Duty, Honor, Planet: The Complete Trilogy

by Rick Partlow

  “Yes, Admiral.” Pirelli responded. Her voice was level and calm. She’d be an Admiral someday, Minishimi thought.

  “You and the other Patrol cutters need to make sure that none of the cislunar defense ships get into this fight. Warn them off, but if they don’t listen, open fire.”

  “We will do whatever is necessary, Admiral,” Pirelli assured her.

  She saw her own Tactical officer flinch at the thought of firing on their own people. She knew how he felt. She’d found herself wishing Larry Gianetto was here instead of off on a deep patrol and incommunicado; but given what they were about to do, perhaps it was better he was spared this. Someone should come out of this with clean hands…

  “All hands on all vessels,” Minishimi broadcast purposefully, “what we are about to do will either see us recorded as the greatest traitors in the history of the Republic, or as its saviors. Whatever the historians write about us, I can’t guarantee you we’ll be alive to read it. But I can assure you that this is the most significant thing that any of us have done, the most important battle any of us will ever fight. I’m proud to have you by my side.”

  She cut the communications link with the other ships, then turned to her own officers.

  “Tactical,” she instructed. “Battle stations. Arm all weapons. Ready all assault shuttles for launch.”

  “Battle stations, aye,” Lt.-JG Cutler responded smartly. “Shuttles ready for launch.”

  “Helm,” Minishimi said, taking a deep breath and tightening her chair’s safety harness, “take us in.”

  * * *

  The cantilever bridge stretched out over the East River, miraculously still standing after long decades of neglect and disuse. Parts of the roadway it supported had crumbled, leaving dangerous gaps here and there, but it was still possible, with care, to drive a vehicle across it…or to walk.

  Drew Franks stood next to Tanya Manning on the Queens side of the 59th Street Bridge and watched as a steady stream of people and vehicles flowed slowly across the span, carefully picking their way past the holes that would have dropped them into the river below. Abshay Patel stood at an impromptu checkpoint in the center of the road, covered by the two Special Ops NCOs while he checked IDs and listened to stories and surreptitiously scanned for explosives.

  “Any one of them could be a plant,” Manning reminded him, speaking quietly next to his ear. They’d removed their helmets and Franks could feel a chill breeze coming off the river as the sun set behind them. “Most of them are armed,” she pointed out. “All it would take is one of them to put a bullet in your head…or mine.”

  “Me, you,” he shook his head, “it wouldn’t matter. This is bigger than us, Tanya.” He laughed softly. “I mean, just look at them.”

  There were a few active duty Marines still dressed in combat armor from duty stations they’d abandoned in Capital City, some driving assault vehicles. There were local police officers, mostly on foot but three had flown in with their duty flitters. There were a lot of retired military, both Fleet and Marines, most in civilian clothes but some in older fatigues and armor they’d picked up surplus…and a lot of them had somehow got hold of military weapons---older ones, no longer issued, but quite illegal for all that.

  But the biggest contingent, the one he was watching warily as it came up behind the others, was made up of over a hundred troops dressed in Homeworld Guard armor and carrying issue weapons, some driving the wheeled combat vehicles the Guard used for urban warfare. Franks was fairly sure they weren’t trying to attack---they would have come with more troops for that, he thought. But who were they?

  The question was answered when a HWG officer, dressed in full armor but holding his helmet under his arm, walked up to them, escorted by Abshay who seemed impressed with the man. Franks thought there was something familiar about him, something in the humorous twinkle of his dark eyes, or the mop of barely-regulation dark hair that nearly fell across them.

  “Captain Franks,” Abshay said, “this is Colonel Leon Kristopolis…”

  “Call me Kristy,” the older man insisted, thrusting out a hand.

  Bemused, Franks took the hand and felt the wiry Greek shake it firmly.

  “Kinda’ weird seeing Homeworld Guard soldiers coming over…Kristy,” Franks said. “I figured the first time we saw people in that uniform,” he nodded towards the Colonel’s grey-pattern body armor, “they’d be shooting at us.”

