Independence: Book 1 of The Legacy Ship Trilogy

by Nick Webb

  The man with the gun eyed him warily. “Lieutenant Ethan Zivic. You’re under arrest. Please come with us immediately.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Irigoyen Sector, Bolivar System, Bolivar

  Bridge, ISS Independence

  Damn. She’d been out of IDF for too long. Out of leadership and away from the requirements of being a leader. Away from the spotlight. Away from the need to inspire one’s people, and to present a steady hand and firm guidance in the face of danger. Her people needed her.

  And she needed them. She needed them to be their best, and they wouldn’t be their best if they thought she was some old batty woman about to lose it. She rose slowly, confidently, out of her chair and turned to face her bridge crew before unleashing a rapid-fire list of orders. Like riding a bicycle, she thought, with an inward grin.

  “Commence orbital scan. Look for survivors and dispatch shuttles to bring them in. Lieutenant Qwerty, get me the local IDF brass down on Bolivar. I need to know who was giving orders to the Bolivaran defense fleet, and if they were somehow connected to the mutiny. Commander Yarbrough, get the damn ship fixed. Stat. All crew are to be assigned to repair and recovery duties until further notice, with emphasis on repair—I want to be ready if that turd-waffle of a ship comes back. Ballsy,” she rose her head to the comm microphones listening in, “I think you know what to do, Captain. I want you analyzing that ship—everything we’ve got on it—and hunker down with your boys and girls and figure out some combat strategy against that thing.”

  “You got it, ma’am,” Ballsy said through the speakers.

  She continued rattling off a list of commands, and she was heartened to see her crew spring into action as she gave them direction. None of these people had seen battle. None. Half of them weren’t even born yet when Earth and its colonies had nearly been wiped out. She supposed she and Ballsy were the only ones who had been around during the Second Swarm War thirty years ago. Well, them and Captain Prucha, for all the good it had done him. Dammit Prucha, you left me with a boat full of kids. They had better be more mature than her classes full of snot-nosed pre-teens in post-teen bodies.

  “Ma’am,” began Lieutenant Qwerty, the single word drawn out into two syllables, “got Ad’mril Mullins on the line for you. He’s the ranking IDF officer at CENTCOM Bolivar.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. Patch it through to the ready room,” she said, retreating to a door off to the side of the bridge. She’d only spent a few minutes in there since stepping foot on the ship. She hadn’t even packed any of her belongings to decorate the walls or desk, so the space was rather stark and bare. Not that she was the sentimental type for knick-knacks and odds and ends that just got in the way, but still, she supposed it was something a normal ship captain would do. Hell, she hadn’t even had time to bring a picture of her brother’s family to hang on her wall. She considered them her own family and had essentially adopted her brother’s kids, even though he’d been happily married for decades. She could have at least brought a picture of them.

  The thought reminded her of her main reason for being out there, at least, the main unofficial reason. “Danny,” she murmured to herself. “Where the hell have you gotten yourself to?”

  She sat down at the desk and waved the video comm on. “Admiral Mullins?”

  A heavy-set middle-aged man flashed onto the screen. His gray mustache rested on his upper lip like a dead snail, his brow furrowed and wrinkled like a man who’d lost a lot of sleep. “Admiral Proctor, I see they’ve dragged you out of retirement, which I suppose means that IDF thinks we’re fucked.”

  “Language, Admiral.”

  The other man snorted a quick chuckle, but became serious within seconds. “Proctor, you engaged the ship. Notice anything … odd, about your crew when you did? About yourself?”

  She nodded. “We’re analyzing that now. Must be some sort of high-level EM interference with a modulation that was somehow able to couple with our … well, with our brains.” She shrugged, acknowledging the improbability of it all. And yet she’d felt it. They’d all felt it.

  “Is that even possible?”

  “We have several hundred witnesses up here that say it’s possible, Admiral. And you’ve half a planetary defense fleet that went rogue on me. I think that speaks for itself.”

