by Dan Moren
Eli considered the controls in front of him. “Given a couple hours and whatever technical documentation’s on the computer? Sure.”
Kovalic had walked over to the controls for the tactical display and keyed in a command. The display rotated and shifted, moving from a three-dimensional wireframe overview of the system to a flat “top-down” view of the system. A blinking green dot showed their position, and a hazy red-tinted circle surrounded the fourth planet.
“That’s Illyrica’s defensive perimeter,” he said, pointing to the circle. “If we hit that then all hell’s going to break loose.”
“We’re about two hundred thousand kilometers away and coasting right toward it, thanks to inertia,” said Eli, consulting the readouts above the yoke.
“In that case, it looks like you have about twenty minutes to become intimately familiar with this ship.”
Looking first at the pilot’s screen, he glanced back at Kovalic. “No pressure, thanks. Anyway, all I have to do to buy us some time is hit the brakes.” He reached for the throttle lever to the right of the yoke.
His fingers hadn’t even closed around the control when every visible display in the cockpit flashed a bright red warning message and then went dark.
“Shit.” Eli grabbed the throttle and yanked it down to the minimum, but it didn’t seem to have any effect. The yoke was equally unresponsive, and all the readouts on his board were dark. He tapped a few of the keys on the console, but nothing happened. Only the tactical display was still online, showing the green dot getting ever closer toward the red perimeter.
“What happened?” asked Kovalic.
“It said ‘access denied.’” Eli threw the yoke back in frustration. “I’m locked out.”
“How is that possible? Aren’t all executive functions controlled from the bridge?”
Eli racked his brain, trying to dredge up dusty Illyrican command-and-control protocols. “Usually, yes, but in extreme circumstances—hijacking, for example, or mutiny—it can be overridden from another location onboard.” He looked up at Kovalic. “In most cases, the engine room. Eamon could have gotten down there and transferred command.”
“Then we’re going on a field trip. Come on.” He extended a hand and helped Eli scramble out of the cockpit.
“We still have most of Eamon’s crew unaccounted for,” Eli pointed out. “There were about a dozen of them, all told, and you’ve only got two here. We’re going to be outnumbered, even with the rest of our friends.” He looked up toward the vents significantly.
“Well,” said a voice from behind them, “if that’s all that’s holding you back, maybe I can help.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It was the redhead who had spoken—Kovalic knew it before even turning around. But there was something about her voice; it wasn’t that of a cowed and beaten foot soldier. Nor, when he faced her, did he see some girl dragged into affairs over her head. Instead, he saw a young woman who, despite being bound to a railing, looked completely and utterly at ease, as though this were just an ordinary day at the office.
Kovalic had noticed her hesitation when he and Brody had walked onto the bridge earlier. She’d had plenty of time to draw her pistol, probably even fire a shot, but she’d waited. Her eyes had gone to Brody, and he’d thought maybe she had a soft spot for the younger brother. But he’d felt her gaze on him, too, as if summing him up. Either way, she wasn’t your ordinary run-of-the mill terrorist.
“You can help us?” Kovalic repeated, draping his hand over the pistol he’d taken from her.
“You bitch.” The snarl came from the dark-haired woman tied up just a few feet away. “You little bitch traitor.”
If the other woman’s not particularly elegant words fazed the redhead, she didn’t show it. “I’m pretty handy with a pistol.”
“That may be,” said Kovalic, “but at last recollection you were right by Eamon Brody’s side when he hijacked this ship.” He spread his hands. “So you’ll forgive me for not immediately subscribing to your sudden change of allegiances.”
“I have no love for Eamon Brody.” Her brown eyes didn’t blink. “Or the rest of his merry band of marauders.” Her head tilted away from the other woman, who looked like she wished she could kill people just by staring at them.
“Again, I’d be happy to take your word for it, but circumstances being what they are.”
She nodded. “Of course. I presume you’ve got a comm unit?”
Cocking his head to one side, Kovalic eyed her. “I do. But it’s just a personal unit; not high-powered enough to let you call anyone from way the hell out here.”
