Книга: Deathangel
Deathangel
Book Ten of The Omega War
By
Kevin Ikenberry
PUBLISHED BY: Seventh Seal Press
Copyright © 2019 Kevin Ikenberry
All Rights Reserved
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License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it wasn’t purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
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Cover Art by Ricky Ryan
Cover Design by Brenda Mihalko
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For My Girls.
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
About Kevin Ikenberry
Titles by Kevin Ikenberry
Connect with Kevin Ikenberry Online
Connect with Seventh Seal Press
Excerpt from Super-Sync
Excerpt from Book One of the Earth Song Cycle
Excerpt from Book One of The Psyche of War
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Chapter One
Bu’urb
Cesa Region
Through a constant haze of medication and pain, anger fueled Chinayl. Trapped in her healing cocoon on the orders of her physicians, the MinSha warrior seethed in agony. Wounded on Victoria Bravo by the swift blade of Peacemaker Jessica Francis, Chinayl escaped into exile with only her life and a few precious advisers. Shamed at the failure of her forces to eradicate Lovell City, and powerless to defend herself from General Peepo’s legendary ire, Chinayl fled to the hidden system the MinSha abandoned more than three hundred years before. This safe haven, she believed, would keep her alive until she could once again lead her army into battle. As her most ardent allies within the colonies continued to support her, new forces arrived daily at her small base. What they found was hardly a haven.
The planet Dulek was an orange and red gas giant eerily reminiscent of Jupiter in the human Sol system. Wide, turbulent bands of storms dominated the planet and reached thousands of kilometers toward the planet’s exosphere. At the very tops of the storms, Chinayl placed her ships, with minimal crews, to wait for the full complement of promised forces. A few hundred MinSha had already arrived, along with two mercenary companies of Cochkala in unregistered ships. Combined with her lone gunnery frigate, she would soon command a force 10,000 strong. Her small base on the nearby moon would not house that many for long.
Shrouded in thick, noxious clouds, the large moon was barren, lifeless, and constantly pounded by ten thousand-kilometer-wide storms. A millenia of flowing storm waters cut immense caverns in the soft rock and formed expansive sinkholes. In the bottom of a hole more than eight hundred kilometers across, Chinayl collected her forces in secrecy. To regain her honor, and the trust of the Mercenary Guild, her mission required completion at the earliest opportunity. In less than three Earth weeks, she could deploy her forces against the solitary target that had withstood her earlier wrath and would fall before her forces in defeat.
Victoria Bravo.
Chinayl writhed as the pain in her thorax returned. The wound was small, but the strike between her armor’s plating penetrated her carapace enough to puncture a major arterial connection. Without intensive surgery, she had only months to live. There were no capable medical nanites in her sparse inventory of stores. They would have provided a temporary repair, but there were none of the type she needed. Her gathering forces came only with fuel, ammunition, and the materiel of warfare. Surgery to repair the damage, only fully reversible by transplant, required state-of-the-art facilities on a MinSha homeworld. Without the full backing of the Mercenary Guild, available only should she clear humanity from Victoria Bravo, and without whatever pity Peepo could spare, there was no returning home. Victoria Bravo grew from target of opportunity to obsession with every passing moment. Conquest of the Human colony ensured her own survival.
Outside her translucent cocoon, filled with the rich, humid atmosphere of a MinSha homeworld, Chinayl’s advisors and field commanders studied Victoria Bravo and the latest intelligence. She could hear them as if they were at a distance. The fog of medication to counteract the pain and keep her blood flowing properly forbid her constant engagement in their deliberations. As such, she pieced together parts of their plans. Most of it she approved of. But other things would require her attention soon. She glanced at the timer mounted to the cocoon’s wall.
171.35 hours remaining.
Her physician assured her that, with the healing cocoon’s capabilities and the right medication mixture, she would be ready to take the field, provided she rested. Doing so took every ounce of self-discipline she possessed. Given her warrior blood, it proved difficult, and sleep often would not come. She lay inside the cocoon half-conscious, thinking about how to defeat the Humans at Victoria Bravo and how she could track down and kill Jessica Francis. The Peacemaker wouldn’t be hard to find, but the possibility she would be heavily guarded and protected by Enforcers meant Chinayl’s meager forces couldn’t entertain that possibility without risking a full-fledged conflict with the Peacemaker Guild. While that possibility had some merit, and could certainly help restore her honor, Chinayl wanted a far more personal revenge. If she couldn’t get to Jessica Francis, Chinayl could get to the one man in the galaxy the Peacemaker cared for—her father.
James Edward Francis, known as “Snowman” to the Mercenary Guild, was missing. The president and chief executive officer of Intergalactic Haulers, a respected mercenary outfit disguised as a successful long-distance shipping corporation, had disappeared after the trap sprung on his forces at Shaw Outpost failed to snare him. He’d always been slippery. Peepo, herself, acknowledged admiring the man, one of only a few Humans of all the ones she’d known and interacted with over the decades. The Peacemaker Guild, though, also had a keen interest in finding him. Scouring the GalNet feeds, her advisers confirmed that the Peacemaker Guild had dispatched a small team to find Snowman. The Humans were collecting supplies on Araf and would soon head out to find him. When they did, Chinayl would know. She’d dispatched a Cochkala reconnaissance team to Araf. They’d scout out the team, report intelligence, and when called upon, would follow the team. When the Victoria Bravo mission had been completed fully, she would turn her attention to Snowman. Jessica Francis would feel pain and, while it paled in comparison to actually killing the Human Peacemaker outright, it was a revenge Chinayl thought worthy and just.
An alarm in the outer chamber sounded. Chinayl’s numbed mind snapped to full attention. Reaching for the communications panel, she spoke to her advisors. “Status report.”
“Outer perimeter alarm, General,” Colonel Regaa, her acting operational commander, replied instantly. “There is a storm front hitting that sector of the perimeter. Winds are in excess of one hundred and eight kilometers per hour. We’ve had a similar failure in the security pickets before. Once the wind calms, we’ll dispatch a team to repair it.”
Chinayl’s head shook from side-to-side. While a storm could certainly damage the security picket system, the timing of a storm front with less than catastrophic winds and the sensor failure seemed convenient. “No. Investigate it immediately. Never hesitate to secure our forces, Regaa.”
“Yes, General,” Regaa replied. Chinayl watched the tall, strong warrior giving orders exactly as a MinSha deputy should do. Chinayl would not allow herself to relax and be pleased. Something was wrong. The timing was off. The last of her forces were no more than two days out. Her final logistical packages were due in ten days, and the mission would launch soon thereafter. The possibility, however remote, that the time lag had given an adversary an opportunity to attack reared its proverbial head. While likely the picket had failed in the powerful storms, she could not accept the risk involved. Despite the risk to her forces, a possible breach required an immediate, forceful response.
“Report, Regaa.”
The acting commander turned to her cocoon. “I’ve dispatched two squads with heavy weapons to the crater’s edge. Given the weather threat, they are taking a dropship. Launch is in one hundred seconds, and time to target will be three minutes and forty seconds, General.”
Chinayl nodded, and her antennae waggled in pride. “Well done, Regaa.”
“Thank you, General.” Regaa turned back to the command console.
