Rogue Battleship

by Jake Elwood

  “There's just us. I can see the whole room.” The voice came from above, and Alice looked up. An elbow appeared as someone broke away several jagged pieces of glass in the front of the control booth. Then a woman leaned out. She wore shapeless gray clothes and a bright yellow scarf that contained her hair. She waved cheerfully. “I'm coming down. Don't shoot me. I'm on your side.”

  Alice moved to the open double doors. Beyond she could see a short section of hallway and several more sets of doors, all of them closed. She leaned against the door frame, glancing into the corridor, then around the room full of machinery, then back again.

  Metal creaked and complained as the woman in gray descended a ladder mounted to the wall. By the time she reached Alice, Ham and Sanchez were there too. “That was good work,” said Ham. “You saved our pinfeathers.”

  “You're from Tazenda,” she said. “I can tell. No one else says that.”

  Ham nodded.

  “I'm sorry we didn't do anything when Tazenda and Neorome got invaded. I thought we should have gone to war immediately.” She scowled and plucked at the ill-fitting gray smock she wore. “Look what cooperation got us.”

  Alice said, “Do you work in the factory?”

  “Yes.” She looked ashamed. “I don't want to, but my family ….”

  “I understand” said Alice.

  “I'm Janine. Are you Prairie Dogs?”

  Alice shook her head. “Free Neorome Navy. The Prairie Dogs are with us.”

  “Are you taking over the factory?”

  “Smashing it, probably,” said Alice. “We're not ready to hold the town quite yet. Soon, maybe. Sunshine Station is down. With a little luck, the UW is coming.”

  Janine wrinkled her nose. “Well, I guess they're better than the Dawn Alliance.”

  “A damn sight better,” said Alice. Still, she remembered the passion with which she'd fought against the United Worlds. What would happen when the war ended? Would there be another war to drive out their allies? She thought of Tom, and felt a strong sense of relief that he no longer wore the blue uniform of the United Worlds. What would he do, when the war ended? She was surprised by how much the question troubled her, and she pushed it out of her mind.

  “How many people are in the factory, Janine? How many innocent workers, and how many soldiers?”

  Janine frowned. “On a normal shift, there's ninety people working, and maybe fifteen uglies. Most of them aren’t soldiers. Mostly they’re technicians. Some of them have guns, but they don't have military training. Now, though?” She shrugged.

  “There's supposed to be eight people on shift in here.” She gestured around the room. “Alarms started ringing a little while ago, and they started sealing up the doors. I think most of the floor crew snuck out. But more people came in. More soldiers, I mean.” She shook her head. “I figured the booth was the safest place to be if they decided to shoot everyone. I climbed up there and I haven't budged since.”

  Alice sighed. “I guess we'll find out the hard way.” She checked her pistol. “The exit’s clear,” she told Janine, pointing at the door at the back where the three of them had entered. “You should be able to make it out of town without too much trouble.”

  “To hell with that.” Janine marched over to the doorway leading onto the short corridor. A fallen soldier lay there, limbs in a tangle. Janine stepped over a spreading puddle of blood and picked up a fallen blast rifle. “I'm going with you. I can guide you.”

  Sanchez said, “Have you used one of those before?”

  Janine looked down at the rifle held awkwardly in her hands. “How hard can it be? You point it at anyone wearing burgundy and you pull the trigger.”

  Sanchez shook her head. Alice, though, smiled in spite of herself. Janine might not be the most impressive recruit ever, but she had spirit. She'd risked her life once to help them, and she seemed determined not to shirk danger now.

  “First lesson. Take your finger off the trigger. Keep it outside the trigger guard until you're ready to shoot.”

  Janine reluctantly uncurled her finger from the trigger.

  “Good. Now, what's a piece of equipment in here that's fairly fragile and fairly important?”

  Janine thought for a moment, then pointed up and to one side. “There's a junction box there. Electronics and electrical power.”

  The box, about the size of a human torso, was about thirty meters away and five meters up. Cables and pipes ran from it in every direction. Alice said, “See if you can hit it from here.”

