Duty, Honor, Planet: The Complete Trilogy

by Rick Partlow

  Ari and Roza were already strapped into the first triple row of seats, so Shannon and Tom belted D’Annique into the next one then sat on either side of her even as Manning was lifting off from the landing area.

  “That could have gone smoother,” Tom commented with a sigh, strapping himself in.

  “She must have had her own security alarms,” Shannon guessed. “Nothing to be done about it, we couldn’t take the time we needed to set this up any better, not without risking her going to ground.” She called up to the pilot, “That was very well done, Sgt. Manning. Good shooting as well.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Manning said crisply. Shannon couldn’t see her face, but she was a good enough reader of people to guess that the young woman was smiling proudly.

  “Get us to the safe house as quickly as possible,” Shannon directed. “And radio ahead for Griffin to get the hypnoprobe ready.”

  “Commander D’Annique,” Shannon intoned, “can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” the former Fleet officer responded almost in a whisper, her eyes flickering at unseen memories suddenly flooding her brain under the influence of the probe, the psychoactives and the neuronomine. Shannon glanced aside at the medic, who was standing in a corner of the darkened, claustrophobic room, watching worriedly for signs of the very probable side-effects.

  “Do you know where General Antonov is?”

  “No. I have not had contact with him directly.”

  Something in that answer bothered Shannon. “Were you aware that General Antonov was on Earth and being held by Brendan Riordan?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “I was made aware of it by Kevin Fourcade six days ago.”

  “Why did he tell you?” Shannon asked, becoming annoyed at the closed-mouthedness of the woman.

  “He said that General Antonov was going to be moving and I needed to arrange transport. He had me get a groundcar with a driver out to northern Nevada, then arrange for a flitter to be waiting at the Vegas transportation hub.” She hesitated, her bland face showing what was perhaps a flicker of emotion. “And he had me send a special team to kill the driver and the pilot of the flitter afterward.”

  “Damn,” Tom muttered from where he leaned against a wall, arms crossed. She silently agreed. Fourcade and Antonov were infuriatingly paranoid.

  “Do you,” Shannon asked, “have any knowledge of where Riordan is manufacturing or storing biomechs?”

  It took a moment for her to answer, and a frown passed over her face. “Things are compartmentalized, need to know…but I was tasked a few times with arranging shipments of weapons, too many for regular security use. I believed…I believe they were intended to arm a force of biomechs. They were shipped to what is nominally a food production research facility just outside of Montreal.”

  “Tom!” Shannon snapped as Crossman pushed away from the wall, eyes lighting up with sudden alertness. “Get on the horn, I need a military strike team on the way to Montreal now!”

  Tom Crossman nodded and stepped quickly out of the room as Shannon turned back to D’Annique. The woman was sweating now, her head swaying slightly in the harness for the hypnoprobe.

  “How many weapons did you ship to this facility?” Shannon pressed.

  D’Annique blinked, yanking slightly at the straps that held her. “Tw…twen…” She began to jerk and the medic surged forward, but Shannon held him back with an upraised hand. “Twenty thou…,” she croaked hoarsely and Shannon’s eyes went wide.

  She waved the medic forward and the man began unstrapping D’Annique, pushing an injector into her neck even as he did so, but the woman was seizing violently, foam coming from between clenched teeth. Shannon stepped back, watching in horror as the woman thrashed in the medic’s grip even as he lowered her to a cot.

  “I have to get her to a hospital!” the medic yelled, panic in his voice. “This bad a reaction, she’s gotta have a bleeder and I don’t have the equipment to handle it here!”

  Shannon nodded. “Go ahead; I’ll get Griffin to help you.”

  Shannon stepped out of the room, heading down the hallway to the apartment’s living room, where she found Griffin sitting on the cheap couch, quietly recording a report. “Help the medic get D’Annique to a hospital,” she ordered him before heading over to where Tom Crossman was speaking into the mic of his ‘link, his face pale and grim.

  “Did you get hold of General Rietveld?” she asked him. “Are they sending troops?”

