First Comes Duty (The Hope Island Chronicles Book 2)

by PJ Strebor

  “That’s enough,” Orson said, with a steadiness to his voice he had to fake. Weiss was stupid enough to kill him and cover it up later. Considering the large number of casualties Picaroon had taken, one more would hardly rate a mention.

  “This mission comes under the direct authority of IPN Intelligence. Under that authority, I order you to come about and resume course back to Virtus.”

  “Your authority ended at the frontier. This is my ship now.”

  “I’ll see you hang for this, Weiss.”

  “That’s mutiny, Saxon.” He motioned for the two largest bridge guards to step forward. “Place this officer under arrest. Take him to the brig and lock him in.”

  While the headhunter guards escorted him to the brig, Orson considered his options. At the same time, his body tensed for attack. One thing remained certain: he had to get off this ship. His gut twisted painfully as it did in potentially dangerous situations. This was no longer the Pruessen headhunter ship Picaroon, but little more than a flying coffin.

  The route to the brig took the small party aft, past the boat bay. Orson had waited for this moment. His mind calmed and his body tensed but did not outwardly betray his intentions. As the boat bay hatch drew closer, he prepared to kill the two guards. Orson would not allow himself to die in this manner, and most certainly not on this rust-bucket excuse for a warship.

  He slowed his pace to bring the first guard within reach.

  Orson turned when the muffled thud reached his ears. The first guard fell to the deck. The second guard threw his bloodied broadsword aside. Orson’s best instincts told him to hold his attack. The guard took a step back and removed his helmet. He held his hands out from his body in a gesture of submission.

  “Weiss is going to get us killed,” Petty Officer Spicer said.

  Orson was glad he had not killed him months earlier. Spicer, a born survivalist, might prove useful to someone of Orson’s profession.

  “Can you fly?” Orson asked.

  Spicer smirked and nodded.

  Yes, sometimes even headhunter scum had their uses. The hatch to the boat bay rolled open and a wave of heated plasma hit him in the face. The escaping Athenians must have built up speed before their daring escape, leaving the boat bay flooded with exhaust emissions. The two unlikely allies forced their way into the cauldron, making certain not to touch any metallic surfaces. The unsealed landing boats smelled of burning debris and fried controls, but one boat remained sealed. Spicer used a knife to pry the hatch open. The interior felt as hot as the inside of a kiln, but the controls were undamaged.

  Orson took the right-hand seat opposite the Pruessen NCO. Time moved on. That fool Weiss would bring them under the guns of the Athenian monitor at any minute.

  “We have to go now!”

  “I need to do pre-flight or we—”

  “Spicer,” he said, grasping the other man’s shoulder, “we go now.”

  The headhunter held his gaze for a moment, then activated the giant boat bay hatches. Spicer pushed the throttles to maximum and they flew from the doomed ship. Two seconds after they exited the vessel, the buffeting struck them. Spicer fought the unwieldy craft under control, found his heading and maneuvered the LB on a rough heading toward Pruessen space. A half minute after they completed the turn, the darkness of space erupted with brilliant white light. Picaroon’s destruction would rain debris onto their small craft.

  “Fuck!” Spicer cut engine power, brought up the shields and took the LB through a series of insane maneuvers. His hands flew across the controls, and the blast shields covered the clear view panels. They had just snapped shut when the world went mad.

  To Orson it felt as though a thousand angry deities were pounding on the hull, trying to tear it apart in order to feed on the contents. The LB tumbled until the wave of debris subsided. With the sound of the drumming hull gone, wailing alarms filled the flight deck. Accompanying lights flashed angrily as the coldness of space seeped into the craft.

  Orson and Spicer took nearly an hour to plug the holes that had punctured the hull, but at the end they were still alive. Although the life support controls were relatively undamaged, the engines were beyond repair. Spicer rigged up a transponder that would broadcast their position, but this far out, rescue seemed unlikely.