  “Well,” Kristy replied wryly, “we may be wearing the Homeworld Guard uniform, but every man and woman here,” he nodded towards the group still streaming across the bridge, “used to be Republic Service Corps before we were folded into the HWG.”

  “Oh my God,” Franks breathed, suddenly realizing to whom he was speaking. “You’re that Kristopolis! You were with Colonel Stark during the invasion!”

  “And now I’m with you,” Kristy told Franks. Then his ready smile faded. “Colonel Stark’s a friend and anything we can do to help her, you’ve got it.”

  “Drew!” Manning’s sharp call pierced through their conversation and Franks ran back to where she was huddled with one of Kristy’s officers next to an armored urban command car.

  “Yeah?”

  “Captain Vingh here,” she gestured to the dark-eyed young man beside here, “is tied into the city traffic net through his vehicle’s systems.” She shook her head grimly. “We’re about to have company.”

  “It looks like at least four ground support fighters scrambling from the Long Island defense base,” the officer confirmed, speaking half to Franks and half to Colonel Kristopolis. “They’ll be here in ten minutes. We have reports from the various news agencies about Guard vehicles heading this way as well.”

  Franks glanced up at the hum of one of the half dozen camera drones cruising overhead, their sterile, white-plastic casings gleaming in the last light of the fading sun. They were like vultures circling a carcass. He knew he could check any one of the news nets and see footage of himself…and he knew that the Guard troops and Ayrock could, too.

  He straightened, stared up into lens of the closest of the drones and raised a middle finger.

  “Abshay!” he barked and the junior officer jogged over. “Get this goat rope organized and start getting people behind what cover we can find.” He jerked a thumb back towards the overgrown rubble that had once been one of the largest boroughs in New York City. Franks’ lip curled up into a half-smile. “Company’s coming. Gotta make the place presentable.”

  * * *

  Captain Alfonso Matienzo felt the restraint strap across his chest go slack as one gravity of acceleration pushed him back into his bunk. The Farragut was moving. He’d heard the Admiral’s announcement over the public address system speakers in the small guest officer’s cabin in which he’d been confined. He was grateful he’d been given a private room; he couldn’t have faced any of his men at the moment. They would ask him questions he couldn’t answer.

  Did we do the right thing? Was General Kage following the President’s orders or was he the tool of power-hungry traitors?

  He knew they would ask those questions because he’d been asking them of himself. It was the duty of a military officer to follow the orders of his superior: this had been drummed into him since he’d been an enlisted man, fresh out of high school. Yet should he have known something was wrong when General Kage seized control of the Bradley? Should he have followed orders when the General had told him to have his men attack Republic military troops in an attempt to usurp authority from the commanding officer of the task force?

  When did duty to one’s principles override duty to one’s superior? Where did he draw that line?

  He couldn’t answer those questions to himself and he knew he wouldn’t be able to answer them when they were asked by a court-martial…or by his parents.

  “Jesu Maria,” he muttered. It was all over…the career he’d dreamed of since he was a boy, the life he’d been building. Gone as if it had never been.

  A loud coughi
ng sound penetrated through his fog of self-pity and through the cabin bulkhead from the passageway outside, followed by the solid thump of something hitting the deck. Matienzo unbuckled the strap across his chest and sat up in his bunk, glancing around the room for anything that could be used as a weapon. He’d recognized the sound of a suppressed firearm discharging, and that made the second sound likely that of the fall of the weapon’s target.

  What he didn’t know was who was shooting and who was being shot.

  He’d just come to the conclusion that absolutely nothing capable of being used as a weapon had been left in the cabin when the door slid aside and a short, unremarkable-looking woman in a blue Fleet uniform with the insignia of a lower-ranking Security officer and the name “Sorrentino” on a tape across her left breast stepped through into his room. She had short, brown hair, and what he thought must be a well-rehearsed innocence to her dark eyes and expression that was belied by the wicked-looking pistol she carried comfortably in her left hand. Visible behind her, sprawled in the corridor, were the uniform boots of the Security NCO who’d been assigned to guard the block of cabins where the Guard troops had been confined. His blood was spattered on the far wall.