  “The Marines onplanet and the Republic Service Corps are going to be otherwise occupied, ma’am,” he told her, shaking his head.

  “What’s happened, Tom?” she demanded, an icy chill running up her back.

  “The Protectorate fleet is coming through the wormhole in the Belt,” he replied, confirming her worst fears. “Hundreds of them…including ramships that are already on their way insystem. And the only cruisers we have closer than six light years are the Bradley and the Decatur. Captain Di Ndinge doesn’t think we’re going to be able handle them all, even with the lunar defenses.”

  A haze of unreality settled on her, like she was in a nightmare from which she couldn’t awaken. “Put General Rietveld and Captain Di Ndinge through on my ‘link,” she said, hearing her own voice but feeling as if it were someone else speaking. At his nod, she spoke into her communications link. “This is Colonel Stark, sirs. I’ve been advised of the situation, but there’s another threat that’s even closer and we have to have combat troops to deal with it.”

  “Colonel,” a German accent answered and the voice she knew to be grim-toned on the best of days sounded like a minister at an atheist’s funeral, “this is General Rietveld. Captain Di Ndinge has been called away. We’ve just received word that Protectorate ramships are heading straight for the lunar base.” His voice wavered. “The Bradley and the Decatur are engaged with other ramships and there’s nothing we have that can stop them in time. The Captain is trying to order an evacuation.”

  “General,” she growled, more in fear than in anger, “if we don’t get a military force to Montreal soon, it won’t matter what happens out there, because General Antonov himself will be leading twenty thousand biomech troops right into your lap!”

  “Colonel…” Rietveld sounded as if he were about to argue with her, then he sighed in resignation. “You’re going to need to talk to the President about this. Hold one.”

  While she was waiting, as the medic and Sgt. Griffin urgently dragged Hellene D’Annique’s now-limp body toward the front door, Shannon began to hear the emergency sirens in the distance, noticed out of the corner of her eye the apartment’s small entertainment console activating by itself and playing a recorded government warning for all civilians to get to the nearest certified shelter, as well as a call for all RSC troops, police and emergency personnel to report to their duty stations immediately.

  Numbness crept over her, the feeling of unreality she’d been experiencing growing ever stronger as she followed Griffin and the medic out the door, walking out to the street and seeing the beginnings of panic, of people starting to run towards the shelters or back to their homes, or just away. Almost unwillingly, she searched the sky and found the moon; it was still visible in the morning sky, barely. And there, along the terminator, she could just see it: a bright spike of gas erupting into the vacuum, where the ramships had penetrated the crust when they impacted the defense base.

  She slowly shook her head. Everything they’d done, all the sacrifices they’d made, and it hadn’t been enough to stop this…

  “Colonel Stark,” she heard President O’Keefe’s voice over her ‘link; she could hear the horror and fear in it. “You have heard what’s happening?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” she said. “Sir, I know about the threat from the Protectorate fleet, but I have evidence that Brendan Riordan’s resources have been used by Kevin Fourcade to build an army of perhaps twenty thousand biomechs somewhere near Montreal. He’s been arming them with modern weapons and I believe he intends to mobil
ize them very soon. He’s probably been waiting for this strike by his fleet.”

  “Isn’t this why we have orbital kinetic strike weapons, Colonel?” O’Keefe asked, a bit testy and impatient, she thought. “I’ll release their control to you…won’t that be enough to stop them?”

  Shannon bit back her initial response and grabbed desperately at what little patience she had left. “Sir, those weapons are meant for use on hardened targets: weapons emplacements, terrorist strongpoints, armored columns. They are useful for fire support, but first they have to have someone to support. I need troops, sir, and lots of them.”

  “Colonel Stark, I’m sorry…the RSC is needed to support the evacuation to the shelters. And I doubt they’re well-armed enough to do much anyway. We just don’t have that sort of force available!”

