by Rachel Aukes
“And the one you picked? How’s he working out?”
“Garrett? He’s doing great. He’s young, but he’s a quick learner, and he’s a lot easier to talk to than Eddy.”
Critch chuckled at Birk’s comment about Garrett’s age. Critch, only in his low forties, was still old enough to be Birk’s and Throttle’s father. Eddy didn’t look a month over twenty. Critch trusted Birk, who’d been his right hand on the Honorless, which is the only reason he’d let Birk and Throttle pick their crew when he gave the Scorpia to Birk. He hadn’t expected to find himself on a ship of kids. Not a single one of them was old enough to remember the Uprising, but maybe that was a good thing.
Fewer deaths to haunt their dreams.
When he reached the bridge, its door stood open. He stepped through, and he saw Throttle’s hands flying over the screen in the pilot’s chair—which was also the captain’s chair on this ship… the captain’s wheelchair, to be accurate. Critch had promised to pay for her back surgery, but the CUF had moved in before he’d had the chance. At least Seda had been able to get her a signal blocker to wear, which emitted “white noise” to neutralize the signal from the Myrad’s transmitter. It kept her current spinal implant from going on and off, though he’d heard from Birk that the blocker was glitchy, and that transmissions from a remote control sometimes made it through.
She tossed a quick look over her shoulder. “Glad to see you could join us. Now, buckle in so we can get ourselves somewhere a little more Critch-friendly.”
He took the only free seat, leaving the co-pilot seat open for Birk.
“A place like that exists?” Birk jabbed as he buckled into his seat.
Critch scowled. “Like either of you are better off.”
“I’m not the one at the top of the Most Wanted list,” Throttle said.
“The last I heard, your name’s on the list now, too,” Critch said.
Throttle wrinkled her nose. “What the hell is that smell?”
“Critch,” Birk said.
“You’re taking a full detox when we’re clear of this sector, and those clothes are getting drifted.”
“You won’t hear an argument from me,” Critch said.
Throttle held up her hand, silencing the bridge, and tapped the intercom. “Launch is a ‘go’ from the bridge. Eddy, confirm.”
“Mechanicals are green for launch,” came the engineer’s reply.
“Okay everyone. Launch in thirty. Terra’s heavier gravity will make this a bumpy ride. If you’re not strapped in, you fix your own broken bones. Once we initiate launch, you can guaran-damn-tee the CUF will pick up our heat signature when we break gravity. Let’s hope we can at least clear Terra’s airspace before the CUF sends ships to tickle our fenders. Launch in twenty.”
Critch entered his access code for the systems, and diagnostics lit up the screen. Not disabling his codes was one of a few stipulations he’d had when he’d offered the Scorpia to Birk.
“I’ll have the photon guns armed and ready as soon as we break through the airspace,” Birk said.
“I know you will,” Throttle said without looking up.
Critch noticed she mouthed the words to whatever launch checklist she was reciting in her head. He grinned at her focus.
“Count us down, Birk,” she said quickly.
“Ten…” he said.
The engines growled to life, and Critch could feel the vibrations as both thrusters began to heat the ground below them.
“Eight…”
System beeps echoed across the small bridge as they initiated their launch processes.
“Six…”
The engine noise grew louder. Critch watched the various sequences underway via the screen before him.
“Four… Looks like we’re being hailed by Rebus Station docks.”
“Screw them,” Throttle said.
“Two…”
“Switching to drop tanks,” Throttle announced.
There was a slight lull in the din from the engines.
“Launch.”
The engines roared. G-forces pushed Critch down toward the floor, and he grabbed the armrests for stability. His head lowered, and he pressed it back against his headrest to fight the gravity.
The Scorpia lifted slowly, picking up speed and increasing G-force as it climbed. Minutes passed.
“Uh oh,” Birk said. “The CUF has just notified us that we’re an unauthorized launch.”
“Hold on to the drop tanks, Throttle,” Critch ordered.
“Why?” she asked.
Not taking the time to respond, he swiped through system screens until he reached the weapons systems. “Birk, you take the bow gun, and I’ll take the stern.”
“But, there’s nothing out there yet,” Birk said.
A proximity alarm sounded the instant the G-force gave way to weightlessness.
“Dang it,” Birk muttered. “We have two bogeys—look like patrol ships—coming up at our two-four-zero on an intercept course. They’ll be within no-evade range in less than three minutes.”
Critch could see the incoming ships on his screen as well. Birk had prepped the gun systems. They were up, and all checks had cleared. All Critch had to do was open the bay, and his photon gun was ready to fire.
“You have enough juice for stealth?” Critch asked.
“Of course, but it won’t do much good if they already have a visual.”
“When you drop the tanks, put them between us and them. Then, make sure we can line up for a shot,” Critch said.
“Oh. Now I get what you’re thinking.”
He felt the thunk of large metal arms releasing the drop tanks. The tanks drifted behind the Scorpia as it picked up speed. Critch tapped each tank as a bogey on his screen.
“When we blow the tanks, their tracking systems will be disrupted for only a second or two. Turn on stealth and start to fly a random pattern, and do all that within a second,” Critch said.
