,” she said. “Sir..” she said hesitantly to Admiral Patel, “I don’t think we can use the emitters to destabilize their fields like we did before. They’re coming in too fast…we won’t have time to target them.”
Sweeny blew a breath out through puffed cheeks and looked up from his station’s readout. “Admiral, to outrun them, we’re going to have to go into the tanks.”
“Commander Devlin,” Patel pushed the indicator on his command console for Damage Control, “what’s the status of the antimatter fuel canisters we brought in with the shuttles?”
“On the way to engineering now, sir,” Devlin told him.
“Get it locked down, then get your people to the g-tanks,” Patel ordered. “Engineering,” he switched channels. “When the antimatter canisters get there, I need them powered up and locked down immediately. We are going to be in the g-tanks within the hour.”
“Will do, sir,” Kopecky replied
“Mr. Sweeny,” Patel said to the Helmsman, “I need a subroutine drawn up to get this ship through the last gate we came through without pulling us out of g-sleep. You and Ms. Pirelli tie it in with the emitters to get that gate open, cut the drive field, launch a spread of Area Denial missiles, then punch us through on the plasma drives before reactivating the Eysselink field, then waking us up. Correction: have it wake up just the bridge crew. That way if the rammers are still following us, we can do the same thing with the next gate then get back into the tanks quickly.”
“Aye sir,” the Helmsman and Tactical officer chorused.
“We’re going back the way we came, Admiral?” McKay noted.
“We know we can at least get back to Peboan that way,” Patel said with a brisk nod. “I don’t trust Mironov’s word on the route back to Earth from here. Lt. Mandel,” Patel said to the Communications officer, “sound a shipwide alert: all personnel to report to the g-tanks in forty minutes.”
“I guess we don’t get an observation run on Novoye Rodina,” McKay said wistfully as the alarm klaxons began to sound throughout the length of the Sheridan.
“No,” Patel agreed. “But perhaps I was being greedy to try it anyway…at least we know where it is now.”
“Why would he have risked that?” McKay mused, shaking his head. “Mironov…Antonov, whoever or whatever he was. Why would he risk bringing us here? Sure, he intended to sabotage us, but he couldn’t be certain he’d succeed. And if…when as it turned out…he failed, he’d risk letting us get home with the location of his home base.”
“I can’t say for sure, of course,” Patel attempted to answer, “but I think you being on the ship made it personal; he probably figured he’d have a better chance of killing you and destroying the ship here, where his forces are the thickest. And he damned near did.” The Admiral shrugged. “We’re not out of the woods yet, McKay. Get to the g-tanks and make sure your people are secure. I’ll be down with the bridge crew as soon as they have that program finished up.”
“Aye, sir,” McKay unstrapped and headed out of the bridge. “See you on the other side.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Daniel O’Keefe put on his most polished politician’s smile as he rose to shake Kevin Fourcade’s hand. Svetlana Zakharova shut the door to the office behind them, trying unsuccessfully to hide a look of distaste.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice, Mr. Fourcade,” O’Keefe said as he leaned over the desk, pumping the man’s hand. “Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” the lobbyist said. “And believe me, it’s my honor to be called here, especially with everything that’s been happening. Sir, you have my deepest condolences on the death of your son-in-law. I hope there’s been progress in finding your daughter, the Senator…”
O’Keefe examined the Fourcade’s well-designed face and was impressed by the way the man was able to fake sincere concern. Of course, maybe he was concerned about Valerie’s whereabouts, given the fact that his people hadn’t heard back from their hired assassin.
“The Investigative Service is following up some promising leads,” he told Fourcade, neatly segueing from Cordial Politician to Concerned Parent. “We’re confident she will be found soon.” He took a breath, pretending to collect himself and his thoughts. “But I’m afraid that I have been neglecting the affairs of state for too long due to my personal family tragedies. There are things that must be dealt with, and the future of our economy is one of them.”
O’Keefe sat back, clasping his hands in front of him on the desk and pursing his lips gravely. “Mr. Fourcade, I have given much thought to our last meeting. Finance Minister Zakharova and I have discussed these matters exhaustively with our scientific and business advisors; it is no exaggeration to say that we have agonized over them, in fact. There is still great disagreement about this among my advisors, but as President, I have to take a public position on the matter of biomech research.”