  Sixteen days passed within their crippled little craft. Rationing of onboard supplies lasted ten days, then they began to slowly starve to death. Survival reigned as Orson’s paramount concern, and after three days without food, the beefy petty officer drew his attention. Orson had no compunction with regard to ancient superstition. Survival at all costs sat at the top of his options. On the fourteenth day, the water reclamator broke down, and he struck Spicer’s name from the menu. Without water, they would both be dead within seventy-two hours. On the fifteenth day, the craft’s environmental controls began to malfunction and they lost heating. By the sixteenth day, the combined effects of starvation, dehydration and hypothermia had rendered them unconscious. Neither man responded when their unconscious bodies were removed from the wrecked landing boat.

  No one had come to search for the overdue headhunter ship, and only an implausible turn of luck had saved them from death. The Imperial Pruessen Navy frigate Lubeck had simply stumbled upon them. Even with the transponder working properly, the odds of their being found had still been a million to one.

  Once again, fate had intervened to save Orson. With each passing year, he became increasingly convinced that destiny would not allow him to die before he had realized the greatness within him.

  Three weeks after their rescue, and following a short stint in Lubeck’s sick bay, they had arrived at IPN base Virtus.

  Spicer had proved to be useful, so he continued to breathe. He could be of some use in the future. Spicer’s survivalist’s pragmatism ensured that he knew when to keep his mouth shut. He might not know exactly what Orson was, but harbored the animal craftiness to recognize a fellow survivor when he saw one.

  With the power Orson’s organization wielded, having the headhunter placed into the uniform of IRN Intelligence had taken little effort. Chief Petty Officer Spicer fit the bill for a ruthless intelligence operative. He had the ingrained brutality for the job and fitted the uniform well, once he learned to wash on a regular basis. Orson suspected an intelligence far higher than he would show dwelt within the former headhunter’s brutish mind. Although they were both roughly the same age, Spicer could never be considered an equal. Orson had been trained for his purpose since childhood, where Spicer had been court martialed from the IPN and given a choice of brig time or serving on a headhunter ship. Ever the realist, he had chosen the latter.

  Now, with the resources of the IPN Intelligence Division at Saxon’s disposal, and a green flag to requisition whatever equipment and personnel he wanted, only the planning remained. The first trick would be to get into Talgarno space. Considering their xenophobia, that would be difficult. After he had accomplished the first miracle, things would become decidedly trickier.

  Orson harbored no illusions about the mission. Such an important task would normally be assigned to a senior advocate. Draeger would not waste a valuable asset like an advocate on an ostensibly impossible task. A suicide mission. However, a disgraced junior operative would provide the dual advantages of covering his position without sacrificing a valuable asset.

  Well, he would prove them wrong. He would take their assumptions and make them eat their words. If he survived.

  CHAPTER 12

  Date: 29th December, 321 ASC.

  Position: Talgarno destroyer Sledgehammer, four hours from the outer marker for the planet of Cestus. Talgarno System.

  Status: Search and rescue mission.

  The Talgarno destroyer Sledgehammer secured from egression stations. Captain Johns surveyed the scene before him. His screen displayed nothing but chunks of debris where a one-hundred-and-eighty-thousand-tonne ship once existed. He had seen the aftermath of such lethal Pruessen tactics and felt the sickening
horror at their savagery. An engagement between warships would have a fair outcome. Someone would live, someone would die. This, however, was nothing short of cold-blooded murder.

  Why take such a risk? Did the Pruessens believe the resolve of the Talgarno people would waver because of a straightforward act of butchery? The one hundred and eight crew and passengers aboard the ill-fated Porus were not the first to die in this war, and they would most certainly not be the last.

  Eighty-four minutes had passed since his destroyer had received the distress signal. Johns desperately hoped the attacking Pruessen boats were still in the vicinity, but due to the hit-and-run tactics employed by the E-boat commanders, he would be surprised to find them lingering over the corpse.