Chinayl closed her crimson eyes for a moment and the fog momentarily returned, as it tended to do. Her moments of full consciousness came and went. As troubling as they were at first, Chinayl understood that the medications and healing cocoon were doing their jobs. There was little point in resisting the medication. She would simply close her eyes and wait for the fog to clear in a moment or two. A few seconds passed, she was sure, when a warbling buzzer sounded. Regaa’s voice was louder than normal, but not hysterical. She was too professional for such behavior. There was concern in the acting commander’s voice.
“Thirty-two Fall, Thirty-two Fall. Are you receiving?”
Chinayl struggled to listen through the communications panel. There was continuous static over the open channel. Regaa called again twenty seconds later and received the same response.
“Thirty-two Fall, Command. Are you receiving this transmission?” Regaa released the transmit button and shook her head disgustedly. “This godsdamned planet. The acid rain attenuates the radio signals at the far markers to the point where we can’t talk to them, General. We have their positioning data from our nano grid on orbit, but that’s it.”
Chinayl pushed herself into more of a sitting position and met the commander’s eyes through the slightly opaque cocoon. “No communications?”
“Not voice, General. Data feeds are usually stable, but we’ve seen them distort and corrupt occasionally. The position beacon, though, is not affected by the atmosphere.” Regaa shrugged. “Through the positioning data, we have the capability to message them. If necessary, we can contact them. I am not worried about their present situation, General. It replicates what we’ve seen in these situations over the last month.”
Chinayl nodded. “Maintain positioning lock.”
“Autostabilized, General.” Regaa replied without taking her eyes off the Tri-V screen in front of her station. “Disruption on data feeds now.”
There was a shrill beep.
“Loss of signal on Thirty-two Fall,” one of the operators out of Chinayl’s view called. She could not place the voice. Being in the damned cocoon made leadership difficult. Five seconds passed. Ten seconds passed. Chinayl stared at the small timing display and was about to speak when another beep sounded. “Signal acquisition from Thirty-two Fall. Systems check is nominal.”
“Are they moving?” Regaa asked the operator.
“Negative. Showing position remaining fixed at the outer marker.”
Regaa’s antennae bounced. “Storm report?”
“Sustained winds at the site have dropped. Precipitation is much stronger than observed and far above normal,” the controller replied. “The sensor picket is back online. Repairs have been completed.”
Heavy acidic rains would make the signals inoperable. Chinayl leaned forward in a sudden surge of strength as her gut coiled in on itself. “Recall them, Regaa. Use the imbedded message capability—Emergency Classification Alpha. Get them back here, now.”
Regaa turned and looked at her for a moment. Chinayl wondered for a split second if the young commander would disobey orders, but the answer came quickly. “Yes, General. Recalling Thirty-two Fall at this time.”
There was a whirlwind of activity in the small control room, but it became clear the security detail had been recalled, and the dropship was moving back toward the sinkhole command center. The palpable tension in the room dissipated as the dropship accelerated ahead of the storm front and entered an approach pattern that, while standard, was off by ninety degrees. Chinayl watched the displays carefully.
“Thirty-two Fall, I show you off pattern. Please advise.” Regaa spotted the deviation. She turned to her controllers. “Data feed?”
“Communications down and navigation systems show signs of acid damage. Thirty-two Fall has sustained significant storm damage—pattern consistent with large, frozen precipitation in the three to six-centimeter range.”
Chinayl relaxed slightly. The dropship swung immediately to the proper pattern and resumed its approach. She heard Regaa order ground crews to their stations as a precaution. A ship out of communications, while not necessarily in danger of loss, still constituted an emergency situation. Recovering the vehicle and its crew safely was paramount to continued success. If anything, it gave the newly assembled forces a chance to train. Despite the assurances her experience whispered, Chinayl could not rest. Something felt wrong.
“Any other contacts, Regaa?” she asked.
“Negative, General. Nothing from orbitals, nothing from near space,” Regaa replied. Her antennae twitched in anticipation. “Is there something wrong?”
Chinayl did not respond. Instead, her eyes followed the approaching dropship on the radar screen. The ship slowed, hovered, and settled onto its pad three hundred meters from the control center.
“Ground crews report Thirty-two Fall recovered successfully,” a controller called.
“Stand down pad operations and secure equipment under weather protocols,” Regaa ordered. Chinayl noted her demeanor. Her decision to appoint the young officer to acting commander continued to pay off. MinSha warriors were deadlier than almost any other species in the galaxy, yet only a few possessed the mental acuity to step into a command role. Foresight and planning were not a warrior’s typical strength. MinSha warriors were weapons designed to be aimed and launched at an enemy with the expectation of success. Like Regaa, some showed promise. On the battlefield, such promise would come in handy, yet Chinayl watched the young officer and wondered if she could ever trust anyone again. The memory of her most trusted and decorated executive officer turning on her command at Victoria stung.
Will Regaa become another Chee under fire?
Chinayl pushed the thought away. She could worry about trust and leadership when the physician said she could get out of the healing cocoon. Worrying made her tired and being tired brought the fog of medication and sleep. Chinayl sagged back against her cushions and watched Regaa and her team going about their business. Chinayl snapped off the communications panel and lay back as fatigue settled over her. For a brief moment, she thought crazily about her home hive a hundred light years away as she faded off to—
WHUMP!
In a microsecond, Chinayl came fully awake and recognized the sound of a deliberate explosion. Her antennae picked up the distinct vibration of weapons fire at a distance. Sitting upright in the tight space, she saw Regaa giving orders and the small collection of soldiers in the command center grabbing weapons and charging down the tight passageway. She stabbed the communications panel with a foreclaw.
“Report!”
Regaa turned. “Intruder alert, General. No confirmed sighting. Two small explosions in the landing bay near where Thirty-two Fall returned. One alarm system tripped on the opposite side of the compound. We have a weather warning on the surface—the storm is worse than anything we’ve seen on this moon. Sensor platforms are all degraded but within performance tolerance.”
The perfect time for an attack.
“Alert all forces and prepare to defend the base.”
Regaa nodded. “My apologies, General. The first alert was seven minutes ago. We have control of the situation.”
Seven minutes? Damn these accursed medicines!
Chinayl struggled further upright, wincing from the pain in the left side of her thorax as it took her breath away. Blue anger flooded her vision, and she fought against the pain and reached for the inner release handle. Laser fire filled the room outside—multiple bright red blasts tore through the command center. Regaa staggered backward, reaching for a weapon, and fell to the ground. Chinayl watched the young officer’s jaw work in shock. Frozen, her foreclaws on the cocoon’s release handles, Chinayl stared into the room. Gray tendrils of smoke obscured part of it, but she clearly saw a large, dark figure step inside. As it came closer, stepping silently around the central command console, she recognized the hulking shape as an Equiri carrying a very large rifle. The figure stepped closer to the cocoon, and the hulking shape stared at her for a long moment before reaching down and ripping the exterior release handle off. As the healing cocoon opened, warm, moist air surrounded her, and the haze of vaporized medication dissipated.
The Equiri, its coat black as coal and its ebony eyes gleaming with rage, snorted and lowered the rifle’s barrel toward the ground. Larger than most Equiri, the dark figure’s maw curled in an approximation of a smile. It spoke with a deep, raspy voice that caused a chill to ripple through Chinayl’s antennae even through the translation pendant around its neck.
“Chinayl.”
The MinSha general’s mouth fell open. What little saliva she possessed evaporated in a matter of seconds. She spoke softly. “You.”
“Yes,” the Equiri replied. “You know why I am here? Why I’ve sought you out?”
There weren’t many options. “I will match or exceed the offer on my head.”
