by James Palmer
Returning to his seat, he called up a virtual control composed of a single large button.
“Ready when you are, sir.”
“Do it,” said Kuttner.
Cade hit the button. At first, nothing happened. Then the lights went out.
23 Dutton’s Orders
Dutton was fighting for his life.
He had gotten cut off from his squad somehow, and sandwiched between two of the probes as they suddenly came back to life and resumed chewing their way through the ship, large metallic appendages somehow eating away at the metal bulkhead molecule by molecule until nothing was left.
Dutton yelled at them, but they paid him no heed. This angered him even more, and the big marine opened fire on one of them. He emptied an entire magazine into it before it was disabled. He reloaded and went after the other one.
Then a strange noise came over the ship’s communication system, flooding the corridor with alien noise. It was eerie, and Dutton couldn’t help but feel a little freaked out. But the probe still alive in front of him was slowing down, stopping.
The lizard bitch had done it. Dutton eased closer to the probe, his weapon still raised. He tapped it with the barrel of his gun. Nothing. But was it dead, or just sleeping?
“Sergeant Dutton,”
The sound of his name startled him, and he almost squeezed off a shot point blank into the skin of the now quiet probe. It took him a second to realize where it was coming from. It wasn’t the Captain’s voice, or Commander Hamilton’s.
Dutton reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a small, metallic black object.
“Dutton here.”
“How goes the battle?”
It was Colonel Straker.
“Fine, sir. The probes have infested the ship, but the dragon found the Progenitor tones that stopped them.”
“What?”
“They’re stopped cold, sir,” said Dutton.
“Well, that just won’t do at all,” said Straker. “I need them functioning.”
“But they were attacking us.”
“People get attacked in wars, soldier,” said Straker evenly. “Don’t get squeamish on me now. Not when we’re almost at the endgame.”
Dutton shook his head. “No, sir. Of course not, sir. I’m here for you as always.”
“Good,” said Straker. “Here’s what I want you to do. You’re going to kill that signal. I don’t care how. And then—and here’s the fun part—I want you to kill that alien. Think you can do that?”
Dutton considered the order. He was unsure why it was a good thing to have their ship—his ship, the ship he’d been sworn to protect—infested with alien probes. But Colonel Straker was his true commanding officer. Not that senile old man Kuttner, or his conceited lackey Hamilton, whom Straker had fired for insubordination.
What was the old saying? Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or die. The soldier’s mantra since before Dutton’s great grandfather had left Earth to explore the stars.
“Of course I can, sir,” he said. “It will be my pleasure. Especially that last part.”
“Good,” said Straker. “You’ve done good work, soldier. Over and out.”
Dutton returned the object to his belt and considered how to accomplish his new orders. He looked down at the combat webbing strung across his armor’s carapace. In it were several small explosive devices. He began jogging toward the communications room, a huge grin on his face.
24 Betrayal
They sat in the dark for far longer than Hamilton was comfortable.
At last the red emergency lights came back up, followed by everything else.
“Computer’s rebooted,” said Cade. “No apparent damage. Other ship’s systems are slowly coming back online. We’ve got full life support, artificial grav, the works.”
“What about weapons?” asked Kuttner.
“Particle guns are charged and ready,” said the gunner. “The rail gun will never fire again. Not unless it’s completely changed out.”
Kuttner scowled. That, he knew, would never happen. The Onslaught was due to be scuttled before this nonsense with the Draconi and the alien probes. Now it was fit for little more than spare parts for the derelicts in the orbital museum encircling Tethys B. “Very well. You did good, Gunner.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Cade. Hamilton thought the young man looked surprised that everything came back up, and more than a little relieved.
“What about the Swarm?” said Hamilton.
Hudson checked his readouts. “They’re dead, sir. The pulse got them good.”
“Well, that’s something at least,” muttered Kuttner. “Even if we had to almost cripple the entire ship to do it.”
“What about the Draconi vessel?” said Hamilton. “Did it make it out with the eggs?”
“Yes, sir. It’s almost through the Q-gate now,” said Hudson. “They were well out of range of the pulse.”
“Maybe they’ll put in a good word for us with their high command,” said Hamilton. “We just have one more problem.”
“Which is?” said Kuttner.
“Finding out what destroyed our communications.”
“It could have been the Swarm,” said Cade. “They’ve caused damage all over the ship. An essential area was bound to be affected.”
Hamilton pursed his lips in thought. “That’s possible. I suggest we investigate it, though.”
“Agreed,” said Kuttner. “In the meantime, we’ve got bigger fish to fry. For example, what’s our next move?”
“I’d like to examine one of the probes,” said Drizda. “If we can learn more about them we might find a way to stop them all permanently.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Hamilton. “Every ship in the fleet can’t just disable themselves with an EMP, and we can’t get the word out about the Progenitor tones without our comms working.”
“Right,” said Kuttner. “Go with her, Commander. Make sure she has whatever she needs. In the meantime, let’s make repairs and get our tightbeam transmitter back up and running.”