  Janine grinned, lifted the rifle to her shoulder, and took careful aim. She squeezed the trigger, missing by a handspan.

  “Great,” said Alice. “The gun’s unlocked.” There were many ways to lock a weapon so it couldn't be used by an enemy. There were sensors built into gun stocks to detect fingerprints or hand shapes, or even to scan DNA. You could run a tiny cable from the weapon to a port on the user’s clothing. Other weapons had password protection. There was always a danger with locking a gun, though. If something malfunctioned, you could find yourself holding an over-engineered billy club when a gunfight broke out around you. This rifle, apparently, didn't have a lock – not one that was engaged, anyway.

  Janine fired three more shots, scoring two hits and a miss. She cackled. “I'm getting the hang of it.”

  Alice put a hand on the barrel, pushing it down. “Let's save some ammo for our uninvited guests.”

  “Right.” Janine bobbed her head. “This way.”

  She started to walk, then paused when Alice said, “Janine?”

  “Yes?”

  “Finger off the trigger, please.”

  They opened doors on either side of the short corridor, verifying that a small meeting room and a superintendent's office were both empty. After that, Janine led them to a larger set of doors at the end of the corridor. “The cafeteria is through here,” she murmured. “There's a counter on that side.” She gestured with her left hand. “It's the only real cover.”

  Alice nodded, stepped around her, and pushed open the door.

  A flash of motion caught her eye, and she ducked reflexively. A metal pot crashed against the doorframe beside her and went bouncing across the floor. Someone inside the cafeteria swore.

  Her hand was still on the doorknob. Four thick fingers appeared on the edge of the door, and someone yanked the door open, tearing the knob out of her hand. A swarm of men and women faced her, at least a dozen of them, armed with everything from kitchen knives to chairs. The ferocity on their faces turned to confusion as they looked at Alice and her companions.

  “Settle down,” said Janine, sounding amused. “They're on our side.”

  In all, the cafeteria held thirty-five people. They were all locals, all of them dressed in baggy gray smocks. They were, as far as they knew, the only workers remaining in the factory.

  “The Prairie Dogs are planning to bomb the building,” Alice said. “It's high time we all get out of here.” She wanted to ask if any of them was the mother she had promised to find and keep safe. It didn't matter, though. Every one of them had loved ones on the outside, people who were worried about them, people they were desperate to keep safe. And all of them, as she had seen, were loyal patriots ready to rise up against the Dawn Alliance the moment they had a chance of success.

  “Follow me,” she said. “Sanchez, you bring up the rear. Ham and Janine, watch the sides. Finger off the trigger, Janine.” Alice walked to the door to the corridor and pushed it open.

  A couple of Prairie Dogs stood in the corridor with blast rifles at their shoulder. They recognized her, but didn't lower their guns. Karen Sharpe stood behind them, hands on her hips. “Alice,” she said. “What's your hurry?”

  “Face. The third floor, Seven.”

  Tom, who'd been watching one corner of the factory at street level, shifted his aim up and to the right. He found the seventh window on the third floor just in time to see the pale blur of a face fade into the gloom. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting
for a moment of dizziness to pass, then said, “No shot.”

  The woman beside him was named Lucy. She was small and bloodthirsty. She was the one who had left the minicomputer unlocking the rifle, and she'd been disappointed to find that Tom had claimed the weapon when she returned. Now she knelt beside him with a pair of binoculars, acting as a spotter.

  Tom watched the window for a while, catching occasional glimpses of movement inside. He couldn't tell if it was civilians or soldiers, and he wasn't sure it was worth a shot. A dirty window would play havoc with a laser beam.

  “There's something at the front door.”

  Tom tilted the rifle down as Lucy said, “Hold your fire. I think she's coming back out.”

  To the Prairie Dogs, “she” always meant Karen Sharpe. Sure enough, Sharpe was the first one to emerge from the factory. She'd gone in almost half an hour earlier with nine Prairie Dogs in tow. Now they all re-emerged, along with a crowd of shuffling prisoners, men and women in dingy smocks.