The Equiri laughed. “You do not have access to the funds or the credits to exceed what the Guild Master generously offered for your death.”
Chinayl closed her mouth. “Peepo ordered this?”
“She requested it. You proved harder to find than I anticipated. Following your forces, though, proved easy. Logistics are always a clue to operational intent.” The Equiri adjusted its grip on the large rifle. “But given the time and resources, I can find anything for a price.”
Chinayl nodded. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“I’ve been gone for far too long to believe such a statement, Chinayl.” The Equiri laughed again. “The only reputation I have is measured by the results of my actions. You are no different.”
“But I am,” Chinayl blurted. “This force I’ve created is yours if you spare my life.”
“What would I do with a force?” The dark figure laughed.
“Destroy the Peacemaker Guild. They are in hiding. If there is anyone in the galaxy capable of finding them, it’s you.” Chinayl spoke slowly. “With my forces, at your bidding, there would be no stopping you.”
The Equiri looked away for a moment, considering. “Your offer is generous, Chinayl. But I am afraid there is nothing you can do to avoid your death.”
Behind the massive figure, she saw Regaa stir. The acting commander rolled silently to her abdomen and placed her foreclaws on the ground, as if to spring at the Equiri. Chinayl let an antenna dip in warning, and her subordinate froze in place. To surprise the Equiri, they needed to stall for time and give the other security forces the opportunity to arrive. Regaa had to be thinking the same thing.
“I will complete the mission given to me,” Chinayl said quickly. “Victoria Bravo will fall. Did you not see my report? There was treason within the ranks of my subordinates. Victoria did not fall because—”
The Equiri raised a large forehand. “Your mission failed because you failed to lead it.”
“What do you know of leadership?” Chinayl blurted, suddenly enraged. “How dare you insult me?”
“You failed, Chinayl. Failure has a cost.”
He brought the rifle up and centered it on her thorax. Chinayl changed her tack. Regaa remained frozen in place, her antennae bobbing in doubt. “The Peacemakers deserve to fall for what they did to you. You should never have—”
The figure pulled the trigger once. Chinayl felt the heat of the laser penetrate her unprotected carapace. Numbness spread from the wound and detached her senses. She looked down at the small hole, a precision laser fired from a large weapon, and back up at the Equiri. The wound wasn’t immediately fatal.
Why?
“You could have had so much more,” Chinayl whispered. “You never...”
The Equiri whinnied in laughter. “You realize I will take what is yours along with the million credits for your head, don’t you, General?”
The spoils of war. Chinayl nodded. Her vision tunneled, shrinking as her life force faded. “I understand. I thought you might consider letting me live.”
“You failed, General. You failed your Guild, and you failed General Peepo. That is why I am here—to take that life you crave so desperately. Before you die, General,” the Equiri paused for a moment and stared a hole through her, “what were your true intentions? Another half-hearted run through the outer rim?”
Chinayl ground her lower jaw. “Victoria Bravo, first. Eradicate the Human colonies there and appease Peepo. I still have a valid contract to execute. If I do, perhaps I will retain my seat on the Council.”
“You said first. What did you mean?”
Chinayl chittered a sound resembling a short, barking laugh. “The Peacemaker Guild is after James Francis and Intergalactic Haulers. They’ve dispatched a small team to find him. I have them under observation on Araf. Victory Twelve arrived some time ago, and if things went according to plan, the bounty hunter hired by the Peacemakers and her team have also arrived to prepare for their mission. When they move, we will follow them. They want Snowman? They’ll have to come through the Mercenary Guild to get him. We will take whatever he has and earn Peepo’s trust again.”
“You are far beyond regaining trust, Chinayl.” The Equiri smiled, his large front teeth exposed for the first time. The disgraced Enforcer, once the best of the Peacemakers, centered the rifle’s barrel on her head. “Your forces are mine, and your death satisfies your Guild’s wishes.”
“Honored Kr’et’Socae, please. There has to be a—”
The Equiri drew a second weapon, a large laser pistol, from the holster on his left thigh. Without looking he leveled it at Regaa. “What are your intentions, commander?”
Regaa stood slowly. Her voice was low. “What are your orders, sir?”
Kr’et’Socae turned back to Chinayl. “It appears I have everything I need now, Chinayl. And so shall you.”
Chinayl saw a brief flash of light, and that was all.
* * * * *
Chapter Two
D’nart Spaceport
Araf
A spread of CASPers and tanks stalled in their attack, and a thousand feral Oogar, a seething mass of teeth, claws, and purple fur, descended upon them. Tara Mason used the external camera from Deathangel 25 to study the oncoming threat and the stalled attack simulation. Eight mechas, the Combat Assault Suit Personal (CASPer) Mk 7 heavy weapons variants, and an armored platoon of four tanks comprised her force. Ahead of them, in the slightly pixelated line of trees, were the Oogar. The giant, purple grizzly bears on acid gathered their forces for another charge. In her earpiece, Tara could almost hear their ungodly screaming as they attacked in one immense wave.
Without taking her eyes off the feral mass, Tara switched her command and control systems to active. Her intent—at least the one she’d briefed to the team—where she’d said she’d stay out of the simulation and see how they responded, appeared ready to be thrown out. The company frequency came alive with frustrated chatter and ominous warnings. Forcing herself not to act, Tara chewed on her lower lip and did the one thing a commander never wanted to do. She waited. Her CASPer sat five hundred meters behind the frozen line of friendly vehicles. Away from the immediate threat, Tara listened to the frequency and let her eyes wander over the forces under the tentative command of Jackson Rains. The Peacemaker’s arguing over tactical employment of CASPers and tanks had grown so tiresome Tara decided to put him in command of the free-for-all simulation to see if he knew what he was talking about or if he’d finally learn to shut up and remember he wasn’t a tactical soldier.
“Lucille? Standard report package on Rains and Bukk. I want to see who engages the targets with greater efficiency.”
<<I believe you will not be surprised by the preliminary data, Tara.>>
Tara laughed. “Probably not.”
<<Your exercise has a low chance of success. Given the parameters of the mission, the team will likely fail again and your attempt to get your point across to Peacemaker Rains may prove even more difficult when he does,>> Lucille replied. <<His tendency to argue is not conducive to leadership.>>
Tell me something I don’t know. Tara nodded to herself but did not reply. Lucille, her near-sentient assistant, served many purposes, from CASPer copilot to friend. Together, they led the nascent Force 25. Yet their leadership hadn’t resulted in an actual departure from Araf. The Peacemaker Guild hadn’t mandated a departure date for their mission, and while they’d been logistically ready for more than two weeks, the unit clearly had some challenges. Without a coherent methodology for combat operations, they’d find way too many opportunities to do exactly what the simulated Oogar mission would prove and find a quick death. In a simulation, death was a blank screen and sudden silence. The galaxy wasn’t generally so accommodating.
Given the situation on Earth, which was besieged by Peepo and the Mercenary Guild, there were few places in the galaxy where Humans could come and go without hindrance. Araf was one of those worlds. Part of that had been the result of Jessica Francis’ mission to sort out their differences and put down two mercenary companies. Tara had been on that mission, but she’d not managed to get out from under the first Human Peacemaker’s considerable shadow.
With two more of the galaxy’s constables in her care, and technically under her command, she’d experienced nothing but headaches for the last month. Barely a week after they’d arrived, Peacemakers Rains and Vannix had affected their overall morale. One was definitely positive and the other was no good at all.