  “Captain, I’m reading an automated distress beacon,” the tactical officer informed him. “It might be a life pod. It’s a long way out, so I can’t be sure.”

  “Helm, lock on to the signal, full ahead on all engines. First Officer, remain at A-C One. Tactical, full active sweeps of the entire area in case it’s a trick.”

  An hour passed before the destroyer zeroed in on the weakening signal. He could not imagine how one of Porus’ life pods had escaped the slaughter. Following a full sensor sweep, Captain Johns ordered the damaged pod to be tractored aboard.

  By the time he got to the boat bay, the occupants were receiving medical treatment, after their removal from their tiny tomb. The two men were both in their mid-twenties, and were obviously unnerved by their experience. He appreciated their condition, but he needed to know what had happened.

  “Gentlemen, I am Captain Johns of the destroyer Sledgehammer.”

  He waited patiently until the first man pulled himself together enough to respond.

  “P-Peter Fitzsimmons.” His voice trembled as he spoke, not surprising under the circumstances. “And my business partner, Lance Goble.” The second man nodded.

  “Mister Fitzsimmons, Mister Goble,” Johns acknowledged. “I appreciate you two have been through a terrible ordeal but, well, quite frankly, you shouldn’t be alive. Pruessen raiders like the ones who destroyed your ship generally don’t leave witnesses. So, gentlemen, I need to know: how did you escape?”

  Both men glanced at one another before examining their expensive shoes. Fitzsimmons finally met his eyes, lines of shame etched onto his face.

  “We ran, Captain,” he said, in a voice strained with emotion. “We knew the ship was doomed, so we jumped into the nearest escape pod and ran.”

  “But how did you… ” the captain began.

  “We are engineers from Cestus travelling on the Porus to home for a long-overdue leave,” Fitzsimmons said. “We knew the ship was gone after the first torpedoes hit. Power went off, systems went down. She didn’t have a chance. So we left.” Again he gazed at his shoes.

  The other one, Goble, sat with his head in his hands. Johns considered Goble to be the silent partner, then dismissed the thought as being in extremely poor taste.

  “The second salvo was inbound as our pod cleared the ship,” Fitzsimmons continued. “We should have been vaporized by the blast, but instead the shock wave pushed us clear of the destruction.”

  Lucky bastards.

  “Well, gentlemen, you have both had a most eventful day. But, as they say, every cloud has a silver lining. We were on our way home when we picked up your distress call, so we can have you in Talgarno orbit in a few hours.”

  Relief washed over the survivors’ faces.

  “And gentlemen, let me say this. There is no running away from a hopeless situation. There is only survival. There was nothing either of you could have done to change what happed. Porus was dead from the moment the E-boats found her. I congratulate you two for thinking fast enough to escape a hopeless situation. Now get some rest and leave everything else to me.”

  A tear ran down Fitzsimmons’ face. When he spoke, the tremor had returned to his voice.

  “Thank you, Captain. I will forever remember your kindness.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Date: 8th January, 322 ASC.

  Position: Battle station Stronghold, in orbit above Talgarno.

  Status: War preparations.

  President Sellassy rubbed her eyes as another report scrolled across her screen. More bad news.

  Another squadron of Pruessen battleships had joined the enormous armada poised at the system’s outer marker. When the enemy finally attacked, Talgarno would fight the unstoppable wave of savagery to the bitter end. Even though they might die as a people, their deaths would not be in vain. Word would spread throughout Tunguska and show the frightened masses they could fight back — must fight back, against anyone who would dare to threaten their freedom.

  Yes, the Talgarno people would die, but in their noble sacrifice they would be saved. Their belief would save the most important part of them: their very souls.

