Dreadnought (Starship Blackbeard Book 3)

by Michael Wallace

  If you complete this mission, your insubordination will be forgiven. You will be elevated to the Admiralty and granted an estate on Albion as recompense for your heroism.

  If you fail to obey, you will be arrested, tried for treason, and hung from the end of a rope until dead.

  With resolution,

  Vice Admiral Thomas Lord Malthorne

  Rutherford stared at the message for a long time. It was infested with lies, cowardice, and evil. Yes, evil. Rutherford had never read a more wicked order, and he loathed every word of it.

  “What is it?” Pittsfield asked. “Are you unwell?”

  Erase it. Hit ‘delete’ and pretend you never received the message. Anything can happen in battle. You may be killed. The admiral may be killed. You may emerge as a hero who cannot be touched. Anything.

  But that was the coward’s way. He slid his computer across to Pittsfield, who drew in his breath as he read it. Then, he showed Caites. Her brow furrowed, and she chewed her lip.

  “You know what I intend to do, I presume?” Rutherford asked. “There is only one option, as ugly as that is.”

  They looked at him for a long moment, and then both of them nodded.

  “And are you with me?” he continued.

  Again, nods, more resolutely this time.

  “Good. Then let us proceed. Ever forward, never looking back.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tolvern stared in horror at the first away pod as it sailed beyond the schooner and disappeared into Albion’s upper atmosphere. An explosion from the orbital fortress had knocked both pods off course, and the schooner’s outstretched hook and net had missed. Had missed! The pod had no heat shields—it would burn up in the atmosphere.

  She knew those people. She’d been talking to Mora not five minutes ago as they approached the two away pods. Tolvern and Capp were teasing him about the silly pencil mustache Mora was growing, the sort of good-natured banter to ease nerves before combat. Now, Mora and the rest were soaring to their deaths.

  And Tolvern’s pod was following the same path, a few seconds behind it. They were close enough now, only a few hundred yards from the groping hook and net, so close that Tolvern could eyeball it. They would miss. She knew it.

  Docking with schooner in . . . recalculating. Unable to calculate.

  Jane couldn’t calculate, because it wasn’t going to happen. There wasn’t going to be a docking, now or ever. The others in Tolvern’s pods were crying out, struggling with their restraints (what good would that do?), closing their eyes, or even praying. But Tolvern could only stare out the port window. She felt pale and lightheaded.

  Then, at the moment when her hope was gone, the schooner rolled. Only a fraction—she was still approaching the forts at a rapid clip—but that movement swung the arm wide, closer to them. Was it enough? The pod slammed into the outer metal ring of the net, and they jerked against their restraining belts. Like an idiot, Lutz had unstrapped himself, and he came flying at Tolvern like a meat missile. She ducked, and he flew over her shoulder and slammed into the weapons rack behind her.

  As the pod came to rest in the net, there was a good deal of cursing, mixed with cheers and shouts of relief. Lutz’s nose looked like a mashed banana, and his blood was splattered all over her combat jumpsuit. He groaned and clutched at his nose, blood streaming between his fingers. Moments later, the airlock opened, and they stepped into the cramped hold of the schooner. Tolvern was so relieved to feel solid ground beneath her feet that she didn’t care about Lutz’s blood all over her.

  Capp grabbed Tolvern’s arm. “All them people. They just . . . they missed. How did they miss? We was right behind ’em. Coulda been us. But it wasn’t. We’re alive, and they’re dead.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about that now,” Tolvern said.

  “They was my mates, you know. Fonseca, Peters, Arends, Mora.” Capp’s eyes were haunted. “I don’t—I can’t . . . ”

  Carvalho came over and rested a hand on Capp’s shoulder. His look was sympathetic, and she threw her arms around him and buried her face against his chest.

  “Mora’s gone,” she said. “Can you believe it? Me and Tolvern was just talking to him.”

  “I know, Capp,” Carvalho said. “Sorry.”