“Oh, you’re not going to be calling anybody. I just want you to scan my arm.”
Kovalic raised an eyebrow. Drawing the pistol from his belt, he slapped the butt into Brody’s open hand and held the other man’s gaze. “Remember—the only important thing is to stop Eamon. Shoot her, shoot me, I don’t care. Got it?”
The kid looked stricken, and for once he didn’t seem to have a witty retort already prepared. “Got it.”
But the woman didn’t try anything when Kovalic approached, nor when he pulled out his comm and held it up to her right arm, as instructed.
“It’ll need to be a narrowband scan, 5023 megahertz.”
Kovalic punched in the code and waved it over the arm. “Subdermal implant?”
“Right. It stays dormant unless triggered by a specific frequency.”
After a moment it beeped, and he peered at the screen, his mouth curling immediately into a surprised smile. “Well I’ll be damned.”
He turned and tossed the comm to Brody, who fumbled it, thanks to the pistol in his other hand, but managed to read the text off the screen. His jaw fell about two stories and he snapped his head up to stare at the woman, then looked back down at the comm.
“You’re CalSec?”
“Deep cover. Under for eighteen months. I’ve been after your brother for the last three years.” She gritted her teeth. “And if you two have fouled up my collar, you’re getting locked up right next to Eamon. Now.” She tugged at her wrists and eyed them pointedly. “Do you mind?”
Kovalic pulled a folding knife from his boot and flipped the blade open. It was the work of a moment for him to cut her loose, and she massaged her wrists with vigor.
“Thanks.”
“I swear to god,” growled the dark-haired woman, straining at her bonds. “When I get out of here I’m going to fucking kill you. I’m going to rip you into little—” Whatever other awful fates she had planned were cut short as the redhead’s fist made contact with her cheek, smacking her head back against the console and knocking her unconscious.
“Christ,” she muttered, rubbing her knuckles, “I’ve wanted to do that for months.”
Brody, for his part, didn’t seem to have recovered from his shock. “You work for the Caledonian Security Agency,” he repeated, his eyes glassy.
She inclined her head. “Special Agent Gwendolyn Rhys, Counterterrorism Division.”
Retrieving the pistol from Brody’s grip, Kovalic handed it back to her. That certainly explained all of CalSec’s inside info, including De Valera’s true identity. “I believe I’ve read some of your reports, Agent Rhys. Impressive work.” Probably better to leave out that he’d also assaulted two of her colleagues outside of Jim Wallace’s safe house.
“Wait a second,” said Brody, his brow furrowed. “Why is CalSec investigating the Black Watch? Isn’t that an Imperial matter?”
“It’s part of a deal with the Illyricans,” said Rhys. “A safe and secure Caledonia benefits us as much as it does the Illyricans. The Black Watch may say they have our planet’s best interests at heart, but they also incite violence, run weapons, and even have connections to the drug trade. And because we’re made up of native-born Caledonians, CalSec can get places the Illyricans can’t.”
“But don’t you just end up working for the Imperium?”
“We work with the Imperium,” Rhys corr
ected Brody stiffly. “Not for them. Or against them.”
“Although that doesn’t mean you have to share every single little detail with them either,” said Kovalic, eyebrows arched. If they had, Eyes would have descended on Eamon Brody a long time ago.
Rhys flushed slightly, her lips quirking. “Let’s just say it’s a need-to-know basis.”
Kovalic grinned.
Brody eyed the two of them. “Well, it would be lovely to stay here and chat all day, but as I recall, there are more pressing matters to attend to.”
“Brody’s right,” said Kovalic. “Much as I hate to say it. Let’s go.”
They headed out of the bridge and down the corridor, rounding the first junction corridor only to find themselves looking down the barrel of a carbine.
The wielder snapped it up immediately upon recognizing Kovalic.
“Sorry, boss,” said Tapper. “Thought it might be some more party crashers.”
“Impeccable timing, as always. Where’s Page?”
