Starcruiser Polaris: Blood of Patriots

by Richard Tongue

   “Prepare rescue shuttles,” Curtis said, quietly.

   “It's too late,” Cordova said, his voice empty of emotion, as though all of it had been spent in a desperate second. “They were too close to the moon. Within the gravity well. They'll be re-entering in less than four minutes. Our shuttles couldn't reach them in time.” The young officer slumped to the deck, looking up at Rojek with flaming eyes. “You knew.”

   “No,” Rojek said. “No. No. No.” He turned to the console looking over the data from the hacking team himself, tears running down his face. “It can't be true. It can't be true.”

   “They knew,” Lopez said. “They knew, all along. They must have done.”

   “What have we done?” Diaz said, as the cries for help continued to echo across the command deck, the sensor display tracking the three transports as they slid helplessly into the atmosphere, three meteors that would briefly light up the sky of the lifeless world, a monument to the death of ten thousand innocent lives. “What have we done?”

   “No, Lieutenant,” Curtis said, his eyes fixed on the nightmare unfolding before him. “I was in command. I gave the order. What have I done?”

  Chapter 1

   The old man stalked the dark alleys of Sagan City, picking his way around the perimeter of the vast dome that was home to half a million people. The wealthiest clustered in the center, close to the struggling botanical gardens and parks. Out here, on the outer rim, only the poorest and most desperate chose to make a life. He glanced up at the huge wall, two centuries old, grimacing at the stains that swept across the surface, the stink of sulfur in the air, a permanent slick of oil on every surface. Some trace of the inimical atmosphere beyond leeched in, growing worse every year as maintenance cycles were neglected, funds skimmed for the accounts of bureaucrats and administrators.

   It wasn't meant to be this way. Centuries of rule by the Hundred Families of the old Terran Economic Community had been supplanted by a general uprising, fifty years before. Tattered banners celebrating the anniversary of the Revolution dropped from the top floors of prefabricated tenements, their tops almost touching the low roof of the dome. After decades of oppression, the people had finally overthrown their masters, driving the leaders of the hated oligarchs into exile in deep space to form the Commonwealth of Stars, their goal to one day reclaim what they had lost.

   Hope had turned to grim acceptance soon enough, as it became clear that the teeming billions of Earth would be exploiting the Colonies for their own gains, stripping them of everything they could take and returning nothing in return. Titan was just one example among many, her vast factories and resources farms providing the petrochemicals and hydrocarbons that kept Earth's civilization going. Even under the Federation, there had been a chance for those living here, the opportunity to make enough money to retire in comfort. No longer.

   The Uprising had made the difference. Had forced the Parliament to crack down. Millions had died in the Loyalty Purges, more exiled to frontier settlements, prison camps in all but name. Now the colonists worked until they dropped, with the black-uniformed figures of the Political Directorate watching for any sign of unrest or revolt, punishing ruthlessly any they deemed a danger to the integrity of the Terrestrial Federation, a court from which there was no appeal and only one sentence. Death.

   Blaring, discordant music roared from an open door as he walked past a back-alley bar, flickering neon lights promising satisfaction of the most gross desires, a pair of tired street-walkers flanking the entrance, one of them flirting with a grinning maintenance worker. The stink of narcotics laced the air, briefly making him light-headed as he hastened into the shadows. One thing the Federation permitted, even encouraged, was the use of any desired alcoholic or chemical to induce blissful oblivion. Anything to keep the workers docile, quiet.

   He turned a corner, glancing around for the ubiquitous security patrols, struggling to find a compromise between looking as though he had something to hide and being too unimportant to bother with. No innocents walked these streets, but the Directorate didn't care about the petty activities of minor criminals. Too insignificant for them to bother with, and another means of keeping the population down. He didn't want to be distracted. Not tonight. He reached into his pocket, fumbling for the plastic credit chits. Not many. He'd be back with the labor gangs in a couple of days, unless something came up. Another month of enforced sobriety before he could return to the shadows.