  Tolvern stared. She hadn’t thought them capable. A pair of smugglers and pirates, yet here they were, sharing a tender moment. Tolvern wanted to leave them be, but things were happening in the schooner hold, while outside the ship, the fortresses would be turning their guns to hammer them. It was quiet, with no outgoing fire, and nothing had hit them yet, but that could change in an instant, and then all would be chaos and death.

  “There’s nothing we can do for them now,” Tolvern said. “We have to carry on.”

  There were about twenty men and women inside the schooner hold already: a couple of men from Paredes’s crew, plus men and women sent over from Pussycat. In addition, Catarina Vargus had left her sister several of her own crew before flying off with Orient Tiger, and one of these was the cyborg-like fellow with the Gatling gun for his left arm. His name was Nix, and Tolvern still found his appearance menacing even though he was her subordinate for the current mission.

  Nevertheless, it was a surprisingly organized collection of men and women, hard-bitten, of course, but not fighting and squabbling as pirates often did. They tightened bandoleers, checked shotguns and assault rifles, and then moved to strap themselves into the harnesses on the side of the hold. There were even three Hroom in the crew, pale-skinned sugar eaters, which made Tolvern question their trustworthiness, but they were neither swooning nor suffering withdrawals at the moment, so far as she could see. Poor bastards. If they survived, Tolvern would talk to Brockett about getting them the sugar antidote.

  Her crew still seemed stunned, were still congratulating themselves on having survived. But the first of two pods had just arrived from Outlaw, and the way these people emerged—organized and efficiently checking their weapons—jolted Tolvern from her stupor. Capp passed Tolvern weapons from the pod, which she distributed.

  Someone cut strips of rag for Lutz, and he shoved them up his nose until they formed bloody plugs. More blood smeared across his face, and he had a dazed expression. A concussion, she thought, as she handed him a shotgun. She briefly considered leaving him behind, but she’d already lost the six from the other pod, and needed all available manpower.

  Tolvern and Capp waited until they were all strapped in before addressing the assault team. There were thirty-one in all, and six empty harnesses.

  “Listen up!” Tolvern said. “I don’t know most of you, and most of you don’t know me, but here is how it is going to go. I am the commander of this mission, and Ensign Capp is my first officer. Capp is a former marine.”

  “And I got the lions to prove it,” Capp said, holding out her forearm to show her tattoos. People snickered and jeered, but Capp grinned back at them. “Oh, yeah? I know you lot are jealous, and make no mistake. We get some gold, and maybe you can afford a bit of ink yourself, if you don’t drink and whore it away first.”

  The sloop shuddered. Was that the sloop entering the atmosphere, or had they taken a hit? The small ship was agile, but poorly armed and armored. The guns of Blackbeard and the two frigates needed to give them cover, or this mission would end before it ever reached York Town.

  “Gold, yes,” Tolvern said. “There’s a vault at the bottom of York Tower, containing the monetary reserves of the Crown, what the Royal Mint uses to make their coinage. Get that bullion, and every one of us will be richer than Solomon.”

  “Who’s that?” someone asked.

  Tolvern ignored the comment. “But we have more important considerations.”

  “More important than gold?”

  “Will you shut up?” Capp said. “Commander’s trying to keep you lot from getting killed, yeah?”

  “First, we rescue Baron and Lady Drake. They’re at the top of the tower, where royal prisoners are held. We fight our wa
y up, get them out, then haul them to the schooner, which will be parked in the courtyard, probably under fire. The royal guard will be there, of course, and before long, York Town will send forces. They’re militia—I figure we can handle them with what we’ve got.

  “But there’s a big military base outside York Town, and once it’s obvious that the city is under attack, they can legally enter it. That means Royal Marines with assault helicopters. Might take them a half-hour, an hour, and then they’ll be on us. I’d say longer, but they’re no doubt already on high alert given everything going on out there with the Hroom.”

  “Half-hour ain’t long,” Lutz said.

  Tolvern glared at him. She shouldn’t be getting arguments from her own people, who had been warned against that sort of thing. It was only with the cooperation of Blackbeard’s crew that she hoped to keep these pirates organized, and she’d already lost half her force in the missing pod.