Hamilton glanced at Drizda, and together they stood to leave. “Lt. Brackett,” he said. “Text someone to find one of those probes and bring it to repair bay three for us.”
They left the command deck and began walking down the main corridor toward the middle of the massive vessel. The place smelled like burnt wiring, and the crew they encountered was either running to take care of some problem or limping to the med bay because they were injured. They found repair bay three right where it had always been, though it was just as disheveled as other areas of the ship, tools and equipment lying on the floor. In the center of the large room stood Sergeant Dutton, his boot resting on one of the Swarm probes, which was lying on its side.
“I got your message,” said Dutton, tapping his wrist slate. He eyed Drizda as he said it, which made Hamilton uneasy.
Dutton removed his foot from the probe’s curved side, his weapon down and slung across his chest.
Ignoring the big marine, Drizda knelt next to the probe, examining it.
“It really is quite beautiful,” she said, her long tail swishing back and forth. “Each unit is probably unique, created for specialized tasks. I would not be surprised if they were designed using an evolutionary algorithm.”
“You mean so they can adapt to their environment?” said Hamilton.
“Yes.” She tapped the skin of the machine with her talons. “I wish I was an engineer,” she said. “I could glean more from its inner workings if I were.”
“You can tell us more about the race who built them,” said Hamilton.
Her tongue flicked from her mouth. “Perhaps. They’re likely to be very different from their original design. Just as you and I differ greatly from the amoeba of our home worlds. I do not think the later Progenitors built them, though it was certainly an earlier offshoot of their race.”
Hamilton looked down at the machine. It was utilitarian, yet it had a certain elegance abo
ut it. It reminded him of an octopus or a jellyfish. It also looked quite deadly. “I’ll get a couple of engineers down here, cut this thing open. Hopefully they can figure out what makes them tick.”
Hamilton knew some good engineers at Special Operations, but they were light years away. He thought of Leda, made a mental note to contact her as soon as repairs had been made.
That’s when his world exploded.
Something hard struck him in the left temple, and he saw stars as the deck rushed up to meet him. He shook his head to clear it, got clumsily to his feet in time to see Dutton with his weapon pointed right at Drizda’s head. Drizda stepped back into a crouch, growling low in her throat.
“What is this, Dutton?” said Hamilton, wishing he’d been carrying his sidearm.
“Just following orders, Commander,” said Dutton. “Like any good solider.”
“Orders from whom?”
Dutton didn’t answer as he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
Dutton scowled, pulling the jammed weapon from his shoulder and tossing it to the ground just as Drizda pounced, her long talons extended. They scraped nanocarbon armor as Dutton backed out of the way, drawing a long knife from a sheath on his belt.
“Stand down, Marine,” said Hamilton, with ice in his voice.
“No can do, Commander,” said Dutton, his eyes never leaving his opponent.
Drizda had dropped her slate to the deck and assumed a fighting stance. Gone was the rational scientist Hamilton had come to know and respect. Here instead was a steely-eyed predator that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He wouldn’t want to be in Dutton’s shoes. But the big Marine was well-trained and well-armed.
Hamilton almost tried to call for help as Dutton and Drizda circled each other, but he remembered the comms were down. If he was going to end this, he’d have to do it on his own.
“Dutton, you’ve been a good solider. You’ve got a promising career ahead of you. Don’t throw it away now.”
“Stay out of this, Commander.”
Dutton lunged at Drizda, but she sidestepped him easily, his knife slashing the empty air where she had once stood. Hamilton was amazed by how fast she was.
“You don’t have to do this,” said Hamilton.
“Yes, I do. Don’t try to get in my head. I know what I’m doing.”
Drizda lunged now, raking Dutton’s left shoulder with her claws. Blood welled up there, and Dutton winced. “All right, lizard. You’re going to pay for that.”
Hamilton grabbed up Dutton’s weapon and cleared the jam.
Dutton came at her again, but she blocked his blade and spun around, sweeping her tail into his legs and knocking him down.
“It’s over, Sergeant,” said Hamilton, aiming Dutton’s weapon straight at his head. “Stand down.”
“Never,” said Dutton as he slashed the knife blade across his throat, spraying red mist into the air.
“I need a med team down here!” Hamilton shouted, but of course this did no good. He grabbed up Drizda’s slate where it had fallen, intending to tap out a message to Brackett.
“It’s too late,” said Drizda. “He’s gone.”
Hamilton looked down at the Marine, puzzled why he would rather die than be taken in and questioned. Did this conspiracy really run this deep? Who else was involved? Could half the ship be against them?
“Are you all right?” Hamilton asked. The room was filled with the coppery tang of Dutton’s blood. It made him queasy.
“Yes, Commander. Are you?”
“Just shaken up.” He knelt over Dutton’s body to search it, going through his pockets, his equipment belt for any clue. Finally, he found something.
“He pulled a small black rectangle from Dutton’s belt, hefted it in his hand.
“What is that?” asked Drizda.