  Time. Time was always the enemy. How often she wished to visit the Noranda Falls and pay homage to the ancient seer Emaonon. Over two hundred years ago, he had united the warring factions of Talgarno into a single people. Their fledgling colony would have self-destructed through political and moral conflict without his intervention. All Talgarnos worshiped his teachings and owed him their existence as individuals and members of a pious society. While the pure waters of the Noranda Falls flowed into Lake Serenity, their sins would forever be washed away. Even in death, their souls would ascend to Nirvana and never-ending joy.

  Their faith had always given the Talgarno people the courage to endure even unto death. Yes, one more time before the end I must visit the holy waters. She shook herself. Now, she had the business of war to attend to.

  Her comm chimed.

  “Yes Richard, I know the time.”

  “Oh, ah, sorry, Madam President, I just wanted to—”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Minutes later the president walked into the war room. The utilitarian room contained every manner of technology, busily chirping away and displaying the disposition of their outnumbered forces. A good number of light blue uniforms of the Talgarno Navy complemented the scene. Clear composite covered most of one entire wall, giving an unobstructed view of Talgarno’s southern continent. The setting sun cast long shadows across their world, the bright blue of the ocean darkening as nightfall rushed from the east.

  Sellassy took her rightful place at the head of the long, dark wooden table. Now the meeting could commence. Considering what they were facing, the atmosphere contained a remarkably positive feeling.

  A civilian stood to one side of the room. She did not recognize him, and, considering his youthful appearance, wondered what brought him here.

  “Shall we begin, ladies and gentlemen?” she offered.

  A tall, severe man caught her attention from the opposite end of the table.

  “Before we begin the briefing,” Admiral Julien said, “there is someone who would like to say a few words. As one of the two survivors from the Porus massacre, it is his right to be heard.” Every head turned toward the young man. “Little has changed to our strategic posture in the last twenty-four hours, so I have consented to his request.” The admiral nodded to the young civilian, who stepped forward.

  “Thank you, Admiral Julien.” He nodded to the assembled group. “Ladies and gentlemen.” He took in the surrounding faces with detached interest. “There are three nuclear devices placed at highly strategic locations on the surface of Talgarno.”

  A disbelieving, collective gasp greeted his words.

  “Where?” someone asked.

  “They are within a relatively narrow corridor running along the eastern coast of the main continent.” He waved a hand at the huge, clear view-plate behind him.

  “How do you know this?” someone else asked.

  A hard smile drew across his face. “I know because I placed them there.”

  Every armed person in the room leapt from their chairs, drawing their sidearms as they rose.

  The stranger held up a hand and smiled
menacingly. “Kill me, and they will all detonate.”

  Everyone froze in strangled indecision. The president shook away her stupor.

  “Everyone, disarm immediately,” she snapped. “Admiral Julien, have your sensor techs check this out immediately.”

  “No need, Madam President,” he said gruffly. “Talgarno is blanketed by a continuous sensor array. We would know immediately of any such device.” Julien glared down his long nose at the young civilian. “I think we have a madman in our midst.”

  The civilian touched his ear and spoke briefly into his mike.

  “Admiral, I am detecting a nuclear signature on the surface,” the navy tech said from one of the consoles.

  “Where?”

  “The colonial archive building in the center of the capital,” the newcomer said.

  The tech nodded to Admiral Julien, who sent a withering gaze toward the civilian.

  “What makes you think you’ll get out of here alive?” Julien said between set teeth.

  “I suppose it depends on whether you wish to pay my price.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “My associate, on the surface, has instructions to detonate all devices if he does not hear from me every sixty seconds. Kill me and you will lose a lot more than civilian casualties.”

  “He’s bluffing.” A captain, who had taken charge at the sensor console, bared his teeth. “We have detected one signature and it’s of low yield.” His expression showed a decisively hard quality. “There will be casualties, but only in the thousands.”

  President Sellassy examined the bold civilian. Outwardly a sweet-faced young man, except for that unmistakably lethal quality in his eyes.

  “What is your name?”

  “That is of no concern. What I—”