  “No, it’s not,” Tolvern said. “But here’s our second objective. Avoid getting killed. There’s plenty of gold at the end of this mission from Captain Drake. We don’t need to throw away our lives to go after whatever is down in the vaults. As soon as the marines show up, the schooner is going to yank us out of there. Those who stay are done for, so it doesn’t matter if they’re sitting on a million gold coins, they’ll still be dead. Those who survive get their bonus from Drake.”

  Not really, of course. Drake had already forked over everything he’d taken from the capture of the tyrillium barge, and the rest was pure bluff. He hoped to get enough loot from York Tower to pay his debts, but it was anyone’s guess if that would happen.

  Tolvern’s words seemed to have the desired effect. The away team was now thinking of gold, yes, but also of the cost of being greedy. Someone, she thought, was dismissing her in his mind. That person probably wouldn’t survive the mission.

  Her speech also had the effect of taking the edge off their nerves by distracting them. That went for herself, too. A warning light flashed inside the hold, which meant they were already in the thermosphere and dropping deeper into the atmosphere. Soon, they would be racing toward York Town. The ship shuddered again, and Tolvern smelled smoke, the sharp tang of burning plastic. There was no mistaking it this time; the schooner had taken damage. Unlike the jungles and sugar plantations of Hot Barsa, Albion had plenty of surface defenses, and missile and other anti-aircraft defenses would be chasing them around. Paredes and his ship had better be as good as advertised.

  Tolvern had avoided calling his bridge, not wanting to distract him with idle questions while he and his small crew, rendered sparse by the number of them currently strapped into harnesses for the away team, tried to keep them all alive. She could call Blackbeard, but the same situation was in play there. Drake was flying without his commander or his subpilot. The last thing she wanted was to bother Smythe or Manx while they were desperately trying to jam enemy missiles.

  So Tolvern stared at the opposite wall of the hold. It was ten feet away, cloaked in shadows, stuffed with crates and barrels all lashed in together. It was claustrophobic in here, and she had no idea of what was happening outside. The schooner shuddered again, and her stomach turned over as the ship dropped. Her heart thumped. But they shortly stabilized. It felt like anti-grav was off, which meant they were close to the surface.

  The ship banked, and Tolvern found herself looking up at the away pods bulging from the airlock. Crates groaned and leaned against their harnesses. After so long in deep space, where you might be upside-down relative to your earlier position and never know it, thanks to artificial gravity, the slanted perspective was jarring, alarming.

  Someone came through on the com, a young man, his voice high and frightened. Sounded like a kid, a teenager. “Captain told me to give you an update. We’re taking anti-aircraft fire, but shields are holding. For now. Ten minutes until we land.”

  Tolvern touched her ear to activate her own link. “Is the marine base on alert?”

  No answer. The kid, whoever he was, was apparently not listening.

  The schooner was shuddering now, bucking and pitching as they descended. Periodically, they hit an air pocket, and her stomach dropped. At last, she was leaning forward in her tether. They must be decelerating.

  And then they came to a stop. Buckles unclasped, and men, women, and Hroom checked their weapons. The rear cargo doors opened on the hold, and a ramp fell to the ground. The slanted light of late afternoon entered the ship. Tolvern jumped out, and her boots touched the surface of Albion for the first time in nearly two years. As a warm breeze blew away the tang of plasma from the air, it brought the smell of grass and trees and flowers. They were in a walled courtyard, with an open gate directly in front of her that led to the lush, green palace gardens.

  Behind her, the schooner stretched at an angle across the scorched flagstones, with no more than twenty feet between the rear of the ship and the stone walls on either side. It was a tight fit, but Paredes had brought them down perfectly. A gatehouse stood to Tolvern’s left. To the right stood the granite keep and tower known as York Tower. Placed at the heart of the king’s palace, itself in the center of York Town, it was law that no building on the west bank of the St. Lawrence could be taller than one hundred and forty two feet, the height of the crenelations atop the tower. It was nearly dusk, and the massive stone tower made a silhouette against the sky.