   And yet, somehow there was something different about the world around him today. As though the haze that he'd been in for years was lifted, the lights sharper, everything more in focus. He couldn't explain it, but somewhere deep inside, he had the feeling that something was about to happen, his usual urging for another drink to dull his senses dimmed lower than it had been in as long as he could remember.

   Eyes watched him from a dozen directions as he walked through the gloom, the rush of vented steam filling the air overhead, a white plume forcing its way into the polluted atmosphere. At the end of the street, he saw his destination, a pair of double doors swung open, low music rumbling in the background, meager spotlights flashing around inside to illuminate the handful of people drifting around the dance floor to the rhythm of the beat. Overhead, a placard optimistically advertised 'Bailey's Fine Irish Bar', though any possible connection to the Emerald Isle was limited to the dubious decor.

   The bar was empty. One of its few attractions. Not many people came down this far, only some of the local petty criminals, holding court in the shadow-laden booths at the back of the room, waiting for supplicants to bring their offerings. A few freighter crewmen, taking a risk by venturing this far from the Tower, likely arranging illicit additions to their manifests. Again, nothing local security cared about.

   He walked over to the bar, taking his usual place at the far corner, his eyes drawn by the flickering lights of the monitor. A garishly dressed newscaster read out the latest propaganda in a dull monotone, something about activities of the Commonwealth remnant, raider ships hitting the outer colonies. Something about a Fleet mobilization. He reached under his jumpsuit, feeling the cold metal of the rank insignia on the necklace around his neck.

   “Usual, Teddy?” the bartender asked.

   “Sure, Tom,” he replied, sliding a collection of credit chits across the counter, a mug of foaming beer passed back to him. “Get a chaser ready.”

   Shaking his head, Tom said, “You shouldn't be here every night.”

   “Never knew a bartender chase away his customers like you do.”

   “You know what I mean. I never see you anywhere else.” He paused, then said, “Someone was asking for you earlier.”

   “Who?”

   “Didn't give her name. Young. Kinda attractive, in a skinny sort of way. Not really my type.”

   “I thought your type was anyone with a double-X chromosome.”

   “You see, that's what I'm getting at. You're too damn smart to waste your time in this dump.” As Teddy took a deep, bitter drink, Tom continued, “Just watch yourself, buddy. She didn't look like she came from around here. I don't know what you've done, but someone from outside might be taking an interest in whatever it is.” He shrugged, and said, “And I don't want anyone making a mess of my bar.”

   “How could you tell?” Teddy asked, taking a second, deeper drink, draining most of the mug. The doors slid open again, and a tall, oddly familiar woman stepped inside, looking around the room. Teddy turned to Tom, and asked, “That her?”

   “Yeah. She said she'd be back. Want to hang out on the poker room for a bit?”

   “Might as well get this over with.”

   She turned to look at him, waited at the door for a moment, then walked over to the bar, taking the seat next to his, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the smell. Teddy smiled, gesturing at Tom to bring her a drink, passing a second, smaller pile of chits across the table to cover it.

   “You looking f
or me?” he asked.

   “That depends,” she replied. “Who are you?”

   “Teddy.” She still looked so damned familiar, like a ghost from the past. “You?”

   “Gabi.” She paused, then said, “Let's cut the crap, Commander. We both know who you are, and if you were sober, I think you could take a pretty good guess at who I am, as well.”

   Rising to his feet, Curtis said, “Tom, I think we're going to need your poker room after all.”

   “Right,” the bartender said, ducking under the counter and walking to the far end of the room, entering a ten-digit code into a keypad beside a sealed door. “Nobody can monitor you in there except me. And I will be watching, so if you try anything with my friend, I'll be inside in less than a minute, and I keep a sonic shotgun within easy reach at all times. Got that?”

   “Understood,” she replied. “Any other ways out?”

   “Just this one,” Tom said. “Nice, safe and secure.”