  He nodded, and his mustache bristled as he frowned. “And we’ve got about twenty million people down here that can back them up. Proctor, ever since that ship entered orbit a few hours ago, we’ve had massive social unrest. Riots. Violence. Arson. On a planet-wide scale. It’s like something just … exploded, in the minds of everyone down here, all at the same time. Even I was feeling it. Nearly bit the head off my chief of staff….”

  “Is everyone ok? Looks like the effect is highly localized.”

  Admiral Mullins looked off-camera as if to receive a report, and nodded curtly at whoever was speaking to him. He turned back to Proctor. “A few thousand deaths across the planet—all told, it’s remarkable that’s all there were. And yes, I can confirm that the effect was localized. The areas most intensely affected were directly under the orbital path of the ship. But Shelby, riots happened everywhere. Bolivar isn’t the most … stable planet. Politically, I mean.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Bolivar is a hotbed for GPC activity. Half of the Bolivaran Planetary Senate are GPC loyalists, and to be honest,” he looked to his left, as if to check who was in the room with him, “I think half the ship captains of the planetary defense fleet are too.”

  Well that made sense, she thought wryly. Information that would have been far more helpful an hour earlier.

  “GPC loyalists in IDF? Are you sure?”

  “Well, no, I’m not sure. But there’ve been rumblings. Whispers. Not exactly of an uprising or mutiny or anything like that. But … rumors. Messages I’ve seen that the senders weren’t planning on me seeing seem to suggest that there’s widespread discontent with UE’s central authority, even among some of the IDF officers at CENTCOM Bolivar.”

  That was troubling. Why had Oppenheimer not told her anything about that? She’d remembered ten years ago that there were rumblings in the lower officer corps about the GPC, but nothing in the open. Especially not among her top admiralty and ship captains. “Do you think there’s a deeper problem here? Or is it really just grumbling?”

  Mullins shrugged. “A few weeks ago I’d have said it was nothing. But ever since Sangre….”

  “The situation’s inflamed,” she finished for him.

  “That’s being generous. Sangre blew the lid off the pot. It changed everything. Where before we had simmering tensions between GPC separatists and UE loyalists, now we’ve got … well, not open fighting, but tension is too naive. Nine officers have been found dead in the last week, either in their quarters or some back alley in the city or on some hiking trail out in the suburbs. Violence against both sides is skyrocketing. This world is a powder keg, Admiral, along with half a dozen other worlds in the Irigoyen sector, if my sources are right.”

  “San Martin?”

  He nodded. “That’s basically the epicenter of the GPC organization. Bolivar is probably the second biggest, but the GPC’s Secretary General lives on San Martin, they say, and half his shadow cabinet.”

  “Curiel? I’d heard he was dead. Assassinated by his own bodyguards.”

  Mullins chuckled. “Rumor. Probably spread by Curiel himself to confuse IDF Intel. But my source swears she saw him two weeks ago, alive and well.”

  Proctor shook her head. She didn’t have time for this—she wasn’t a politician, and she wasn’t an intelligence official. She just wanted to save her civilization from an existential alien threat, and hopefully find her nephew in the process.

  She didn’t have time for humans being humans.

  “Admiral, while this is all very interesting, I think I’m the wrong person to be talking to. You need the chief of IDF intel out here. Get your heads together. But as for me, the I
ndependence is out of here as soon as repairs are done, and I’ve completed a little mission of a personal nature planetside.”

  “Oh?” His eyebrows rose, questioning.

  “My nephew. I think he’s got a few friends down there I want to question. The thing is … he’s missing.”

  He nodded. Almost as if he’d been expecting her to say it. “I know.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

  “Because, you know that source that told me she saw Secretary General—” he held up two sets of fingers as air quotes, “Curiel two weeks ago? Well my source happens to be Danny Proctor’s girlfriend. I’m sorry, Shelby, but it looks like your nephew is a GPC pilot.”

  She opened her mouth, and closed it again, grasping at something to say. “Fuck,” was all she could settle on.