  Tom smiled with relief when he spotted Alice at the back of the crowd. The look on her face troubled him, though. She was tight-lipped, looking like she was ready to hit someone. Ham was beside her, his forehead creased in a worried pucker. Sanchez was on the other side. She wore a scowl that could have scoured paint from a bulkhead.

  Tom watched them, feeling a growing unease. Prairie Dogs lead the prisoners along the front of the building. He got his first unimpeded view of Alice and her companions, and the cold feeling in his stomach intensified and spread.

  All three of them were unarmed.

  The Prairie Dogs used gestures and the occasional shove to maneuver the prisoners into a line along the front wall of the factory. Prisoners began to kneel. Some refused, and Prairie Dogs came forward, shoving them down. A woman in gray planted her hands on her hips and stuck her chin out defiantly. A man stepped up in front of her and brought his rifle back as if he was about to drive the butt into her stomach. She gave in at the last moment, dropping to her knees beside the other prisoners.

  Sharpe, meanwhile, walked back and forth on the open grass in front of the factory. She had her back to the prisoners, her face toward Tom, and her lips moved. He couldn't hear what she said, but by the look of it she was grandstanding, haranguing an audience. Tom tilted the rifle, looking at the ground ahead of her. A rooftop blocked most of his view, but he could see the tops of a few heads. There were civilians gathering, and Karen Sharpe was giving them a lecture.

  The chill in Tom's stomach grew worse. He didn't know what was about to happen, but whatever it was, Sharpe clearly intended it as an object lesson for the people of Greenport.

  “What the hell is she going to do?”

  He was talking to himself, but Amy answered. “Executing the prisoners, probably.”

  He glanced at her, shocked. She looked uncomfortable, but her eyebrows drew together like she was daring him to challenge her.

  He returned his attention to the scope. Alice, her face a mask of outrage, was marching toward Sharpe. Sharpe turned, and the two nose to nose. Alice's arms chopped at the air as she gesticulated. Tom could imagine her tirade. These aren’t your enemies. These are prisoners of the Dawn Alliance. You can't kill them. It won't be execution; it'll be murder.

  Tom shifted the scope, scanning the faces of the kneeling prisoners. None of them had the distinctive features of Dawn Alliance soldiers. None of them wore soldiers’ uniforms. “They’re civilians,” he muttered. “Not even Dawn Alliance civilians. They’re citizens of Novograd.”

  “They helped the enemy.”

  “That,” said Tom, not looking up from the scope, “is a load of crap, and you know it.”

  Maybe Lucy did know. At any rate, she didn't reply.

  Tom tracked back to Alice and Sharpe. He was just in time to see Alice’s fist move, looping around in a savage arc. Sharpe’s head snapped back and she fell, sprawling on her rear end.

  Lucy said, “Oh, damn it.”

  By the time Sharpe made it to her feet, a Prairie Dog held each of Alice's arms. Tom took careful aim at the one on the left, fighting the urge to squeeze the trigger. Take your hands off her, you ape. If you hurt her-

  Sharpe brought a hand up, touching her mouth where Alice's blow had landed. She made a gesture, and the two Prairie Dogs dragged Alice backward.

  There was a commotion in the background, and Tom zoomed out the electronic scope. Garth Ham lunged toward the men holding Alice. Another Prairie Dog tripped him, then kicked him as he started to rise. Sanchez was grappling with two more Prairie Dogs. A dark-haired woman had blood streaming from her nose by the time she and the man beside her managed to wrestle Sanchez to the ground.

  Tom's mouth went dry as the men holding Alice dragged her to the line of prisoners and shoved her onto her knees.

  “Thrush,” said Lucy. “Take your finger off the trigger.”

  Tom blinked, startled to find that he’d curled his finger around the trigger and taken up most of the slack.

  The side of Karen Sharpe's head was in the crosshairs.

  Ham surged to his feet, then fell as a Prairie Dog swept his feet out from under him. A man planted a knee in Ham’s back.

  Sharpe drew a pistol from the holster at her belt.

  Something hard touched the side of Tom's head. “Take your damn finger off the trigger.” The pressure increased, pushing Tom's head sideways. He could see Lucy in the corner of his eye, her arm extended, the muzzle of a pistol against the side of his head. “I won't tell you again.”