   She frowned for a moment, then said, “If it has to be, it has to be. Come on, Commander. We need to talk.”

   “Nobody's called me that for a very long time,” Curtis said, leading the way into the room, a metal table surrounded by plastic chairs, illuminated by a single light in the ceiling. “And I like it that way.”

   “That's a lot of crap,” she said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “I've gone to a lot of trouble to track you down, Commander, and I'm not leaving until I have my say. And if my guess is right, the two of us will be leaving together.”

   “Not a chance in hell,” he said, frowning. “Wait a minute. Who did you say you were?”

   She pulled out a datapad, scrolled through the text, and said, “Your name is Commander Edward Curtis, formerly of the Starcruiser Polaris. Born 2223, fifty-two years old, joined the Federation Fleet at eighteen and graduated the Academy with distinction. Ultimately rising to become the youngest ship commander in the Fleet, and through merit rather than political influence. During the Insurrection, you displayed a reputation for tactical brilliance, and until the incident at Lalande...”

   “The Massacre of Mareikuna,” Curtis interrupted. “Get it right.”

   “Until that incident,” she continued, “you treated prisoners fairly, went out of your way to minimize collateral damage, and…”

   “I murdered ten thousand innocents!” Curtis yelled. “Most of them women and children. Non-combatants. You can make whatever excuses you want, but that doesn't change what happened.” Taking a deep breath, he said, “When the War ended, I quit.”

   “And dropped into an alcoholic haze for the next twenty years,” she replied. “Which probably saved your life, incidentally, given what happened next.” Stepping forward, she added, “And that brings us to why we want you.”

   “Who the hell are you?” he asked. “You tell me that now, or I'm walking out that door.”

   With a sigh, she said, “My name is Major Gabrielle Cordova, an officer in the Democratic Underground. I believe you knew my father.”

   Curtis slumped back in the chair, nodded, and said, “I did. We served together during the Uprising.” He paused, then said, “Knew?”

   “While you ran into the shadows, he continued the fight. When the Purges began, he went into hiding, connected up with what was left of the rebel forces. Most of the leadership was gone, but there were still a few scattered remnants in hiding. He drew them together, started to build up an organization, preparing for the day when we could move again.”

   “Where is he now?”

   She looked down at the floor, and replied, “He died. Fourteen years ago. During a raid to free political prisoners on Triton. They shot him in the leg, crippled him, and he stayed behind to allow the rest of his team to get away.” Looking back at Curtis, she continued, “He always talked about you. Said you were the finest commander he'd ever known.” Waving the datapad into the air, she said, “This service record bears that out.”

   “I think you're making a big mistake. “I'm decades too old to be a commando, Major, and I don't have any of the skills you need for the job. I'm just a washed-up spaceman.”

   “That's precisely what we need,” she replied. “Why did the Uprising fail?”

   “Because the Insurrectionists were stupid. They did a good job with the first surprise attack, but the assassinations cost them any friends they might have had in the Fleet, and they never had any real space forces of their own. Just modified transports, weapons bolted on. It might have taken us a while to track them all down, but as soon as we could get our ships into position, the end was inevitable. And without significant space-based assets, we were able to move forces around at will, take the initiative, and bring each little rebellion to an end.”

   “That's what we think, as well.” Leaning forward, she continued, “The Underground became my father's life's work. When he died, it became mine. I've been with the resistance since I was fourteen. So when I tell you that we're getting ready to move again, you'll understand that I don't say it lightly. We've been building up for years, gathering intelligence, preparing for the day when we can free the Colonies.”

   “Good luck with that,” Curtis said, “but count me out. If you want to wade in blood up to your gut, I suppose I can't stop you, but you're not going to do anything other than kill a hell of a lot of innocent people. Trust me, I know. How many died in the Uprising? And in the Purges, after that? You want to force everyone to go through that nightmare again.” Leaning forward, he said, “Because you can't win. You know you can't win.” He paused, frowned, then said, “Wait a minute. I know the Commonwealth remnant still has a few ships, but...”

