by Rick Partlow
He was sure he saw some doubt in a few eyes, especially those of the owners of the other cargo ships, but no one else raised a concern.
“What good are the cargo haulers anyway?” Kammy wondered, earning a dirty look from one of their captains, a gaunt woman with a greying mohawk. “Sorry, sis,” he said, touching a hand to his chest in apology, “but they’re not warships. They could do all right against pirates, but we’re talking Starkad cruisers here.”
“Terrin,” Logan said, “we’ve got a few dozen spare fusion reactors for the mecha between all our ships and their repair bays. How hard would it be to turn them into mines?”
“Shit,” Kammy blurted, frowning as he considered the idea.
“Not too difficult,” Terrin said. “Not from a technical standpoint,” he added. “I’d have to get with the ships’ engineering crew and some of the repair techs to see how fast we could rig it up.”
“There’s a reason no one uses mines though, boss,” Kammy reminded him. “If they’re ‘dumb’ mines, just sitting there until the ship gets close enough, the deflectors will knock them away, and if they’re computer controlled with maneuvering rockets, the ships’ ECM systems will screw up their guidance.”
“If they have the time,” Logan agreed. “But what if one of the cargo ships builds up six or seven gravities of steam and then launches the mines ahead of it like a shotgun? We could mount them to short-range rocket engines, maybe strip them off the reloads for our mecha launch pods.”
“That’s fucking suicide!” the gaunt woman snapped, her eyes going wide.
“It’d be a damned close thing,” Logan admitted. “The ship would have a skeleton crew and they’d have to eject right after they launch the mines.”
“That’s ballsy,” Salvaggio admitted. “Who’s gonna volunteer for it, though?”
“Are you kidding?” a small, frail-looking man with a shaven head covered in tattoos piped up, his voice surprisingly deep for his frame. Theon was his name, Logan remembered. Grant Theon, captain of Bohardt’s ship, the Ambrose Light. “Getting a chance to destroy a damned cruiser with a cargo hauler? I’ll do it! Live or die, they’ll tell that story for centuries.”
“Well, listen to you,” the mohawk woman said with a sharp laugh. He couldn’t remember her name, but he knew she worked for the Cossacks under Captain Bakunin. “You think I’d let you take all the fucking glory, Theon? You and that damned rust bucket?”
“If we both live, Marie,” Theon told her, “I’ll buy you a drink on Gateway at the Tia Juanita.”
“You think you’re gonna get lucky with me that easy, you old goat?”
There was a general chuckle around the conference table and just a tiny fraction of the weight on Logan’s shoulders seemed to fall away.
“Boss,” Bohardt said slowly, almost reluctantly, “you know I’m in this with you. But I have to ask, because we’re all thinkin’ it. This is Starkad we’re talkin’ about. They might be spread thin right now, but spread thin for us and for them is two different things. If they come after us here with everything they got, we ain’t gonna’ be able to pull this off.”
Logan tried not to wince at the question. Not that he hadn’t been expecting it.
“I understand that, David. And if any of you want to pull out, I completely understand.”
He saw Valentine Kurtz bristle at the pronouncement, but it had to be said. So much of this depended on the mercenaries sticking with him. If they changed their mind, he had no legal authority behind him, nothing but a threat of force he didn’t want to use and that might backfire on him if he did.
“And maybe you’re right,” he acceded, shrugging casually. “Maybe I’d be smarter to run, to preserve all the forces I have, hit and run, make myself a thorn in Rhianna Hale’s side and give Starkad a wide berth. You know what would happen then, David? Josephine? The rest of you?” He met their eyes, one at a time, making sure they understood what he was asking. “How do you think we’d live, then? How would we get supplies? Food? Fuel? Spare parts?”
“We could raid for them…,” Salvaggio began, then she stopped mid-sentence,.