“Already on it,” Throttle said. “Just waiting for you to blow them.”
Critch focused on his screen. “Taking the shots… now.” He fired off two photon beams toward the drop tanks. Each shot was an easy hit. They connected with the drop tanks. For a split second there was nothing, then each burst outward as the juice and oxygen burned. Within an atmosphere, the explosions would be fantastic. In space, fire moved more like water, quickly morphing into a fine mist before even more quickly suffocating.
He watched his screen—as it was the only way in zero-g to see if Throttle had changed her flight path. Sure enough, she was good on her word. The Scorpia had veered sharply to the right with smaller changes every few seconds.
“We have enough juice to run in stealth until we make it to the yellow moon,” Throttle said.
“Phobos,” Critch corrected.
“What?” Throttle asked.
“That’s the name of the moon. The other one is Deimos. Twin moons.”
“Thanks for the astronomy lesson,” Throttle said. “Now, can we get back to making sure we don’t have droms snuggling up too close?”
“Looks like they’re splitting up to try to get a visual on us,” Birk said.
“We’re far enough away, we should be safe from visual,” Critch said, knowing that starlight wouldn’t glint off the flat black rilon covering the ship.
“Well, if they keep coming, they’ll soon find out that this Scorpia stings,” Birk said with pizzazz.
Critch raised a brow. “How long have you been saving up that little pun?”
“He hasn’t been saving it. He uses it on just about every flight,” Throttle answered drily.
Critch turned back to the scanners. “They’ll be sending more ships. The faster you can jump, the safer we’ll be.”
“We have to meet up with the others first,” Throttle said.
“What others?”
“The Night Velvet, the Delilah, and the Ocelot are all waiting at the yellow—Phobos—for us. We’ll jump together.”
“What’s your jump plan?” Critch asked.
Throttle shrugged. “We’ll head to Darios and help out with Operation Silent Night. Everything’s riding on that mission now.”
“Not everything,” Critch said. “I have an idea that will either pull the odds in our favor or bring hellfire down upon us. We’ll work out the plans on the way. Plus, we’ll need Seda’s help on this job. Take us one jump to sector 863-A-2.”
She frowned. “But that sector takes us away from the fringe and toward—” Her eyes widened. “You think we can take on the CUF on its own turf?”
“They don’t expect us to attack them. We need to mix things up a bit.”
“That’s your plan?” Birk whistled. “That makes the Coastal Run look like a Sunday drive.”
“I’m still working out the details,” Critch said. “We won’t need four specters for this mission. You can send Lou and Jake to Darios. The Ocelot’s crew has done a job like this before; let Miko know that he’ll follow us on the jump.” He paused. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard any word from the Honorless?”
Birk shook his head with a somber expression. “Think the CUF took it out?”
“Not a chance. Something like that would’ve made the news.” He took a breath to keep the anger at bay. “Gabe took it.”
“Dang. That’s low,” Birk drawled out.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get her back,” Critch said. A blip on his scanner showed a patrol ship had reached the edge of their area before disappearing again. “Now, get us up to the Ocelot and jump before the droms catch up to us.”
“I’m on it,” Throttle said.
“Good thing we’ve got all the stuff meant for Devil Town. Something tells me we’ll need it,” Birk said, and then he grinned. “Using it on a citizen world would be so much more fun.”
Critch unbuckled and walked over to Birk’s station. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Birk pulled up an inventory file and scrolled through the list.
A smile crept up Critch’s face. “It’s a start.”
Seven
Chaos Management
New Sol, Darios
Reyne stood in the command room of the small slingshot launchpad in Thunder Canyon. The launchpad was on the opposite side of Darios from Sol Base, making landings and launches possible without the CUF being the wiser… at least for the time being. The warship sitting above Sol Base was currently focusing all its resources on that colony except for patrol passes covering a five-hundred-mile radius from the colony twice per day.
With the passes taking place like clockwork, it was easy to schedule landings and takeoffs. However, all the CUF had to do was change up its timing and everything Reyne was coordinating would be at risk.
Several ships could come in at once, since they were landing on the canyon floor rather than within a space dock. Each ship would be unloaded of its cargo of soldiers and munitions, tugged to the launchpad, loaded with food, and launched.
Yesterday, when the 3D printer arrived on the Lady Lilith, all other transports were put on hold for the larger ship, to minimize any risk to the printer… to Hatha’s printer. The Lilith currently sat under camouflage nets made of philoseed leaves. Next to her sat Reyne’s ship, the Gryphon, where Reyne would likely find his ship’s mechanic, Boden, on board, even though it needed no work. Boden was in one of his quiet moods after giving up his Sweet Soy addiction for the fourth time. Reyne suspected it wouldn’t be the last time.
Sixx was outside, currently in charge of hand-to-hand combat training. Many torrents were simply colonists who’d lost their homes and livelihoods. They ranged in age from twenty to seventy. There were few younger, since the Collective required a two-year service agreement for all colonists upon reaching the age of eighteen. The few younger torrents were colonists deemed unsuitable for service, either due to a physical or mental disability. Where the Collective saw weakness, Reyne saw opportunity. His daughter, Throttle, had been excluded from service because she was a paraplegic. Yet, she had become one of the finest pilots he’d ever seen. There was James, the autistic nineteen-year-old sitting in a makeshift cubicle in the corner of Reyne’s command center, who tracked the inventories so precisely that there’d yet to be a discrepancy.