“He saw Eamon make a break for the exit and picked up his trail. Said he’d scout out the situation.”
“Good. Let’s give him some backup.”
The four of them resumed course toward the engine room, winding their way through a maze of hallways and intersections, as Brody followed whatever latent instincts were guiding him. Kovalic eyed the party as they trotted: He and Tapper were both carrying carbines, while Rhys had her pistol—Brody was unarmed, though something told Kovalic that might be the wisest course of action. That would mean Page was unarmed as well, unless he’d managed to procure a weapon from somewhere else, which was hardly outside the realm of possibility.
Tapper had fallen into step with Kovalic as they made their way down the corridor. “What’s the plan, boss?”
Kovalic tightened his grip on the carbine. “Priority number one is stopping Eamon Brody. By whatever means necessary.”
“The hell you say,” Rhys interrupted. “I want him alive.”
The sergeant glanced over his shoulder. “Lady, if it’s him or us, I’m going to choose us. If that’s all right with you. Whoever the hell you are.”
“Tapper, meet Special Agent Rhys of the Caledonian Security Agency.”
“Well knock me over with a feather,” said Tapper. “She’s almost young enough to be my granddaughter.”
Rhys snorted. “In that case, I hope you can keep up, old man.”
“I like her.”
“Anyway,” said Kovalic. “Three guns among five of us. How many men would you say Eamon has left?” he asked Rhys.
“With McKenna—and, if you’re right, Kelly—out of the equation, there are eight left, Eamon included. And Dr. Graham, though I’m not sure she knows which way to hold a gun, much less how to hit the broad side of a starship with one.”
“Threat assessment?”
“McKenna and Kelly were the best trained. They were both ex-Caledonian militia. Eamon and Lyngaas both have formal training, but the rest of them are little more than thugs.”
“Well, that might just give us a fighting chance.”
They followed a twisting and turning set of similar-looking corridors until Eli slowed to a stop at a T-junction that led to the engine room. Page was, unsurprisingly, waiting for them. He nodded at Kovalic as the rest of the motley crew pressed itself against the walls.
“Good to see you, lieutenant. Where are we at?”
“Eamon disappeared in there somewhere. I figured you would be along shortly, so I decided to wait for backup.”
“See?” said Kovalic, giving Tapper a look of mock suffering. “That’s what patience looks like.”
The older man gave a good-natured scowl, and Kovalic responded with a wide grin. “You’re up, Tap. Check it out.”
Without a word, Tapper slunk away from the wall, pressing himself to the opposite bulkhead, and slid out just far enough that he had an angle on the junction. The carbine was braced against his shoulder and he swept it back and forth, looking for threats.
“Clear.”
Eli would have taken that as an opportunity to waltz straight ahead, but Kovalic was still leaning against the wall, eyes narrowed in the expression Eli had come to associate with him being deep in thought.
Kovalic’s gaze caught Eli’s, and the military man shook his head. “We can’t just walk right in. Your brother will be expecting us now, and he’s sure to have people watching the entrances. We might as well put our hands behind our heads and give up.”
“So, what then?”
“We need to outthink him.”
“Good luck with that.”
The other man tapped a finger against his lips. “You know Eamon better than anyone—what’s his blind spot?”
“Blind spot? I’m not sure he has one.”
“Everyone has one. You were a fighter pilot. You should know that.”
Aft and just up, thought Eli. On the R-78s that Eli had flown for most of his naval career, there was one prominent blind spot just behind and above. Engine wash obscured any trailing ship from your own sensors, and Eli had yet to meet the pilot who could swivel his head 180 degrees. If somebody sat in that spot and put one good burst into your engine, you were in the black.
But Kovalic was right: people were no different. And it didn’t take much to figure out what Eamon’s was. His brother had spent a long time with the Black Watch, and for him they’d become almost as good as family—but for someone who was fighting for his homeland, nothing would ever replace real honest-to-goodness blood. There was something too strong in the imagery, in the ties to patriotism. Come right down to it, little else divided the Caledonian natives from their Illyrican occupiers. Probably not even blood, if you wanted to get scientific, but some things went deeper than logic.