“Hey! Bukk! I told you to bound forward!” Rains called over the company frequency. “Get your ass in gear!”
Tara kept her mouth shut by clamping down her teeth on her lower lip. Bukk, to his credit, was far less diplomatic. “Red One, you are out of position. If I bound forward now, the CASPers under my command die within three hundred meters of our positions. You have to take the high ground.”
The objective Bukk meant was in the shallow valley. Tara saw, at her twelve o’clock, a promontory of rock no more than twenty meters higher than the valley floor. Rains and his tanks were a good two hundred meters away and stuck in what Tara called “no-go” terrain. The loose, wet clay snagged tracks and road wheels mercilessly. Rains, despite having seen this happen in five previous simulations, pushed his forces along the shortest path to the high ground. He’d believed a higher transition speed would be enough of an equalizer to allow mission success. He’d bet wrong, and all four tanks were stuck in the worst possible position to support operations.
“White One, I’m mired. You have to bound forward and set a perimeter defense around us,” Rains called. “We can hold off the Oogar with a coordinated defense.”
Tara curled one side of her mouth under appreciatively. Maybe the young Peacemaker was right. From a tactical perspective, they could hold off the Oogar. However, without the ability to recover their vehicles, any delay would merely postpone the inevitable. They’d run out of ammunition before they managed to kill all of the attacking Oogar.
“Understand, Red One. A bound forward leaves the left flank open.” Bukk was on the ball, as usual. From his position in command of a platoon of CASPers, the hole in the collective defense was wide enough to allow hundreds of feral Oogars to rush into position in minutes. The ant-like Altar would never fit in a mecha, but he commanded infantry with the skill of a professional soldier.
“Red One, this is Blue One,” Vannix called. The Veetanho Peacemaker was, in reality, too small to fit into a CASPer, but she’d proven more than capable of understanding how a mobilized infantry force could fight effectively. “I’ll swing two CASPers your way as you bound to close off the hole. We’ll pivot and maintain suppressive fire.”
Impressed, Tara caught herself nodding. It could work.
“Just do it, Blue One. Get your ass moving, Bukk,” Rains replied.
<<I detect strong vocal stress patterns,>> Lucille chimed.
“Understand, Lucille. Get ready to kill him off,” Tara said.
<<You intended to let him fail, Tara.>>
“There’s no bigger failure than dying when you should have done everything possible to succeed.”
<<There’s still a half dozen variables in play. Let the mission continue.>>
Tara decided that was fair. Rains, like any leader, was trying to make the best of a bad situation. She’d let it play out. The main effort of the Oogar attack, four hundred heavily armored infantry forces, was nearly into attack position. It could wait.
“You’re right, Lucille. Let it play. But speed up the Oogar infantry’s approach by a minute or so.”
<<Changing the simulation, at your whim, is not recommended. However, the change will require Rains to adjust his plan mid-movement. Changes locked. Restoring some control to the tanks. Movement will be less than one meter per second.>>
Tara smiled. Before she could reply, Bukk engaged his CASPer’s jumpjets. Four Mk 7 suits jumped across the company’s position toward the higher ground. The Oogar, traditionally unable to counter such movements, hesitated at the sight of four mechas taking flight.
“Blue one, moving!” Vannix called. Two of her CASPers moved forward and closed off the positions Bukk’s forces had vacated. The move was almost flawless.
<<Committing Oogar first wave at the promontory.>>
“Give me a feed into Bukk’s see-two fields.”
Lucille opened a small window on Tara’s display allowing her to see what Bukk saw and how he aligned the four CASPers under his command. Bukk only piloted one, while the other three acted as non-playing characters that Lucille monitored and played as necessary. If they saw combat, Bukk wouldn’t be able to mount a tank without significant individual armor nor would he fit inside anything smaller than a dropship.
Jackson Rains was young and brash, but capable. Vannix, befitting a Veetanho Peacemaker, was a tactical genius whom Tara found herself trusting more than she should, given the situation on Earth. Bukk, the Altar tactical specialist, had served with Jessica Francis and her father, albeit briefly. He knew more about how other races fought than anyone Tara had ever met. Together, they were a decent team. A start, really. She knew they needed to add to their numbers, yet they did not possess enough hardware or materiel for additional forces. Hardware would be easier to find, but they’d have to recruit more forces in the coming weeks, before undertaking their mission in earnest. The four of them couldn’t do this alone. Finding Jessica’s father was the primary mission, and as much as Tara wanted to believe they could do it on their own, she knew better. The team couldn’t find Snowman built as it was.
Especially if Jackson Rains continued to sacrifice them at will.
<<The Oogar have attacked. I’ve adjusted their main effort to hit precisely in the center of Rains’ position.>>
In the cockpit, Tara crossed her arms and watched as the situation around Rains and his tanks imploded in seconds. Bukk and Vannix closed in, moving their forces like the jaws of a vise, trying to channel and contain the Oogar in a tight field of fire between them. As they did, Rains and his tanks coiled on each other with their guntubes pointed outward. Tara’s eyebrows shot up. Rains had finally learned what tankers did when confronted with infantry forces. With the tanks positioned in a circle, their gun tubes out, they could hold out until their ammunition was exhausted. The simulated, feral Oogar did not possess enough artillery to target and reduce a group of tanks to a slag pile. It was a good move that was immediately spoiled.
“Final perimeter fire!” Rains called. The non-playing character tanks responded immediately and spewed automatic weapons fire, including their electromagnetically charged main guns, at everything around them. In seconds, CASPers on both sides of the Oogar sustained heavy damage. Two dropped off the simulation entirely, their hulls collapsing into the simulated terrain, billowing thick white smoke.
“What are you doing! Red One cease—” Vannix called. The icon for her CASPer winked out. Three seconds later, Bukk’s icon disappeared as well.
“What is he doing?” Tara said aloud. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
<<The Oogar are retreating. Peacemaker Rains, according to the conditions set for the simulation, has won the field.>>
“How many friendly casualties?”
<<Eighty percent of the CASPers are not mission capable. In a real situation, their pilots would all be dead.>>
Dammit.
“End the simulation, Lucille.”
<<Sim terminated. You have an open channel, Commander.>>
Tara pressed the transit button. “Force 25, stand to outside your vehicles right now.”
As she went through the shutdown checklist by memory, she heard voices in the bay outside. Any semblance of reason and logic went out the window as the collective volume rose higher and higher. Rains was out of his CASPer, charging toward Bukk’s ground-mounted station. By the time Tara swung Deathangel 25’s cockpit door up, Rains and Bukk were nearly swinging at each other. For a moment, she considered letting them fight. Rains had it coming.
Tara climbed up in her seat, removing her legs gingerly before stepping over the front console and out of the CASPer’s open cockpit. She sucked in a breath and clenched her diaphragm like she’d learned at CASPer school. There was no substitute for a good command voice.
“Enough!”
* * *
Tara vaulted down from Deathangel 25 and stomped across the bay floor. Victory Twelve’s main hangar bay was fitted with one tank and three CASPers, including hers. The mechas were reconstituted and refitted Angels from their previous mission on Araf. Without Xander Alison and his team’s ability to find parts, they would have been nothing more than hangar queens used for spare parts. Now, they could fight. The rest of the team could fight too, but more often, they fought with each other.
“I told you to move!” Rains bowed his chest at Bukk. The Altar towered over the latest Human Peacemaker, his antennae wiggling in a mixture of frustration and abject rage. “You were out of position!”