The comm screen before Reyne chimed. He accepted the call and took a seat.
Seda’s face appeared on the screen.
“You had me worried,” Reyne said. “You were supposed to call over three hours ago.”
A couple seconds lagged before Seda spoke. Interplanetary comms suffered lags, especially as the number of sectors between the two people increased.
“I just got off a comm with Critch,” the Terran businessman said. “Throttle picked him up yesterday, and they’re safe.”
“Good,” Reyne said. “Are they headed here now?”
“No. We think we have a plan to buy you the time you need to finish preparing for Silent Night.”
Reyne’s brows rose in surprise. “Is this one of Critch’s plans?”
Seda nodded. “It is.”
“Don’t tell me he’s dragged Throttle into his scheming.”
“He has.”
Reyne scowled. “I already don’t like the sound of it.”
The CUF was celebrating a preeminent victory over the torrents after taking Rebus Station and Devil Town. With Ice Port bombed to hell and the CUF already in control of Sol Base, the torrent leaders worried the CUF would change its game from invading colonies to hunting down the remaining torrents. In response, Vym had led the sleight of hand of displaying an abundance of traffic in and out of the Space Coast. The ploy was working. The CUF disliked flying into the asteroid belt, since the rocks battered their larger ships. Instead, they’d stationed patrols to monitor movement, believing they were keeping tabs on the rebellion.
As sure as vigs stank, they’d figure out that the torrents weren’t running. Reyne doubted he had a month to prep for the mission to reclaim Sol Base, dubbed Operation Silent Night. He’d been crunching numbers and talking with Seda and Vym every day to discuss the schedules and possible backup plans. To hear they had something that could take some of the pressure off relieved him. Many deaths could be prevented.
Reyne sighed. “All right. Tell me about it.”
“They’re heading to Myr…”
By the time Seda finished sharing everything he knew, Reyne’s blood boiled with anger. Critch was on a suicide run, and he was taking Throttle with him.
“That is the worst plan I’ve ever heard,” Reyne said.
“That’s what you say about every plan,” Seda said before he shrugged. “We can turn the war back to our favor by taking Sol Base, but if Critch’s plan works, we give the Collective something to fear.”
“I wish I had your level of confidence, but I’ve seen too many operations go sideways when the action starts,” Reyne said.
“I’m counting on your trust more so than your optimism, Aramis. Silent Night is the most important mission in the war. If we can’t reclaim Sol Base, then Parliament will win, and all our heads will be on pikes.”
“It’s not my head I’m worried about,” Reyne said. “It’s Throttle’s head and the head of every other colonist’s kid out there.”
“Have faith,” Seda said. “When I blew my plants, the Collective’s financial foundation cracked. When we cut off their food supplies from Darios, the Collective will crumble practically overnight. They won’t be forced to negotiate; they’ll be forced to surrender.”
Seda looked offscreen for a moment before turning back to Reyne. “Looks like I need to get on another comm. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Same scheduled time?”
“Let’s plan on it,” Seda said, which meant he’d likely be at least an hour late.
Reyne couldn’t blame Seda for his tardiness. The man was hiding on an asteroid that was serving as the central communications and coordination hub for the entire torrent movement.
A chime sounded and Reyne looked down. He cu
t the connection with Seda and tapped his wrist comm. Sixx’s visage came into view.
“What’s up?” Reyne asked.
“We’ve got another tussle out here at Warehouse Three. Seems that a Spaten expected a bit more variety than cavote cakes now that he’s on Darios, and a Darion seemed to think he’s being rather ungrateful, being a ‘guest’ and all.”
“I’ll be right there,” Reyne said and headed for the door. On the way out, he typed a quick message to Tully, Hatha’s head of security, who was currently in the area. The infighting and arguments were increasing every day. The torrents were arriving hungry and ready for action. The Darions had spent months volunteering their time and energy to build the launchpad, and just when they thought they’d get a break, they were asked to work double shifts—which meant even more time away from their fields.
Both groups of colonists were scraping by. Both craved independence, and both were going to drive Reyne crazy.
Eight
Shattered Ice
Above Ice Port, Playa
Barrett Anders dreaded answering the comm. Every conversation with his commanding officer left him even more frustrated about his current situation. He hadn’t complained when he’d been ordered to his destroyer—the Caliban—to stand watch over the ghost town of Ice Port. After the fateful day at Parliament, he’d known he’d be shoved off to some sector where he could cause little damage to Senator Heid’s war-making plans.
Playa, the planet farthest from the Collective’s pair of citizen worlds, was a natural choice. Barrett’s predecessor, Corps General Michel Ausyar, had bombed the planet’s fringe station and space docks into oblivion in an attempt to quell the fringe riots, though Barrett suspected there’d been more to it than that.
After the bombing, the only life believed to remain on the planet was the scattered colonies of stretches, unnaturally tall humans who’d lived in low-g for too long to be able to survive anywhere else.