“Exactly.” He nodded. “We’d start raiding, telling ourselves we were justified because it’s a war. And the war wouldn’t end, because with Starkad backing Hale, we’d never beat her through attrition. They’d just keep making up her losses, and we’d keep raiding, and what do you think we’d become after a few years of that? If we were still alive?”
“Pirates.” Katy fairly spat the word.
It seemed to echo across the room, impacting them physically. The air went out of Bohardt as the thought sank home.
“Starkad will come here, ladies and gentlemen. And maybe we win, or maybe we all die. But I’d rather risk it all in open battle here, fighting the real enemy.” He stood from his chair, leaning on the conference table with open palms. “I am Logan Brannigan, and I mean to be the Guardian of Sparta, as my father was, and his grandfather before him. I’m going to liberate my people, not prey on them. Mithra forbid, we may wind up having to kill my own countrymen in battle, but I won’t scavenge the carcass of my nation.”
He straightened, stretching his hand into the center of the circular table.
“Win or die. Who’s with me?”
Katy was first, followed only a moment later by Terrin, then the rest of his Spartans and Kammy, their hands resting on top of his. Slowly but in a rising tide, the others joined, until they all stood together.
“All right then,” he said. “Let’s get to work.”
20
They’ll know we’re coming,” Eric Hoenig declared as if it were the prophecy of an oracle.
The general was, Laurent thought, trying to look purposefully stoic and momentous, staring out at the stars through the transparent aluminum of the Orkla’s observation bubble, his arms across his chest, chin tucked into his chest. All he needed was a long, red beard to match the red stubble on his head and he could have passed for a Viking captain of another age heading from Denmark to England.
“Of course, they will,” she agreed. “There’s no way to hide a task force this size.”
She could see two of the other five cruisers burning at one gravity on candles of fusion flame thousands of kilometers away in a globular formation. They were slightly brighter stars among a vast and wonderful firmament, but not hard to spot if one knew how to look.
Each carrying two companies of mecha and two more of Marines.
“It’s very pretty up here, sir,” she said carefully, not wanting to offend the man. He had a reputation for being prickly. “But I’m sure you didn’t just invite me up to the Observation Deck to look at the stars. Is something wrong?”
Because we’re going to be jumping again in ten hours and I could really use some sleep.
“I need to know you’re sure,” he confided, his beady, brown eyes moving beneath heavy brows, peering out at her like bugs sheltered under a rock ledge. “About the enemy disposition,” he amended. Just in case I’m some kind of idiot. “This is an awfully big risk. These ships are needed elsewhere.”
Ah. He’s got nerves and wanted them soothed somewhere private. This was certainly the place for a private conversation. No one but the universe to overhear them.
“Lord Starkad believes they’re needed here,” she reminded him. “But yes, I’m certain of the enemy strength. They have no more than eight companies of mecha and only two of them are composed of line-quality machines.” Stolen from us. She didn’t add that aloud, though. “The rest are outdated, obsolete or pieced together from spare parts. They have one company of Spartan Rangers along with possibly as many as five to eight companies of lesser infantry, some in lightly armored vehicles. Two true military assault shuttles and a few armed landers that won’t last long in air combat. They only have two honest-to-God warships, a destroyer and the Imperial-tech cruiser they stole from the old outpost at Terminus.”
The part of her that had worked intelligence for the last ten years
bristled at sharing out state secrets so freely, but Lord Starkad had assured her Hoenig had been read into all the details of the Terminus operation.
“The Imperial ship concerns me,” Hoenig said, frowning as if this were some sort of shameful admission.
If it didn’t, you’d be a complete moron.
“It’s beyond anything we can build now, but it’s not magic. From the reports I audited, it can be damaged if enough fire is focused on it. Its greatest advantage is speed, but that’s only an advantage if they run.”
“And what if they do? This mission will be meaningless if they don’t stand and fight.”
“Logan Brannigan is not the running type. He wants to fight us. We’re going to give him what he wants.”
Hoenig nodded, and she thought he was satisfied.