  “Excuse me,” a harsh-edged, familiar voice came onto the ‘link. “I am sorry for intruding, Mr. President, but I was contacted by General Rietveld.” General Kage paused and she could almost hear the tight, satisfied grin on his ugly face. “I believe I may be of some help…”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Drew Franks sagged against his seat restraints, cursing softly as he watched the sensor display on the main screen, the thermal plumes hanging over Armstrong Base like a tombstone. Everyone on the bridge seemed stunned, even acting-Captain Lee. She closed her eyes for a moment, lips moving in what might have been a prayer.

  “We do what we can,” she said finally. Franks thought it was becoming a mantra to her. “Lt. Bevins, take us back toward the enemy fleet.”

  “We need to reach the Decatur,” Franks said, having to fight the shock just to find the strength to open his mouth. “They don’t know about the method we used to take out the ramships. At least I don’t think they do.”

  “I’ve got a fix on them, Captain,” Wolford told her. “They have two ramships closing with them, and I’m reading more Eysselink drive signatures coming through the wormhole.”

  “Set course to intercept the ramships, Lt. Bevins,” Lee ordered. “Two g acceleration.”

  “Where the hell are they getting all the antimatter to run those things?” Bevins wondered, touching the controls that sent them back into their acceleration couches with the fist of God pushing against their chests.

  “They don’t need that much,” Franks pointed out, his voice strained. “They use the wormholes to travel the interstellar distances, and conventional drives when they’re not in combat. As for where they got it…well, there have been quite a few cargo ships pirated by them over the years. And maybe they’ve figured out how to make it themselves.”

  Of course, there was also the very real possibility that it had been provided to them by Riordan and the other collaborators, but Franks was pretty certain that wasn’t something that Colonel Stark wanted him spreading around.

  “What’s the tactical situation?” Lee asked.

  “Ma’am,” Wolford answered, “I am currently reading at least 250 ships that have already come through the wormhole, and that’s not counting the 30 to 40 that the Decatur has taken out so far---I’m guessing on that number, from the wreckage floating around. I’m not currently reading anything coming through the gate, but I don’t know that means they don’t have any more to send.”

  “If we take out the ramships first,” Franks mused, “we can plow right through the rest and they couldn’t touch us.”

  Lee gave a curt nod that he barely saw. “Let’s just hope the Decatur can hold out till we get there, Lieutenant…”

  * * *

  Captain Joyce Minishimi barely blinked this time when the globular fusion explosion lit up the main viewscreen for an eyeblink then slid away.

  “That’s the last ship in this cluster,” Gianeto told her. “The others have spread out pretty far to not give us an easy target.” He hesitated. “The two ramships are still on our tail. Three minutes till the lead ship intercepts our field at current accelerations.”

  “No use putting it off any longer,” Minishimi sighed. She hit a control on her station’s console. “Commander Prieta,” she called to the Engineering officer.

  “Yes, Captain,” the reply came immediately, as if he had been expecting the call. And maybe he had, she thought.

  “How confident are you in the bypass you’ve rigged to keep us from experiencing a terminal overload if we touch fields with one of those ramships?”

  “As I told Lt. Franks when he contacted me earlier,” he replied, “I can guarantee we can survive it once. The second time…” She heard the shrug in his voice. “It is a 50-50 chance, ma’am.”

  “Well, as those ramships don’t seem to be lacking for fuel,” she decided, “it’s a chance we’re going to have to take. Prepare for field intersect in one minute Commander.” She turned to Gianeto. “Larry, we’re going to go to station keeping and let the lead ship run right into us. When our fields go down, we’re going to have less than five minutes to get them back up in time to hit the other one. During that time, we need to do what we saw the Brad do: launch a pair of Shipbusters and program one of them to take out the second ship after we bring down its field. And I need that programming done in the next thirty seconds.”

  “Not a problem,” Gianeto muttered, concentrating on his station as he entered the commands. A moment later, he looked up. “Done, ma’am. Ready when you are.”

  “Just say the word, ma’am,” Witten announced from his station, fingers hovering over the icons that would start the deceleration.

  Minishimi watched the display carefully for a moment, then hit the shipwide intercom. “This is Captain Minishimi. All hands brace for collision.” She paused. “It’s been an honor to serve with and fight beside all of you.” She locked eyes with Witten. “Hit the brakes, Francis.”