  Tolvern ordered them to run to the heavy oak doors of the tower. Gunfire flashed from a nearby building as they crossed the courtyard. By the time they reached the doors, they were taking fire from several directions.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Drake’s heart had gone into his throat when the blast knocked Paredes’s small schooner to one side and the first away pod sailed past the outstretched hook and net. It soared down toward the atmosphere and vanished. Tolvern was on the second pod, following the same trajectory, only twenty seconds behind. Capp was on that pod, too. Drake was going to lose them both.

  He watched, terrified, as Tolvern’s pod approached the hook, soaring wide.

  No, Jess. No.

  Paredes flared plasma, the schooner rolled slightly to starboard, and the hook snared the second pod. But Drake didn’t let out his breath until the pod had been brought inside the hold. Pussycat had already sent her pods over, and now Outlaw finished the transfer. Paredes pulled away, diving into the cloudy atmosphere west of Britain.

  New concerns took hold. Drake wished he were on that ship. They were his parents imprisoned in York Tower, and if something went wrong in the rescue attempt, he’d struggle to forgive himself for not leading the assault team. But as dangerous as it would be down on the surface, it was in space, fighting these orbital fortresses, where he was truly needed. Specifically, he needed to keep Fort Ellen occupied. Ellen orbited at the same latitude as York Town, and unlike the fortresses on Hot Barsa, was more than capable of hitting the schooner on the surface every time the fort passed over.

  Blackbeard stood off a pace during the fort’s first pass, trading missiles, far enough back that Drake’s crew could take Ellen’s missiles out with countermeasures. Blackbeard absorbed a blow to the belly shield, but it was not serious. While Blackbeard provided fire support, Drake sent in Outlaw and Pussycat. The fort seemed to have expected the heavier cruiser to do the close combat, and struggled to respond to the two frigates racing above the hollowed-out asteroid, dropping bombs and lighting up its gun emplacements with cannon fire.

  It was a better result than Drake had expected, but he couldn’t let Ellen’s commander get a bead on his tactics, and so the next time through, he brought all three ships. Unfortunately, during this run, they fell within range of the guns of Fort William, in a slower orbit at a lower latitude, and Drake’s flotilla faced several seconds of devastating crossfire from the two forts. Pussycat’s heavy armaments now became her downfall, as they came at the expense of maneuverability and acceleration. Cannon fire raked her stern, and she limped out of the bombing run with her engines
damaged and moving slower than ever.

  Paredes shortly landed his schooner outside York Tower and sent a message. They’d taken fire coming in, but no serious damage. Unfortunately, the military base outside York was scrambling and would shortly have forces in the fight. Tolvern was out of the ship, assaulting the tower, but doing so under heavy fire from the royal guard. No word on the York Town militia, but Paredes expected them to shortly make an appearance.

  On Blackbeard, Manx was filling in for Tolvern as first mate. “Get Aguilar,” Drake told him. “If Pussycat can’t strafe the fort, she can at least provide support fire.”

  This time, they were only facing Fort Ellen, and Blackbeard led Outlaw in the attack run as soon as the fort came above York Town again. Drake couldn’t let Ellen’s guns crush the schooner while it was still on the ground.

  He needn’t have concerned himself. Fort Ellen had all her guns aimed into space this time, and soon Blackbeard was shuddering from incoming fire. Outlaw took a nasty blow above the bridge that blew off a piece of armor and left her trailing smoke and debris. Drake sent an anxious query and was relieved when Isabel Vargus responded. Her bridge was intact.

  Almost two hours had passed since they’d arrived at Albion, and the next time around, Drake would be facing both orbital fortresses again. With his two frigates already damaged, he’d have to make a solo pass. He had no idea how he’d survive the crossfire.

  “Captain,” Manx said, “we have a subspace from the fleet. From Vigilant, sir.”

  Drake brought up the message.

  I am six hours from Albion. Unfortunately, the Hroom are closer. Keep them from running the forts. I’ll join you as soon as I am able. I have told the forts to stand down. Unfortunately, Malthorne has remanded my orders. I do not know how they will respond.