Perhaps a bit too satisfied.
“Make no mistake, sir,” she warned him, “these people are not going to roll over and die. We are going to take losses, perhaps heavy ones. But as long as we don’t do anything stupid, victory is inevitable.”
What she’d said was necessary. Hoenig needed the reassurance, big, red-bearded baby that he was. Yet they made her intensely uncomfortable, reminding her of a phrase Colonel Kuryakin had shared with her once. Something about famous last words.
The plains outside Revelation City were almost pleasant at night, the unrelenting heat of the day giving way to a high desert chill, the brutal punishment of the primary replaced by the magnificent light show of a cloudless night and a million stars. Logan lie motionless beside her on the blanket, eyes fixed on those stars as if he thought the answers to their problems were hidden among them.
“I’d use nukes if I could,” he confessed softly.
Katy blinked and rolled over, one arm falling across his chest, wondering if she’d heard him right.
“Nukes?” she repeated. She wanted to whisper though she didn’t know why. There was no one out there with them, no one for kilometers around. The groundcar they’d taken pinged quietly in the cooling night as metal heated up on the drive out contracted again.
“On Starkad,” he clarified. “On their ground forces. If we didn’t have to worry about the civilians here, I’d use nukes. It’s the only way I can see to make up for the difference in forces.” He shrugged and she could feel the play of his muscles in his chest. “Unless the interdiction in space goes better than how I’m thinking it will.”
She shuddered and she was certain it wasn’t just the night air.
“Do you think Starkad would use them? I mean, out here, away from any witnesses, they might be able to get away with it.”
“No.” His response was firm, confident. “Aaron Starkad is going to want proof I’m dead. Otherwise, the possibility I’m alive out there somewhere would give hope to loyalists.”
He spoke of his own death so easily, so calmly, and she was sure he wasn’t just putting on a front. For the others, perhaps, but not for her. She knew him too well. He’d accepted it, accepted not just the possibility but almost the certainty of it.
Impulsively, she leaned up and kissed him, her lips lingering on his, fingers entangled in his blond hair. When they parted, her breath came shorter, not merely from desire but from something warmer, deeper.
“I need you to do me a favor,” she said.
“Anything,” he said. She could tell by the earnest certitude of his voice, his gaze that he meant it.
“Starkad will be here in a couple days, and sometime before that I need you to marry me.”
He sat up quickly, mouth falling open.
“Really?” he blurted, and she laughed softly.
“Yes, really. No matter what happens, I want us to be husband and wife when we face it.”
“But there’s no time for a wedding,” he said, panic she hadn’t seen at the thought of his own death coming into his eyes as he realized it. “We’d have to start the ceremonies tomorrow with the silver coins, and then the lamps have to be lit the next day…”
“Not a Zoroastrian ceremony,” she corrected him. “I want us to be married with a Christian ceremony.”
“You do?” he asked, looking almost as equally dumbfounded as when she’d suggested getting married in the first place.
“Later, when we’re back on Sparta and you’re the Guardian, we can have a Zoroastrian wedding. I know it’s politically necessary. But right now I’d like one in the name of the God I believe in.”
“What made you decide to return to the Old Religion?” he asked. She didn’t think there was any disappointment in his tone, only honest curiosity.
No better time to be curious about religion than when you’re sure you’re going to die.
“I don’t find comfort in Mithra anymore,” she confessed. “He looks too closely at what I’ve done, the mistakes I make. Jesus recognizes I’m human and fallible. He knows I can’t find perfection on my own”
“You are perfect,” he said, arms going around her. “And yes, I’ll marry you with a Christian ceremony, or any other kind you want, you know that. I’ve wanted to marry you since I first met you.”
He pulled her into a fierce kiss, holding onto her as if he was afraid something was about to tear her away. The warmth of his chest burned against hers, a second sun in the cold of the night.
As prisons went, it wasn’t bad.