Fourcade nodded, sighing theatrically, his hands forming a resigned half-pleading position. “Sir, I know you have some personal experiences that make this a difficult issue, but…”
“I’ve decided to support the bill,” O’Keefe interrupted him, fighting to keep from laughing as the man’s expression fell apart in clear shock. Of all the things Kevin Fourcade had been expecting from this meeting, that clearly wasn’t one of them.
“Well, I…” the lobbyist fumbled with the words, hands still frozen in mid-gesture. “Sir, that’s…that’s very good to hear.”
Svetlana Zakharova obviously disagreed; she was still scowling from where she sat beside Fourcade. O’Keefe had tried to explain his position to her, but was hampered by the fact that he didn’t really believe in it. Finally, he’d told her she could accept his position or he could accept her resignation.
“I will be brutally honest with you, Mr. Fourcade,” O’Keefe admitted. “On a personal, visceral level, I still find the idea of us using these…things…for cheap labor to be a distasteful and frightening prospect. But I’ve come to realize that we are faced by nothing but distasteful prospects.” This part was easier to be sincere-sounding about, since it was patently true. “We can either return to sending political malcontents into what is basically indentured servitude, or retreat from the stars and face an economic collapse that will rival the Crisis after the Sino-Russian War.” He shook his head. “Or we can take a leap into the unknown with the biomech bill. There’s only one possibility that doesn’t abrogate my responsibility to the citizens of the Republic whom I serve, and I have come to terms with that.”
“I respect your devotion to the Republic, sir,” Fourcade said, having regained his composure. “When were you planning to go public with this position?”
“Well, that’s why I wanted to talk to you in person, Mr. Fourcade. I had in mind a sort of a ceremony…I’d like to announce this from a setting appropriate for a decision that will affect our economy for decades to come. And it should happen immediately. So, I’ve decided to reschedule my speech to the Senate this Wednesday and instead have a live news conference meeting with the executives from the multicorps Executive Council in their headquarters in the Greater Houston Development Complex.”
It was harder this time. O’Keefe actually felt the corner of his mouth tugging upward and had to cough to keep the laugh from bubbling up inside him at the way Fourcade’s eyes widened.
“Sir, that’s…very short notice,” he stammered. “I’m not sure we can put something appropriate to the occasion together in such a short time…”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Kevin,” O’Keefe said, waving the concern away. “My press secretary will coordinate with you. I’m sure we can work out the details.” He leaned forward, his hands flat on the desktop, his expression adamant. “Besides,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument, his eyes fierce with
conviction, “by the power invested in me by the citizens of the Republic…I insist.”
“You know,” Ari commented softly, “this was fucking genius, pardon my French.”
“It certainly was,” Shannon agreed, mouth turning up in a wry smile. “I wish I had thought of it, but it was Val’s idea. It’s elegant, simple and has the potential to completely fuck up the plans of whoever’s behind this.”
The two of them were sequestered in a small, unoccupied office not too far from the Capitol building, monitoring the President’s meeting.
“We have a positive pairing with Fourcade’s ‘link,” Ari reported, checking a readout from the surveillance device on the folding table in front of him. “He’s got some serious security software on there, but we got around it.” He shrugged. “I hope. Otherwise, we’re being spoofed so well we can’t even realize it.”
“He’s left the office,” Shannon observed. “He’ll be making the call soon.”
“And here it comes,” Ari noted. “He’s calling the office of the Executive Council right now.” He cross-checked the information. “The number is just a switchboard system.”
“Fourcade,” the lobbyist spoke into his ‘link, “calling for the Director.” Ari’s mouth shaped a silent whistle. Brendan Riordan, the Director of the multicorps’ Executive Council, was one of the three most important men in the Republic.
“Yes, sir,” the switchboard program responded with a cheerful female voice. “One moment.”
The hold was very brief, which Shannon found impressive, given Riordan’s status.
“Kevin,” Riordan’s voice answered in a basso profundo like boulders crashing on a mountainside. “What can I do for you?”
“Sir,” Fourcade said, his voice respectful but tense, “President O’Keefe has…had a change of heart about 1143B. He’s decided to come out in support of it.”
“Well,” Riordan temporized, his deep voice going up an octave, “that’s…interesting, isn’t it?”