“It’s a tightbeam encoder and transmitter,” said Hamilton. “I haven’t seen one in years. Only Black Ops carry them. This isn’t standard marine issue. Come on. We’ve got to get back to the command deck.”
“To do what?”
“To find out who Dutton was working for, and to see if there is anyone else aboard on the payroll.”
25 Repairs
It was hard to command a ship and coordinate repairs without a functioning communications system, but the Onslaught’s crew made the best of it. Lt. Brackett typed commands out to access terminals and personnel slates, setting repair crews in motion, while Kuttner paced the deck in thought, his hands clasped behind his back. He hated sitting here deaf and blind while the rest of the fleet were probably preparing for a war he was trying to stop. But they had no idea where to go or what to do next.
The door of the command deck slid open and Commander Hamilton and Drizda swept into the room, both of them covered in a spattering of blood.
“What the hell happened to you?” said Kuttner.
“It was Sergeant Dutton,” said Hamilton, breathing heavily. “He tried to kill Drizda. I wouldn’t be surprised if he blew up the comm room too.”
“What?” was all Kuttner could say. The big Marine had an anger problem, but he had always followed orders. “Did he say why?”
“No. He slit his own throat before he could tell us anything.”
Kuttner slumped heavily into his command chair. “He was a good soldier. I can’t believe he was in on this conspiracy nonsense too.”
Hamilton stood before him, holding a small rectangular object. “I found this on him. It’s a Black Ops tightbeam encoder and transmitter. Very high- tech and hush-hush. There’s no way Dutton should have been carrying this. This is how he received his orders to sabotage our communications and attack Drizda.”
Hamilton turned toward Lt. Brackett and tossed the tiny device toward her. She caught it and turned it over in her hand, examining it.
“You should be able to wire this into your workstation. It should work as a patch for our downed comm system.”
“I’m on it, sir,” said Brackett.
“Can we find out who the hell Dutton was talking to?” asked Kuttner.
“It’s possible,” said Hamilton. “But the transponder’s logs will be heavily decrypted. Fortunately, I know a faster way.” He turned to Gunner Cade. “Are the ship’s computers back online?”
“Yes, sir,” said Cade. “But the system just rebooted a few minutes ago. Go easy on it.”
Hamilton turned and headed for the Captain’s ready room, followed closely by Kuttner and Drizda.
Kuttner walked to the other end of the long table and huddled in front of the computer terminal there. After furiously typing for several moments he stopped to study whatever was on the screen.
“What are you doing, Commander?” asked Kuttner.
“I’m reviewing Dutton’s personnel file. I’m hoping it will tell us who he’s been getting his orders from.”
“My bet is on Admiral Sheldon,” said Kuttner. “We already know she’s involved. I’ve known that woman for twenty-five years. I can’t believe she sold us out just to get her telomeres lengthened.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” said Hamilton. “Look at this.”
Hamilton made a swiping motion with his hand, throwing the data he was viewing from the computer screen into hologram form above the table. Kuttner squinted, reading it.
“That’s just the details of his last post. Odin 3. I know it. The place is a hellhole. So what?”
“So, look at the name of his commanding officer.”
“Colonel Straker?”
“That tightbeam transponder Dutton was carrying is Special Ops tech, not something your common soldier would have in his kit. The Colonel is head of Special Ops.”
“So you think your former boss is behind all this.”
“I’m sure of it. Everything makes so much more sense now. He blackballed me and got me kicked out of Special Ops. I think it’s because I almost stumbled into this conspiracy or whatever it is months ago.”
Kuttner nodded. “And he’s got other pe
ople in on it with him, including Admiral Sheldon.”
“Most likely. This is too big for one person to handle.”
“But why would he want to go to war again with the Dragons? And why would he let those alien probes devour the entire Fleet?”
Hamilton shrugged. “I don’t know, but now we know who to ask.”
“Straker,” said Kuttner. “We need to get our communications back online so we can get the lay of the land.”
“Lay of the land?” Drizda said slowly.
“It’s an old figure of speech,” Hamilton explained. “He means we need to figure out what’s going on with the rest of our fleet. And yours too.”
Drizda nodded once, stiffly.
“I need to contact Leda again,” Hamilton said. “If I’m right, she’s in big trouble.”
“And if you’re wrong,” added Kuttner, “she’s in this up to her eyeballs.”
26 Captured
“This is highly irregular, Lieutenant.”
Leda Niles grinned at the ship’s captain, a prim, slender woman a few years her junior. “Don’t I know it. But that’s Navy for you. They never make any sense.”
The captain looked over that data on her slate one more time before continuing. “But we’re on the eve of war. You really think you can talk the Onslaught’s captain into turning himself in?”
Leda fixed the older woman with a steady smile.
“That’s the plan. We need every able-bodied ship in the fleet if we’re going to stick it to those lizards.”
The captain of the small frigate swiped at her slate, glancing quickly at the data there once more. Everything appeared in order. It had all the right access sigils, and the signature of Colonel Straker was affixed in the bottom right corner, along with his thumbprint ID.