  Minishimi had braced herself, but when the hit came, she was still thrashed violently, both physically and somehow spiritually in a way she couldn’t fathom, and everything went fuzzy in a way that seemed to have little to do with any trauma to her brain and more to do with trauma to reality. Somewhere deep in her consciousness, she raged, knowing that she was wasting time they wouldn’t get back, time that could cost them their lives, but it was as if she were swimming through a sea of glue to get back to herself.

  “L…launch missiles!” She tried to scream it, but it choked out as a squeak that she was sure was nearly inaudible. As it turned out, it didn’t matter…she could see that Gianeto had recovered quicker than her and was stabbing the control to launch the pair of Shipbusters.

  “Missiles away!” he called, the Tactical display projected around him still hazy and flickering from the near overload of the systems.

  “Commander Prieta,” Minishimi was finally able to speak, the words breaking out in a bellow, as if they’d been trying to kick down a door, “can we get the drive back up?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Prieta assured her. “The bypass held and we have fuel containment. The drive is ready, on your command.”

  “Lt. Witten, activate the drive field and give us a heading away from the first ship…we don’t want to be nearby when the Shipbuster hits it.”

  Witten shook his head, still trying to clear it, then hit the controls before croaking out, “Drive activated, Captain. One g acceleration.”

  “One minute till field intercept with the second ramship,” Gianeto told her. “The first Shipbuster is thirty seconds out from the disabled enemy vessel. She is not attempting to evade at this time…I think she’s out of it.” He cocked an eyebrow, looking at the display analytically. “They’re pretty small for Eysselink drive ships. They probably don’t have much in the way of personnel or hardware redundancy.”

  “Oh, I think they’ve proven devilishly clever,” Minishimi responded sourly. “They’ve certainly made the most of what they have, and I didn’t think they had that much.”

  “Positive detonation on the first Shipbuster,” Gianeto said, nodding with satisfaction as he saw the white globe of the fusion blast appear on his display.
“She’s toast, ma’am.” His eyes flickered to the other readout in front of him. “Twenty-five seconds to impact with the other ramship.”

  “Anyone who’s into praying,” Higgs murmured, barely audible, “say one for me.”

  “Got you covered, Maggie,” Witten said, shooting her a grin.

  “Engineering is ready for impact, Captain,” Mehta, the engineering bridge officer, reported. “Commander Prieta says that the emergency interlocks are in place on the antimatter storage pods. He…” Mehta hesitated, stumbling over the words. “He, uh, says that he has perhaps 25 percent confidence they will hold.”

  Gianeto’s face twisted into a grimace as he watched his display. “Oh, damn,” he said, mildly. “Captain, we…”

  He didn’t finish. Minishimi thought she would be better prepared for the second field collision, but she was discovering that it wasn’t actually possible to prepare for it. If anything, it was worse than the first time, as if the effects were cumulative somehow. And it felt wrong in a way that was hard to express, the way you felt when you injured yourself badly and knew it, the way she’d felt in high school when she’d tore a ligament in her knee playing soccer.

  Her vision was blurred and her head spinning, but the first thing she could sense was the acrid scent of the smoke from an electrical fire; and then, vaguely, a crackling of exposed power relays in counterpoint to low, antiphonal moans from others on the bridge.

  She tried to shake her head to clear her vision, but couldn’t summon the energy for it…instead, her head lolled and she could feel spittle drifting from her slack mouth and floating away. She concentrated feverishly and finally she was able to blink her eyes clear…and almost immediately wished she hadn’t.

  The bridge was a haze of slowly-drifting smoke, punctuated by the wild sparking of overloaded relays, blown out when the energy surge from the successive field intersects had finally jumped the dampers. Worse, the smoke wasn’t being automatically sucked out by the bridge fans, which meant that even the battery backups were offline. Her ‘link’s ear bud was silent and the displays were dark; the only light was the ghostly glow from the chemical light strips that lined the bridge. And worst of all, Francis Witten was floating slack in his harness, a trickle of blood from his nose drifting away in loose globules that hung over him absurdly, unmoved by absent breath.