Donnell Anders set his fork down onto the empty plate with a clatter of metal on ceramic and sat back in his chair. Plain wood, just like the table, unfinished and rough, but comfortable. The house wasn’t his own, was small and undecorated, devoid of anything more dangerous than a butter knife, but it wasn’t a cell and food and drink and even entertainment of a sort were all available.
No connection to the open net, of course, nor any other communications with the outside world. He wasn’t even entirely certain where on Sparta he was being kept and the guards stationed outside weren’t forthcoming. There were mountains outside, but not the Bloodmarks, which ruled out Argos. Maybe Engyon, or somewhere near it in the far south. He’d never been there, but he recalled there being a mountain chain just outside the city.
Does it matter? Are you going to escape into the wilderness, climb the mountains and steal a shuttle, hijack a starship and join some resistance?
Not if he wanted his wife and daughters to live through this. That much had been made clear to him.
He nearly jumped out of the chair when the front door opened, but settled back down when a pair of armed soldiers strode through, rifles levelled. Behind them, one hand resting on the butt of her holstered pistol, was Rhianna Hale. She seemed more severe than the last time he’d seen her, back before the coup, her dark hair pulled back tight in a bun, lines of stress aging her face by a few years. She still wore her Spartan Armored Corps uniform, though it no longer bore a major’s rank on the collar. Replacing it was the symbol of the Guardian, and he felt a flash of impotent rage at the sight.
“Good evening, General Anders,” she said, her tone casual. “I trust you’re not finding your confinement too arduous?”
“Surprisingly, no,” he acknowledged. He felt a stubborn urge to refuse to speak to her. It was what a younger Donnell Anders would have done, but age and experience had taught him that those sorts of games accomplished nothing. Getting your enemies talking was a victory in and of itself. “Though I admit to being confused as to why.”
Hale laughed, a cold and harsh sound, like the polar winds across the glaciers. She pulled a chair out from the table opposite his and sat down. The guards remained two meters away, rifles trained on him.
“And what purpose would that serve, Donnell? To prove how tough and unyielding I am? I think I’ve proven that point.”
She leaned back, propping a boot up on the edge of the table.
I eat there, he thought churlishly, but didn’t say.
“Donnell, tell me something, when you were the head of the Guardian’s armies, did you consider yourself a servant of Sparta, or of Jaimie Brannigan?”
�
�I considered them one and the same,” he said, not willing to be pulled into the word trap. “Jaimie Brannigan always served the needs of the people of Sparta.”
“And now?” she prompted, turning over a hand. “Nothing will bring Jaimie Brannigan back to life. I am the Guardian now, however you may feel about my methods of achieving the position. Are you still loyal to the people of Sparta, or were those empty words?”
“You are not best serving the people of Sparta.” He was probably making a mistake, he knew, but she wasn’t stupid. She’d know if he was simply pretending to go along with her. “You’ve subverted the good of Sparta to the purposes of the Starkad Supremacy.”
“I’m using Starkad as they’re using me,” she argued, waving his objection away. “I’m allowing them to bleed themselves dry hunting down loyalists and holdouts, while I preserve my forces…Sparta’s forces. When I’ve consolidated my power, they’ll turn their attention to Clan Modi, seeking to use their newly-secured alliance with Sparta to expand.”
“Mithra’s horns,” Anders hissed the words, leaning forward. The motion drew a threatening motion from the guards, but he ignored it. “You mean to betray them.”
“They’re the enemy,” she reminded him, not even bothering to deny it. “How can you betray the enemy? I mean to do what your former leader, Jaimie Brannigan lacked the balls or,” she shrugged, “to be generous, the political capital to do. I mean to rebuild the Empire with Sparta at its head. Lord Brannigan thought it was always something for the future, for some nebulous period when we had more troops, more technology, more weapons.” She sniffed her disdain. “A true Guardian needs none of those. They simply need the will. The will to make the sacrifices that need to be made, to take the chance.”