   “No,” she replied. “No point throwing out the Federation to invite the Hundred Families back. We've got something else in mind.” She glanced at the door, then said, “After the war, after you left your ship, Polaris went out on a long-range mission. The goal was to hunt down one of our ships, a commerce raider. Though reading between the lines, I think the Parliament was more interested in putting your crew out of the way for a while.”

   Shaking his head, images of his comrades flooding through his mind, he said, “They gave my ship to that bastard Caldwell. It never came back. Technically I guess they're still listed as missing, but it's been almost twenty years.” His hands balled into fists, and he looked up with rage in his eyes, saying, “That just makes it worse, damn it! I betrayed them, let them down...”

   “You were on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and the Committee blamed everything on you, attributed the deaths to poor decision-making on your part.”

   “Were they so wrong?”

   “I've seen the records,” she replied. “I know the real story. You tried to stop that salvo, Commander, and you damned near succeeded. If Caldwell had obeyed orders, those people would still be alive. Assuming, of course, that they hadn't been killed or exiled in the Purges. Everyone in the Underground knows what really happened. You're a hero, Commander. Though I know you don't realize it. Frankly, keeping such a low profile has kept you safe, all these years.”

   “I'm a murderer, not a hero. There's blood on my hands, Major.”

   “Maybe.” She reached into a pocket, pulled out a long metal tube, and rested it on the table between them. “You recognize that?”

   “Conduit casing. Military issue. Used, by the scoring on the edges.”

   “Take a look at the serial number. The prefix code.”

   Frowning, he reached for the component, taking it from the table and holding it up in the light, reading, “One-Niner-Six-F...” He looked across at Cordova, and said, “This is fake.”

   “It's quite genuine. The code matches that of Polaris. And look at the date stamp, Commander. It was manufactured in the fabricator of Polaris two weeks after it left Sentinel Station on its final mission. There's no chance it could have been shipped anywhere else, manufactured in some other facility. That conduit cover was on the
ship, right to the end.”

   “Where did you get this?”

   “An independent scout brought it in. We've been looking to refit civilian ships again, to come up with some sort of force strong enough to counter the Federation Fleet. One of our agents was given this along with a lot of other pieces, samples of military-tech that were apparently available. One of our people recognized the prefix code and the importance of the date stamp.”

   “He's found Polaris.”

   “That's our guess. More than that. All of the equipment he gave us is in good, operational condition. Fully functional. Which suggests that Polaris itself might be intact. We've only got a vague idea of her mission, but if we could find her, bring her back into service, then she could serve as the nucleus of a fleet that could take on the Federation on its own terms.”

   Shaking his head, Curtis replied, “It's a dream. Nothing more.”

   “Some dreams are worth having. We've got people to crew her. Technicians, engineers. But what we don't have is someone to command her. Twenty years ago, you were one of the finest ship captains in the Fleet. Everyone on both sides admitted that. What we need is you.”

   Curtis replied, “When I last looked around, there were fifteen Starcruisers in the Federation Fleet. Not counting Polaris. And outposts scattered across a couple of dozen light-years. That still about right?”

   “No ship construction since the Uprising,” Cordova said.

   “Then assuming that we did find Polaris intact, before the Federation and the Oligarchs, because we both know damned well that they'll be looking for her as well, we're still facing odds of fifteen-to-one. Assuming that the Federation doesn't mobilize auxiliaries.” He shook his head, and said, “You don't know what you are suggesting.”

   “No,” Cordova replied, “but you do, Commander.” She paused, then said, “I'm a ground forces specialist. I damned well ought to be. I've spent more than half my life at it. I know just enough about space warfare to know that I don't know a damned thing, but I do know you. My father talked about you all the time, about the battles you fought. He might have come to hate the cause he'd fought for, but he was proud of you. Proud to have served with you.”