  In the scope, Sharpe stood in front of Alice, the pistol still pointing at the ground. There's still time for sanity to prevail. She doesn't have to do this. You don't have to do this, Sharpe. Alice is not your enemy.

  An absurd thought flashed through his mind. This will divide the Prairie Dogs. They have to know this is wrong. The resistance will start to fall apart after this.

  I could prevent it. I should shoot Alice right now. It's the best way to keep the Prairie Dogs United.

  It was a repulsive thought, and he dismissed it immediately. Yet the voice of his conscience clamored at him, telling him Sharpe was essential to the resistance, and the resistance was essential to liberating Novograd. Novograd was critical to the war, which made Karen Sharpe a very important person indeed. And I'm thinking about shooting her, because I'm in love.

  Sharpe lifted her pistol, and in that instant Tom knew that the dilemma facing him was no dilemma at all. The liberation of Novograd was not the only thing at stake. The soul of Novograd was also at risk. There were two women before him, and one of them would control how the war of resistance was fought. That would carry over, after the war, into the very destiny of the colony.

  Who would choose Novograd's path? Sharpe, who would do anything to drive the invaders out? Or Alice, who would do anything to save her people? Until now, those goals had been effectively the same thing. Now they were about to diverge.

  Sharpe straightened her arm. She pointed the pistol at Alice's head.

  And Tom squeezed the trigger.

  “Oh, shit!” The pressure of the gun barrel on the side of Tom's head increased, and he squeezed his eyes shut involuntarily, waiting for the shot that would end his life.

  The pressure vanished. He turned his head, saw a blur of motion, and the sole of Lucy’s boot slammed into his shoulder.

  He fell, and she ripped the rifle out of the bracket holding it to the pedestal. She pointed the rifle at his head, the long barrel wavering. She made a frustrated noise, stepped forward, swung the gun up, and rammed the stock into his face. White light exploded through his skull and the world disappeared.

  Chapter 19

  The medical chair give a quiet hum as it drifted across the lawn. Tom sat with his hands gripping the controls on the chair's arms, gritting his teeth in quiet frustration. A brace on the chair's back held his head perfectly still. If he wanted to look beside him, he had to rotate the entire chair. He was sure that was overkill, but the doctors had been adamant
. Two head injuries in a short time was all he could expect to endure without serious and permanent side effects. They weren’t letting him take any more chances.

  It was a warm day, the twin suns shining down from a dark blue sky decorated with faint wisps of high cloud. Tom, however, unable to move pretty much anything but his arms, was cold. He had a blanket in his lap, and he reached down from time to time to keep it from sliding. If it was to fall to the ground he would have to call a nurse to pick it up for him.

  Coldest of all was the half-circle shape of a med monitor attached to the shaved skin just above his right ear. Invisible wires extended from the device and reached deep into Tom's brain. He couldn't feel a thing, but he knew the wires were there, and he had to fight an impulse to grab the monitor and rip it free. It was actually less invasive than the data implants that most people back on Earth had. Still, Tom had never had implants, and he hated the thought of them.

  The Catfish Lake Clinic stood on a hilltop surrounded by a patchwork of forest and farmland. He’d seen it once before, on the day the Icicle crashed, though he wouldn’t have recognized it. Now, with the storm long past and the sun shining, he could finally take a good look around.

  The grounds of the hospital were lovely, with flowerbeds alternating with stretches of lawn. There were trees, elms and oaks that would become majestic shade trees one day. At the moment they were barely two meters tall, but they had been planted with care. In a few decades they would accentuate the grounds and the building in the center, softening the stark lines of the structure and providing a contrast to the tall stone walls.

  At the edge of the hospital grounds was a hedge with gaps in it to allow for a view across the surrounding countryside. Most of the gaps had benches, and the bench directly ahead of Tom contained a couple of people. He knew Bridger and Alice well enough to recognize them by the backs of their heads, and he smiled, his bad mood fading as he steered toward them. He was a few paces away when they caught the hum of the chair and turned around.