  He came to his feet, feeling suddenly naked and vulnerable without his combat armor, and waiting for the bullet he was sure was on the way.

  “Captain Matienzo,” the woman said, her tone earnest and urgent, “I’m Special Agent Cruz of the CIS. Admiral Minishimi is committing treason and I have been authorized to use whatever force is necessary to neutralize her. Can I count on you and your men to do your duty to the Republic?”

  He didn’t hesitate: he could sense that any hesitation would be seen as duplicity and dealt with swiftly and fatally. “Of course,” he assured her, making his face stern and severe. “The bastards killed the General.”

  “Then this is your one chance to get some payback,” she told him. “But we have to hurry. We need to free the rest of your men and get to the armory before the alert goes out. I sabotaged the monitoring systems in Security, but it won’t take too long before that’s discovered.”

  She waited for him to go first, he noted.

  As Matienzo exited the cabin, he glanced aside at the guard, lying face down in the center of the corridor. The man’s right hand still twitched, a stunner centimeters from his outstretched fingers. His name, Matienzo remembered, was Cole, and he was a Petty Officer…he had a friendly laugh and a family on the Eden colony.

  Matienzo stooped to grab the weapon, rose to see the CIS Agent regarding him carefully, the barrel of her handgun pointed his way.

  He cocked an eyebrow. “If you don’t trust me with a stunner,” he pointed out, “how are you going to trust me to help you take this ship?”

  She seemed to consider it for a heartbeat, then shrugged and shifted her aim back down the corridor. “There are three of your officers in the next cabin,” she motioned past him, taking a step that direction.

  “We should free Sgt. Sun first,” Matienzo told her. “He’ll know which of the enlisted we can depend on.” And he remembered that Sun had been put in a cabin at the opposite end of the passage…

  Cruz glanced away from him for just a moment, down the corridor to the cabin where Sun was being held. It was only the space of a heartbeat, but it was enough time for Matienzo to raise the stunner and pull the trigger.

  Cruz’s muscles tightened as she convulsed from the electric current coursing through her, and she fired a round from her pistol into the bulkhead before she collapsed, insensate. Her feet were centimeters from Petty Officer Cole’s pooling blood.

  Matienzo reached down and pried the suppressed pistol from Cruz’s quivering fingers, ejecting the chambered round then hitting the release to drop the magazine. It thumped solidly on the padded floor, weighted down by a nearly full load of caseless cartridges, and the gun lightened noticeably with its absence. Matienzo felt a weight fall away from him as well. He tossed the gun aside, then stepped over to Petty Officer Cole and took the ‘link off his belt.

  “This is Captain Matienzo,” he said into it after touching the control for an emergency call. “Petty Officer Cole has been shot and is gravely wounded. Please send a medical team immediately to my cabin.”

  The ‘link jabbered at him as the person on the other end of it tried to ask him questions, but he left it on the ground and rolled Cole onto his back, wincing at the jagged edges of the two gunshot wounds in the man’s chest. Cole’s mouth was an “O” as he gasped fishlike for air, blood staining his chin from the hole punched through one of his lungs. Matienzo patted the security NCO’s pockets down and found a smart bandage, then unwrapped it and slapped it over the chest wounds. Cole relaxed almost immediately as the bandage injected him with painkillers, and the blood flow began to slow, then cease entirely as coagulants went to work. The genetically engineered bacterial nanotech in the bandage would begin knitting torn flesh immediately, but it would take a medical center to repair this sort of damage in time to save him.

  Matienzo rose from Cole’s motionless form, absently wiping blood from his hands as he slowly and deliberately stepped back into his cabin. He sat on his bunk and began to feel good for the first time in many days.

  His part in all this had ended. Perhaps he still had no answer for a court-martial, but at least he had an answer for his parents…and for himself. He’d made his choice; he’d drawn his line.