“You are incapable of command,” Bukk replied. “You panicked and killed a sizable percentage of our forces, not to mention you failed to negotiate terrain you knew was suspect.”
“The simulation’s conditions changed. I had enough speed to get across that shit, and you know it.” To his credit, Jackson wasn’t backing down. Then again, he wasn’t accepting responsibility either.
“Speed was not a factor, Rains,” Bukk replied. His enunciation was something like the snapping of a twig. “Your failure to see terrain mired your forces. That coil was an inspiration, but it would have taken a miracle to recover. Finishing the day with the bulk of your forces is preferable to dying in place. Tanks are not designed to do what you intended. Your non-playing vehicles simply opened fire. In a real situation, with friendly vehicles nearby, that would not have happened.”
“I won the field, Bukk. That’s better than Tara’s done in the last three sims!”
“Tara never killed anyone with friendly fire, Jackson,” Vannix replied. Her words had the effect Tara had wished them to have. The young Human’s posture changed. His shoulders sagged forward, and the bow in his chest disappeared.
“We won,” he said, but the bluster was gone from his voice.
Tara closed the distance quickly. Bukk and Vannix respectfully squared their shoulders. Rains didn’t bother to look at her. “You won at too great a cost, Jackson. I would rather lose than kill my own forces. Fratricide has no place on Force 25, is that clear?”
“I didn’t mean to.” Rains’ voice was little more than a whisper.
“That doesn’t matter. You won the field, but you effectively wiped out our combat power. We cannot function like that,” Tara said. “Another Oogar assault would have wasted the entire company.”
“It’s a simulation.” Rains looked up at her. “With humans in those cockpits, it would have been a different story, and you know it.”
Tara saw Bukk and Vannix look away from the conversation. Their uncomfortable shuffle in place turned Tara’s stomach into a cold ball of lead. “Humans would have realized they shouldn’t be firing in the general direction of their friends. They would have had the trigger discipline to stop firing. Like Bukk and Vannix, they would have known better. I cannot say the same for you, Peacemaker Rains.”
“Whatever, Tara.” Rains snorted. He smirked, and a flash of teeth appeared through his lips. “A Peacemaker honors the threat.”
“Not like that, they don’t,” Tara replied. She wanted to add something about him knowing better but decided against it. There was a time for learning, and it never came with embarrassment.
She thought he was going to say something cute or snarky, but Rains frowned and looked away. They’d simulated combat operations for more than a week, two to three missions per day, and they weren’t getting better. Exploring options for command, different tactics, and differing techniques hadn’t changed the outcome. Experience told her the team needed some resemblance of continuity. They needed to know who and what were to be expected.
Tara took a long, slow breath before she spoke. “There are two things that are readily apparent to me. One, we need a command structure we can train to. Having you all rotate through tanks and CASPers doesn’t work. That changes now. Vannix? When we sim, you’re in charge of the CASPer elements and the infantry. Bukk? You have the tanks.”
“What about me?” Rains blustered. “What am I supposed to do?”
Tara looked at him for a long moment, biting back the words she really wanted to say. “You’re with me, Rains. Until we figure out how to best use you, I want you as far away from the battlefield as possible.”
The big Peacemaker’s fists clenched. Rains opened his mouth and closed it with a snort. Part of her wanted him to say something derisive. That same part of her also wanted to knock him on his ass, which served no real purpose. Instead, she lowered her chin and stared at him. Eyes locked on his, Tara stared until the man looked away. His attitude would have to be dealt with sooner rather than later. It would have to wait, though. There were other considerations. “I’m the best combat leader you have. That sim proved it, Tara.”
“You’re nothing of the sort, Jackson,” Vannix said.
“Nobody asked you, Vannix.”
The white-furred Veetanho stepped forward, grabbed Rains by the arm, and spun him roughly toward her. “You threw the rest of us away to win the field. In real life, we’d all be dead right now.”
“And we were dead in all the other sims, too. She didn’t do any better.” Rains shrugged off Vannix’s paw and whirled back to Tara. “What do you expect us to do? We can’t fight like this.”
Tara nodded. “You’re exactly right, and that’s why we’re going to do it again with the new command structure until we get it right. You’ll handle whatever I decide is appropriate for you, Rains. You’re not a trained CASPer pilot, and you have no idea how to fight tanks. You have a lot to learn about combat operations, and we don’t have time to keep giving you chances.” There was more to say, but it needed to stay private. The hardest thing about leadership was walking the line between teaching points and public embarrassment. Her comments could wait, but not for very long. Any thoughts of a warm shower and change of uniform vanished in a heartbeat.
“Fine,” Rains said. The disgust in his voice almost made Tara smile.
Instead, she studied them. Taking the time to make lasting eye contact was something she’d seen Jessica use to her advantage. As she did, Tara said, “We’ll sim this new set up tomorrow at 0900 and again at 1400 hours. Depending on those outcomes, we’ll prepare to debark and get this mission underway.” Tara saw Rains flinch as if he was about to speak. She locked her eyes on him again. “It’s clear we are not ready to assume this mission. Not yet, at least. We need more troops. More weapons, too. Until we get more, we cannot be expected to survive any fight we face.”
Bukk’s antennae twitched. “What would you have us do, Tara?”
She looked at her friend for a long moment. “For now, we train. When we’re not in the sim, we figure out how to load more troops and weapon systems aboard Victory Twelve. We’re going to have to start the search for Snowman without everything we need, and that’s fine. But we can’t function shorthanded or outgunned for long. If we try, this mission won’t get off the ground. Bukk and Vannix, you’re released for the day. Chow is at 1800. Vannix, it’s your turn to prep chow, right?”
Vannix grinned. “The merchant vessels traded well with us this morning. I have something special planned.”
“Godsdamned cat food,” Rains mumbled, and the group laughed.
Vannix punched him hard in the upper right shoulder. The group tension eased enough to allow Tara to feel as though she could walk away, but her job wasn’t finished. Another task called, and it wasn’t her favorite. Good commanders led by example. Mercenaries simply tried to stay alive. Tara Mason was a successful mercenary, but the mantel of command rested heavily on her shoulders.
“Rains? You’re with me. We’ll get the sim ready for morning.” Tara swiped an errant lock of blonde hair away from her face and looked at the slate mounted on her left wrist. There wasn’t enough time to grab a flyer and head to the Raknar, a hundred kilometers away, before dinner. Her excursion would have to wait an hour or two. Xander Alison had found something he wanted her, and her only, to see. In the meantime, Jackson Rains needed her undivided attention for what her instructors would have called “wall-to-wall counseling.”
Bukk and Vannix turned and moved toward the open bay door and into the bright Araf sun. In the distance, heat waves made the near horizon look unstable. Tara felt it matched the unstableness in her gut when she thought about the young, Human Peacemaker. Learning a lesson was always a good thing, but not at the potential cost of lives. Force 25 had too few to lose. Having her own force, mercenary or not, proved harder than she’d ever imagined.
And we haven’t even started the mission.
Tara sighed and put her hands on her hips for a moment. Eyes closed, her face toward Araf’s star, she clenched her jaw and thought of a farm untold light years away and the window she’d slipped through as a teenager. Had she known it would come down to this—her last chance for redemption, she might not have climbed out and run for Omaha.
You can’t go back, Tara.
You just can’t.