  “Watch your language, Shelby,” he deadpanned.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Irigoyen Sector, Bolivar System, Bolivar

  Rescue ship Miguel S. Urquiza, High orbit

  Zivic’s mind was racing—staring down the barrel of a gun tended to have that effect.

  “And … you are?” He flashed a wide smile. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along….

  “Bolivaran Intelligence Service,” one of them said, pulling his badge out and flashing it too quickly to see. “We’ve been monitoring your movements and communications,” he added, as if that answered everything, as if that automatically made Zivic guilty of whatever they were implying. “You’ll come with us now, sir.”

  They advanced towards him, slowly. Zivic realized his hands were already in the air, automatically. It’s amazing what one’s body automatically does in response to threat, he thought.

  Wait a minute … Bolivaran Intelligence Service? What the hell is that?

  To his surprise, someone moved in front of him, stopping their advance. It was Batak. Her arms were folded, and her face said don’t mess with me.

  “Bullshit,” she said. “I know you. I seen you around the offices and warehouse, even up on station. You’re Shovik-Orion. Security, right?”

  The man with the gun looked taken aback, but quickly regained his footing. “Switched jobs a few months back. Come on. Let’s go.” He motioned with the gun towards one of the exits. Several people nearby had noticed the standoff, and were rushing away, making the man with the gun glance at them with what was clearly apprehension. They clearly did not want to be seen.

  Thankfully, the deck officer of the transport approached. “Is there a problem here?” he said, angrily—as angrily as he dared to be with someone holding a gun. “Gentlemen, may I see your badges?”

  While they were fumbling for their IDs, Zivic glanced around the giant cargo bay which had obviously been refitted in a hurry to serve as a shuttle hold for a rescue operation. Frightened people were stumbling out of their ships—merchant freighters, pleasure yachts, tourist corvettes, orbital transfer shuttles—and moving quickly towards the exits, ushered by flight deck staff to make room for the steady stream of newly arriving ships.

  One particular shuttle stood out to him.

  Holy shit.

  It was the shuttle from the Watchdog Station. Fenway. The one the two murderers had escaped in. It was unmistakable.

  The deck officer looked up from the IDs the “Intel officers” had handed him. “Everything looks to be in order. Mr. Zivic I suggest you cooperate. Don’t give us any shit. Not on my deck.” He took a few steps back, and seeing another commotion from the passengers of another merchant freighter he left.

  The man with the gun smiled. “So, Lieutenant Zivic. Do we do this the easy way or the hard way? I’d greatly appreciate prefer the easy way, I don’t want to see anyone else here get hurt. You’re already responsible for enough death today.”

  Zivic’s eyes darted to the shuttle again, and back to the gun, his mind racing furiously. Obviously, something was up. Not just something. This was conspiracy theory level shit here. The two men on board the Watchdog in IDF uniforms. These two guys in the uniforms of what was probably a completely fabricated organization. Batak claiming that at least one of them was a Shovik-Orion employee. The deck officer taking their side, though he supposed in his shoes, seeing the gun and not wanting a gunfight to erupt in the middle of a desperate rescue operation Zivic would probably do the same.

  And the shuttle. Fenway.

  His hands were still up, and he nodded. “The easy way, if you don’t mind. Sara, if you’ll excuse me—”

  “No. Her too. She’ll be investigated as an accomplice,” said the man with the handcuffs.

  Zivic allowed them to cuff him. They shoved him ahead, and Batak followed close behind, with the two men bringing up the rear, corralling them towards one of the exits.

  Luckily, that exit lay just beyond the shuttle Fenway. As they passed it, he rammed into Batak with his shoulder, pushing both of them around the corner of the shuttle. “Open it and get in—FAST.”

  She was quick on the draw—he’d give her that. Without waiting even half a second, she’d punched the hatch controls. It was going to take at least five seconds for the hatch to open completely, so he needed to do something incredibly stupid to stall for time.

  The gun, and the hands holding it appeared around the corner of the shuttle, and Zivic did his best imitation of a karate kick.