Eli’s heart didn’t just sink; it felt like it was burning up on re-entry. He’s your brother for chrissake. Some things were just below the belt, emotionally speaking, and you didn’t go around kneeing your brother in the groin, literally or figuratively.
“Yeah,” he said, drawing a deep breath. “Meghann.” You’re not betraying him. He’s already broken your trust how many times?
Eli might have been imagining things, but he thought the change in Kovalic’s expression looked a bit like that glint of respect he’d first seen from him way back in Colonel Antony’s office on Sabaea. But there was something else in there. Something buried beneath the respect.
Guilt?
“Your sister,” said Kovalic.
“She’s in—”
“I know.” He avoided Eli’s eyes. “Page pulled her file after you disappeared. I‘m sorry, for what it’s worth.”
Only that’s not how you knew, Eli realized slowly. Kovalic and his boss, they’d convinced him to go on this mission because of Meghann. So he’d already known when they sent him. But the anger that he’d expected to find surging within him just wasn’t there. Instead, he just felt tired. The military, as he’d reminded himself earlier, doesn’t lie to you—they just don’t tell you everything.
Kovalic’s mouth set into a grim line and Eli could see written on his face the same thought that was running through his own mind.
Let’s end this.
“All right,” said Kovalic with a nod. “Tapper and Page will circle around and try to take the high ground with the carbines.” He unslung the weapon and handed it to Page, who quickly and automatically checked it over. “Deal with anybody you run into. Brody and I are going right up the middle—we have to get to that lockout console. Rhys, you’re watching our back.”
Drawing herself up, Gwen ducked her head in acknowledgment. Taking their back meant it would be only too easy for her to turn on them and box them in. There was a measure of trust inherent in this decision, and she wasn’t dumb—she knew exactly what it meant.
“Brody,” said Kovalic, turning to him. “You think you can get us to the console?”
Eli closed his eyes, picturing the layout of a standard naval engine room. Square in t
he middle would be the engine itself, a vast cocoon of carbon fiber and insulation foam. There would be plenty of room around it for all the cooling tubes and vents that kept it from overheating and blowing the ship into little pieces. To either side of the large compartment would be the interface consoles for the engineering crew, and, if what he remembered was still accurate, the primary console would be starboard in a cluster of three or four.
“Yeah,” said Eli. “I’m pretty sure I can find it.” If they haven’t changed anything in five years. And if this bloody ship conforms to the same layout as every other ship I’ve seen. That was a metric ton of “ifs” that he wasn’t about to share.
“All right. Let’s do this.”
Tapper grumbled something about being consigned to the service vents again, but he and Page dutifully disappeared down the corridor to look for an access shaft. Kovalic, now unarmed, massaged his right arm with his left, and flexed it a couple of times while Gwen checked her pistol again. They gave the others a two-minute count.
“Move fast,” Kovalic said to Eli, “And for god’s sake, keep your head down.”
“Frankly, I was pretty good at that until I met you.”
“Cute. Ready? One, two—three.”
Eli pushed off the wall and alongside Kovalic he sprinted the short corridor that led to the engine room, keeping his head tucked to his chest and his eyes just high enough to keep track of where he was going. His feet pounded off the deckplates; he tried to swallow the feeling that a shot might hit him at any moment, but it sat like a cold, gritty stone in his mouth.
About ten steps into the room he made the mistake of looking up and almost stopped dead in his tracks.
The room bore only the barest of resemblances to the engine compartments he’d seen on every other Illyrican ship, and the huge contraption that stood where the fusion core should have been looked utterly alien. Instead of a huge, insulation-swathed power plant, there stood a pair of enormous disks, easily a hundred feet in diameter each. They were each run through, off-center, with an enormous vertical pole and sat offset to each other, like a pair of poorly stacked plates. They were also revolving on the pole, each in opposite directions, in a kind of hypnotic undulation.