* * * * *
Chapter Three
D’Nart Spaceport
Araf
Tara took a deep breath and stared up at the impassive face of Jackson Rains. The younger man had the build of a linebacker, and he moved with effortless grace. Standing on the tarmac, she expected him to square up in a fighting stance but immediately chided herself. He wasn’t a mercenary used to talking things out with his fists. If that had been the case, she would have been ready with a combat knife instead of words. He folded his arms across his chest.
“This where you tell me what I’m doing wrong?”
Tara bit the inside of her lower lip before she replied. “No. You’re going to tell me why your attitude has been piss-poor for the last two weeks. You weren’t angry or sullen when you got here. What changed?”
“We have no chance of success. Our combat sims are ridiculous messes, and we’ve supposedly had all our supplies and logistics arranged for two weeks, but we’re still sitting here.”
“We’re not ready.” Tara shook her head. “We have a mission, yes. I get that, Rains. But I’m not leaving this planet until we’re ready to function as team. Bukk and I have worked together before. Vannix seems ready to do whatever is asked. The biggest outlier on this team is you.”
“Me?” Rains smiled. “I’ve been the strongest performer in the sims.”
<<Actually, Vannix holds that distinction. Her engagement success rates are far above his,>> Lucille chimed in her ear.
Tara touched her earpiece and muted the connection. Lucille might not like being shut out, but at this moment, Tara needed every bit of her sanity. A voice, helpful as it might have been, talking into her ear wouldn’t help her reach her objective. Tara knew Rains was wrong. She’d been watching their progress since day one.
“You’re wrong, and it’s disheartening that you don’t realize it.” Tara sighed. “You keep flaunting your abilities, but you don’t really understand what it means to lead forces. You’re not ready to lead a pack of scouts to a bake sale, much less Force 25.”
“I’m not ready?” Rains laughed. He ran a hand over his short black hair and wiped away the sweat beaded on his dark skin. “You’re a disgraced mercenary, Tara. That whole thing with Death On Tracks? Cowardice in the face of an enemy? Any of that ring a bell?”
“You’re an ignorant ass, Rains,” Tara said, fuming. “Have you actually read anything official about the performance of Death On Tracks or my performance on Weqq? You’re a walking billboard for the uninformed and entitled.”
“Entitled?” Rains dropped his hands. They hung loosely at his sides, but it was clear his temper was flaring.
Good.
“Yes, entitled. You think the velvet ropes should part and the heavens should shower light down on you just because you’re a Peacemaker.”
“The third Human one.” Rains smiled. The look didn’t reach his eyes. “The first man—let’s not forget that.”
The truth comes out.
“You think that makes you special? Gods. The fact that you’re counting means you don’t care about the office. You care about what it can do for you. You want notoriety. You’re pissed off because the Guild hasn’t announced your appointment,” Tara said. “I bet all the fanfare around Jessica Francis and Nikki Sinclair really pisses you off, doesn’t it?”
A wave of emotion rippled across his face. “They ain’t done anything special.”
Tara laughed. “Really? Nikki Sinclair went after her father’s company. She put the Union before family and blood. How’s that not doing anything? And Jessica? Hell, she’s doing the same thing and stopping conflicts, putting down insurrections, and making allies. How is that not doing anything?”
“Give me time,” Rains said. “I’ll show you.”
“Like in the sim?” Tara shook her head. More hair tumbled across her face. She was tempted to reach up and fix it, but on the off-chance Rains was dumb enough to try something, doing so could give him the ultimate opportunity. “You perform like that in a few missions, and they’ll be carving your name on the Memorial Wall. You know, the one on Kleve? You’d be first, I imagine. The first Human Peacemaker to die in the line of duty.”
“Ain’t gonna happen,” Rains said. “Once you fail, I’ll take over the mission, and we’ll find Snowman. That will be all the proof I need.”
“Proof?” Tara felt blood rushing to her head. She could feel her skin flush, and she consciously forced her hands to unclench. Remaining calm and composed was the mark of a leader, no matter how bad the situation became.
“Yeah,” Rains said. “That you were the worst choice for this mission. You’re a coward who got the Guild Master to believe whatever bullshit you were peddling. When it’s all said and done, a malfunction or something will take you off the battlefield while your subordinates are dying all around you. That’s what happened here, on Araf, right? How many of your crew made it off this planet?”
“Nothing happened to take me off the field. I left my tank to jump into a CASPer and fill a position in the line while all hell broke loose. You want to search my service records? You can find them in the Peacemaker Guild’s archives.”
“Yeah. You and Jessica just happened to survive.” Rains laughed. “How convenient.”
Calm and composed leadership flew out the proverbial window. Tara charged forward, hitting Rains in the chest with both hands. The shove sent the Peacemaker stumbling backward. The surprise on his face changed to anger. Tara stopped and pointed a finger at his chest. Her voice was higher than she wanted it to be, but the words came of their own volition in a cascade of anger.
“Don’t talk to me about convenience, Jackson Rains. You’ve never had to watch the backs of the people to your left and right. You’ve never had rounds fired at you in anger or watched kids under your command die to save each other. You’ve never had anyone’s back. That’s why you think you’re better than me, than Jessica, maybe even Guild Master Rsach. You like working alone, like all Peacemakers do. But the minute you’re under fire and watching those around you—the ones you keep at arm’s distance and think you’re better than—dying because you fucked up? Tell me then how convenient it is that they saved your life. Tell me then what it’s like to know the only reason you’re alive is because someone put themselves in a position to protect you simply because you were with them. There’s nothing convenient about this business. Maybe, by the time we find Snowman, you’ll learn that lesson. I hope you don’t have to learn it by losing someone you care about.”
Rains lowered his hands slightly. “You’re saying I’m not prepared for combat? I think the sims say differently.”
“They do.” Tara nodded. “The sims always say differently. You have a great deal of aptitude, Rains. The problem is you don’t understand consequences. The Oogar sim is designed to show you the absolute worst defensive strategy—the fight or die one. But it’s just a sim. Until you’re watching something feral, bent on rending your arms and legs from your body in a snarling fit of rage, and understand it’s just you and your CASPer or armor to stop them? Yeah, that’s when grown men piss themselves. You don’t know how bad it can be. The trouble is, right now, you think you do. That will get you killed.”
“We’ll see about that, Tara.” Rains smiled. He straightened up and turned to walk away. “Was there something else you wanted to talk about? I mean, you’re keeping your boyfriend waiting and all.”
Tara’s mouth fell open. Xander Alison wasn’t her boyfriend. The digger and his crew had helped supply Force 25, but that was it.
Wasn’t it?
She heard Rains snicker to himself as he started to work on the simulation gear.
Dammit.
She watched him gathering and sorting the simulation cables without additional instructions and heard him laughing under his breath. Fresh anger surged through her veins, and for a moment, she considered chasing Rains down and beating the smirk off his face once and for all.
No. That’s what he wants. Tara reached up, pulled out the tie keeping her long, dirty, blonde hair out of her face, and re-positioned it as she watched Rains. The young Peacemaker was beyond teaching. Until Force 25 went up against a real opponent over real ground and objectives, he’d maintain he was the better leader. It couldn’t be helped, and there were more important things on her agenda than arguing with an over-confident Peacemaker.
He’ll learn. Kids like him always learn the hard way. Until that happened, there wasn’t anything she could do.
The afternoon sun warm against her back, Tara turned to the south and saw the familiar crags of Mount Klatk in the distance. Hidden among the rolling terrain was the Raknar she and Jessica had defended against two mercenary companies barely a year before. So much had happened since Hex Alison, Kei Howl, and the others died defending the Altar. The Selroth and GenSha, the very enemies who’d stoked the fires of war back then, worked together in every way to make Araf the Dream World it should have been from the start. Their peaceful collaboration gave Tara hope that it was possible for unlikely allies to work together for a common good.