  Chapter Forty Five

  Staring at the Tactical display in the Executive Office, Philip Ayrock felt doubt gnawing at his insides. Not that long ago, he’d been supremely confident that everything would work out. He’d taken all the opportunities that had been presented to him over the years to gain as much advantage as he could, but he still wasn’t sure if it would be enough. The brightly glowing red avatar in the shape of the RFS Farragut continued to advance across the display, drawing ever closer to Earth.

  “Admiral Di Ndinge,” he said, keeping his voice steady as he addressed the tall African officer across the room, “tell Captain Fox to launch the ShipBusters.”

  Di Ndinge stood at his station, arms crossed and unmoving. “Where,” he asked clearly and with a trace of sullen stubbornness, “is acting President Cumberland, and why isn’t he directing this office?”

  Ayrock’s eyes flickered around the room. Besides himself, the Admiral and a couple of minor functionaries, there was Colonel Tran of the Homeworld Guard, who he’d brought in to replace General Reitveld when the Marine officer had gone missing…gone to the rebels, most likely, he forced himself to admit. Tran wore a sidearm, the only weapon present in the room.

  “President Cumberland is in constant contact with me,” Ayrock lied easily, “and has left me in charge of running things from here until he gets up to speed on the situation.” In point of fact, Cumberland was still sitting in his vacation villa in Aruba and would stay there, recording press releases as needed until Ayrock told him to come back.

  “If I am to order Captain Fox to fire on Republic military personnel,” Di Ndinge insisted mulishly, “then I want personal authorization from the President.”

  Ayrock regarded the man for a moment, taking in the neatly creased uniform and the chiseled features set in a disapproving glare.

  “Well, it’s fortunate that I don’t really need you anymore,” Ayrock commented dryly. He hit a control on his ‘link. “Agent Wassermann, get in here.”

  The Presidential Security agent came in quickly and obediently, knowing on which side of the bread his butter was spread. He was a blank-faced toady of a man and Ayrock despised him, but he knew that Wasserman was reliable.

  “Yes, Director Ayrock?” the agent asked.

  “Put Admiral Di Ndinge in a holding cell…and make sure you confiscate his ‘link first.”

  Wasserman didn’t seem surprised…and neither did the Admiral. Instead, he seemed resigned as he handed his datalink over to the agent. Wasserman had his stunner out, but held it down at his side; Tran, Ayrock noted, kept his ha
nd resting on the butt of his holstered pistol.

  “This is my fault,” Di Ndinge said quietly, not looking at Wasserman as the man took him by the arm. “I should have seen this coming.”

  Ayrock didn’t bother to speak to the Fleet officer as he was led out of the room, but he wanted to scream at him: And what would you have done about it? Shannon Stark and Jason McKay couldn’t stop him, so how would that stuffed-shirt staff officer?

  He found his thoughts circling around that rabbit hole too long and realized he’d forgotten something. He pulled up the secure communications routine on the table in front of him and scrolled through to Captain Fox’s listing. He touched the man’s avatar and waited, hoping the idiot wasn’t off diddling some junior officer again. Why was it so hard to recruit competent allies?

  “Director!” Fox replied almost immediately. The man’s normally placid face was nearly cartoonish with agitation, his too-broad forehead beaded with sweat, so Ayrock presumed he’d at least been keeping abreast of current events. “The Farragut is heading for Earth orbit and the Bradley is burning straight for Luna! What are my orders?”

  Well, at least he knew the situation, Ayrock reflected. Count your blessings and all that.

  “Calm down, Captain,” Ayrock told him. “This is why you have the Eysselink drive missiles. Launch them immediately.”

  “All of them?” Fox asked incredulously. Ayrock had to stop himself from laughing at the man’s senseless frugality, then had to stop himself from cursing at the Fleet officer’s incompetent waste of his time.

  “Are you saving them for a special occasion?” Ayrock barely restrained himself from screaming at the man. “Yes, launch all of them! Target the Farragut first, use as many as you need to take her out. Unless the Bradley surrenders, destroy her next.” He still held out hope that his plant on the Farragut would come through, but he wasn’t going to chance waiting on her. A dead Joyce Minishimi was preferable to an imprisoned one.