  To his complete surprise, the gun went flying. Holy shit, that only happens in the movies.

  But he didn’t have time to pat himself on the back. The man who’d been holding the gun dashed for it as it slid away on the deck, and the other leaped to tackled Zivic. They both went down in a tangle of thrashing arms and legs.

  He heard a solid thud, and his opponent went limp. Batak grabbed his arm, yanking him up the ramp, just as gunshots rang out, hitting the hatch next to his head in a hail of sparks. He dove in and rolled out of the way of the entrance as the door started to close—apparently Batak had managed to hit the controls again.

  More gunfire, striking the opposite wall from the closing ramp, and then hitting the backside of the ramp itself as it sealed shut. He finally risked a glance back up at Batak, who stood there trembling, still holding the plasma welding torch she must have used on the other man’s head.

  “You keep that in your pocket?” he said with a lop-sided smile.

  Damn, Zivic, now’s not the time for flirting.

  “I—” she began. She was trembling even more now.

  He stood up, which was decidedly more difficult with handcuffs on than without. “Hatch locked?”

  She nodded vigorously, eyes wide. He saw that her fingers were gripping the plasma welder so tight that her knuckles were white. He turned around and presented his handcuffed wrists to her. “Will that work on these?”

  “Yeah,” she said, snapping into the moment as she brought the torch to bear on his wrists.

  “Don’t cut my hands off, please, they’re actually my best fea—”

  The cuffs dropped onto the floor. Damn, she was good. “Wow, I hardly felt what you were doing.” He rubbed his wrists.

  “That’s what she said.”

  He did a double take—she still looked half in shock, but the comment, combined with the slight wink, told him she’d be just fine. Maybe. Her hands were still trembling.

  Freed from the cuffs, he ran for the navigation station cockpit. The shuttle was small, only a cockpit, three tiny crew quarters, a mess, and the cargo bay, which was little more than a glorified trunk. He’d only flown one a few times before—it was the last thing he flew before he lost his wings. He took a deep breath to ground himself before he slid into the pilot’s seat. You can do this, Zivic.

  “Hold on, we’re making what you might call a quick getaway. Strap in.”

  He fired up the engines and skipped the pre-flight checklist, rather, he grabbed the controls and immediately lifted the shuttle off the deck, soared up high towards the ceiling to avoid hitting any refugees standing nearby, and shot through the shimmering blue field that held the atmos
phere in.

  “What the hell just happened back there?” she said.

  He steered the shuttle away from the Urquiza and angled up towards the north pole of Bolivar. He had no idea where they were going, but he figured the fewer people that knew where he was, the better, and there was no better place to hide than over a magnetic pole of a planet. Especially one with such a strong magnetic field like Bolivar. It had been wreaking havoc with his regularly scheduled sensor scans aboard the Watchdog ever since he’d started his tour there. Now it was finally working in his favor.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did you do on the Watchdog? Why are they trying to arrest you?”

  He shook his head. Jerry Underwood spun helplessly in his mind, flinging blood in a slow spiral. It was a like a video on repeat. Spin, spin, blood, spatter, spin.

  “I don’t think it’s what I did. I think it’s what I saw.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Irigoyen Sector, Bolivar System, Bolivar

  Shuttle, Bolivar’s stratosphere

  A GPC pilot. Her little nephew. The one she’d bounced on her knees and played with on the beach and changed his diapers while she was stationed on Britannia as the fleet admiral of IDF. A pilot for the god-damned Galactic People’s Congress. What the hell did people see in that gang of miscreants?

  “Dammit, Ballsy, what the hell do people see in that gang of miscreants?” She stared fiercely at the screen on her hand unit. Volz looked back at her, shrugging. She puffed air out in frustration and glanced out the window of the shuttle as the compressed atmosphere glowed red with reentry.

  “Freedom’s a powerful word, Shelby,” he began, before she cut him off.

  “Freedom? How in the world is United Earth not free? How can anyone possibly think that? Are they mistaking us for the Russian Confederation? The Caliphate? The CIDR?”