Force 25 depended on it.
Tara touched her earpiece and reengaged the connection to Lucille. “Sorry, Lucille. I was talking to Rains again. One of these days I might have to stomp a mud hole in his ass.”
<<That doesn’t seem to be humanly possible, Tara.>>
Tara laughed, and her tension seemed to ease slightly. “It’s an expression. One of my instructors from the CASPer course said it all the time.”
<<Understood. I have an urgent message from Xander Alison.>>
“What’s the message?”
<<Message reads: The Beacon. We need to talk.>>
* * *
Bu’urb
Cesa Region
Kr’et’Socae studied Chinayl’s plan, a glass of tepid water from the moon’s inner reservoirs in his hand. Occasionally, he glanced at the slightly fizzing water and frowned. The distinctive yellow color was a byproduct of the reservoir, although the water was perfectly safe to drink, or so he’d been assured. A ball of ice that lasted an hour on the surface of a star stood a better chance of consumption. The water’s color reminded him of Human beer, and he could not bring himself to try it. He set the glass aside for the fourth time in an hour and turned to his subordinate unit commanders. He looked over the group with keen eyes and years of experience. Despite being a combination of mercenaries, security professionals, and rank amateurs, they looked good in Chinayl’s files and initial reports. MinSha field commanders were ruthless in their battlefield leadership and their administrative control of their forces. True to her pedigree, Chinayl prepared lengthy, detailed efficiency reports on her underlings. While entertaining and informative, Kr’et’Socae bypassed them to search the file system, looking for the plan Chinayl intended. An attack on Victoria Bravo had not been formulated. While surprising, it was a good omen. Chinayl’s assembled forces were scattered and distended. With little effort spared to bring them together, they presented a challenge and an opportunity. Without a plan, and without a reason for their assemblage, the mercenaries would be antsy—ready to leave. The conditioned, traditional soldiers would be bored and ready for change. None of them would want to listen.
Kr’et’Socae curled one side of his long mouth under in a smirk. As an Enforcer candidate, he’d learned everyone will listen. Everyone will break. All things had a price, and whether that price was credits or blood, he could get what he wanted. First and foremost, he wanted the credits necessary to stay ahead of the Peacemakers. He tapped his slate, and a progress meter slid forward to ten percent. The elSha encryption on Chinayl’s personal slate would be broken and her accounts, secrets, and critical data would be his. It was only a matter of time. Of his resources, time was the most perishable and the most precious. Yet without forces, he could not even consider the unexpected plan forming in his brain. The skills to command a combat force were not something he possessed, and yet the opportunity to do just that intrigued the former Peacemaker.
A Peacemaker must be ready for anything.
The voice of Hr’ent, his instructor, growled inside his head. The older Oogar Peacemaker unrelentingly pushed him through his Enforcer training. From the moment the physiological modifications and improvements took hold, the giant purple asshole sank his claws into Kr’et’Socae’s back and drove him.
An Enforcer, though, must be ready to do anything. Especially the unspeakable.
The Equiri nodded to himself. Aware of beings gathering in the command center, he rose to his full height and adjusted the ammunition belts over his shoulders and the load bearing suspenders and belt he wore. The new gear did not fit quite right, unlike his load bearing equipment that was in a personal effects locker in the prison on Kleve. He’d spent three sleepless nights trying to figure out how to get to the storage area to get it during his escape attempt. Trust wasn’t something easily earned or purchased at a gear store. Fingering the straps over his shoulders, his back turned to the gathering crowd of commanders and operations officers from the various units under Chinayl’s loose command, Kr’et’Socae pondered trust. It had been years since he trusted anyone implicitly. The trust he’d given was betrayed by the Peacemaker tribunal when they’d tried him and sent him to prison for life without parole. They’d known he was innocent. They didn’t believe he’d had no choice but to order the—
“Sir?”
Kr’et’Socae looked up into the expectant face of his longtime aide and accomplice. The bronze Equiri was a full head shorter than Kr’et’Socae, with a white diamond blaze on his forehead. From their youth, they’d been friends and business associates. Enforcer duty hadn’t kept him from maintaining his friendship with Thraff, despite the Peacemaker Guild’s view on having one of their best and brightest being close friends with a known grifter and confidence artist. When he’d gone to prison, he’d known his friend would look out for him from the outside. When Kr’et’Socae escaped in a howling tropical storm, only one other sane being was there to find him.
“What is it, Thraff?”
“Your mission is complete.”
A statement, not a question. Kr’et’Socae set aside the yellow, fizzing water and stared at his friend. “You want to know why I’m still here. Why I’m thinking about assuming Chinayl’s mission.”
“Your fee from Peepo is not enough?”
“Not when there’s more to be made,” Kr’et’Socae said.
Thraff lowered his voice. “You think this force can help you take out the Peacemakers?”
Kr’et’Socae laughed but not loudly enough for the sound to travel. “Of course not. This isn’t about my former guild. They are very little threat to anyone.”
“Then why assume Chinayl’s mission?”
Kr’et’Socae tapped his slate and pulled up a document copied from Chinayl’s unprotected files. He scrolled through the file quickly, found the relevant clause, and showed it to Thraff. “This is why.”
Thraff read the document. Kr’et’Socae watched his friend’s eyes darting through the text, then saw a shocked, happy smile appear. “The Mercenary Guild allows things like that on their contracts?”
“Apparently.” Kr’et’Socae shook his head and snorted. “Though I’d imagine Chinayl snuck a rider into a Mercenary Guild boilerplate contract. I’m sure it’s not the first time it happened, but it’s likely one of the reasons Peepo wanted her dead.”
“Ten million reasons.” Thraff chuckled. “But the rider expires in what? Thirty days?”
“Yes,” Kr’et’Socae replied. The plan had come together in his mind over the last few moments. Attacking Victoria Bravo wasn’t really what he wanted to do, but with the size of Chinayl’s forces, over 6,000 troops with armor, artillery, and multiple ships to support them, the idea gave him pause. Chinayl’s other mission, the one she’d taken on her own, intrigued him more. She wanted to find something that couldn’t be found. Kr’et’Socae didn’t know much about James Francis and Intergalactic Haulers, but that didn’t matter. Francis was a Human and Humans were easy to find. His mind sought a way to do both missions. Maybe tie them up in a nice, neat little package for Peepo, so he could make enough credits to fade away. He blinked and finished his thought. “I’ve seen thousands of contracts like this, but never one agreed to by a Guild Master. Ninety-day guarantee clause? Granting additional credits if the Human threat on Victoria Bravo is completely eradicated? I can’t believe Peepo agreed to this. More likely, she didn’t know about the added clause and signed the contract to be rid of Chinayl.”
“Or she believed the Humans would kill Chinayl.” Thraff said. “She was almost correct. But why would Chinayl want to go back? The credits alone could not be a reason.”
Kr’et’Socae nodded. “Pride. Chinayl failed. The highest ranking MinSha in the Mercenary Guild didn’t get there without a significant dose of pride. She took the loss personally and wanted the chance to fix it. How she arranged the contract, we may never know, but the rider is in place. Chinayl’s command associate is Regaa. As long as Regaa is involved in the mission to take Victoria Bravo, we have a stake in that rider.”
Thraff said nothing for a moment, but Kr’et’Socae knew his friend had pieced it together. Regaa was the legal tie to the contract’s rider. Chinayl stipulated herself or those under her command. In the standard language of the contract, near the front, was the succession clause that stated rightful claim to any reward could be claimed by a surviving subordinate in the event of the contractor’s death. Kr’et’Socae had clearly killed Chinayl, but the MinSha commander’s executive officer was still alive.
“You think Regaa knows about the clause?”
“No,” Kr’et’Socae smirked. “She’s doubtlessly wondering why we’ve kept her alive.”
Thraff’s eyes brightened. “Studying the files is a ploy to get her to believe you see worth in her staying with the unit.”
“In some ways.” The dark Equiri smiled. “I want to see what she proposes. Having all of these mercenaries under one roof without a viable target or mission is bound to get interesting very soon.”
He knew the mercenaries were already wondering what had happened to Chinayl. The call for all commanders to assemble for a mission briefing broke from MinSha protocols. Curiosity would have them keyed up. Their anxiety could be used against them. Given the right moment, the right aspect of fear or uncertainty could lead them immediately into a new commander’s hand. Kr’et’Socae checked his wrist slate.
“You know what to do?”
Thraff nodded. “Your instructions were clear.”
Kr’et’Socae nodded and stood. He turned to the assembled commanders and officers, and their murmured conversations ceased in an instant. As they looked at him, the disgraced Equiri saw recognition in a few of their eyes. At least one Cochkala said his name in a shocked, scared squeak. Sensing their anxiety turn to uncertainty was intoxicating. He stepped toward them, his hoofed feet clomping on the metal grating of the temporary command structure. Regaa stood off to one side, her forearms crossed in an attempt to look defiant. The MinSha’s twitching antennae said differently.
“Regaa?” he said softly. “A word, if you please?”
The MinSha stepped forward on her four rear legs and crossed the distance quickly. “Yes, Honored Kr’et’Socae?”
Good. You’ve realized who I am and what you’re dealing with. That will make this easier.
He stared at her impassive compound eyes for a long moment. “Are you aware of the contract General Chinayl signed with the Mercenary Guild?”
“I am not,” the MinSha replied slowly. “She told me we were under orders.”
He almost smiled. Anger was a worthy tool. “You were not under orders from the Mercenary Guild. Chinayl signed a contract to eradicate Human settlements. The contract is worth five million credits. Half is yours if you agree to command the assault against Victoria Bravo.”
The MinSha cocked her head at him. “I have another option? I doubt you will let me leave here, as you have a price on your head.”
He thought for a moment. “I suppose that’s true.”
“You seek my agreement to command the assault?” Regaa asked. Her voice was low and sharp. A mercenary seeks opportunities to lead. A successful mercenary seeks opportunities to make as much money as possible. He could tell she had chosen the latter. “That two point five million is mine alone?”
“Chinayl promised no one in your force payment of any type, instead relying on their loyalty to the guild and their fear of retribution. They’ve bought into a scam, Regaa. You, however, can profit where they cannot.”
“Profit does me little good if the mission fails.”
The comment took Kr’et’Socae by surprise. From his research and a little observation, he’d discerned she was a strong, capable commander. Her doubt caught him by surprise. “You believe the mission will fail?”
“Respectfully, if you follow Chinayl’s initial plans and reconnaissance, yes.” Regaa stroked her chin with her left foreclaw. “Chinayl tended toward an occupy-by-force mentality. She never considered how a committed enemy would respond to her actions. Her intentions were to deploy to Victoria Bravo and force the Humans into a fight on ground she’d already lost on. She didn’t consider what she learned from her first failure. Is that a reasonable course of action?”
Kr’et’Socae shook his head. “You would plan this assault differently?”
“If placed in command, yes.” Regaa nodded. “Payment requires victory. Victory requires a plan.”
“There is time,” Kr’et’Socae mused.
Regaa nodded. “There is also the matter of the team on Araf.”
“What about them?” Kr’et’Socae narrowed his eyes.
“There are Peacemakers involved. Directly. A Veetanho named Vannix and a Human male. His name is Jackson Rains. They have orders to search every system and bring James Francis to justice. He is the father of Jessica Francis.”
Kr’et’Socae wasn’t listening. A bolt of electricity ran down his spine.
“Jackson Rains?” Kr’et’Socae asked quietly.
Regaa, sensing an opportunity, leaned closer. “I take it you are aware of him.”
The Equiri snorted. “He nearly caught me ten months ago, and I owe him.”
“Credits?” Regaa gaped.
“No.” Kr’et’Socae shook his head. The loss was still too great to name. “I owe him pain.”
“Then what do we do about him?”
Kr’et’Socae ran through the options quickly. There existed the matter of an assault and a matter of a direct threat halfway across the galaxy. Both could be handled. One he would handle personally and return in time to oversee the assault and collect the payment. It would take time and patience, but he could lay the trap. Rains wouldn’t be the only Peacemaker who fell.
“As you said, victory ensures payment, Regaa.” Kr’et’Socae grinned evilly in the darkened control room.
“Then have your assistant stand down. You have no need to make an example of the assembled commanders. They will not draw your ire.” Regaa nodded. “They will follow me without your killing them indiscriminately, sir.”
Kr’et’Socae snorted and laughed aloud. Regaa was much more than he’d originally assumed. Whether she could be trusted was another matter, but for the moment, her insight suggested he had a chance to kill two flies with one kick. Retribution was as delicious a thought as fear and the credits to back his threats. Regaa and Thraff could plan the attack and conduct the initial moves while he saw to Rains.
Kr’et’Socae nodded solemnly to Regaa. “Then we have an excellent plan to construct, Commander. An excellent one, indeed.”
“One that will not fail.” Regaa’s antennae twitched in anticipation, and for the first time in eight years, two months, and sixteen days, Kr’et’Socae felt a twinge of the same emotion. He needed to move quickly, before the rider expired. Payment required victory.
“I’ll need one of your best lieutenants, Regaa. One who doesn’t shy away from combat.”
“Expecting resistance?” the MinSha aksed, suddenly full of confidence. “Or are you looking for revenge?”
Kr’et’Socae did not answer aloud. His thoughts were on another young Equiri, one he’d sworn his love to so many years before. The one Jackson Rains had killed when he’d come to arrest them. Saraan was not his mate, nor was she committed to another male. In a sense, she was as much his as he was hers until Rains murdered her. A measure of payback was justified.
All of them will pay. Starting with Jackson Rains. I will handle him personally.
* * * * *
Chapter Four
Altar Colony
Araf
The rusting hulk of the Raknar lay half exposed on the banks of the Choote River in the fading Araf light. Nothing about its position or condition had changed in the year since the battle. The original compound was gone. The portable buildings and tight spaces where they’d faced down the Darkness and the Wandering Death had been razed, and it gave the colony an empty feel. Barren ground remained in its place, save for a slim obsidian monument erected by the Altar commemorating the original Force 25. From the moment her strap-adorned tanker boots touched the sandy ground, her eyes remained fixed on the slender obelisk. Xander and his crew were nowhere in sight, which wasn’t unusual, and before she realized what she was doing, Tara’s feet moved her in the direction of the monument. More surprising were the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.
Tara hadn’t been to the monument in her several trips to the Raknar and the old mining complex Xander had been paid to explore and seal for all eternity. Most times, he salvaged rare components for the Raknar to test with Lucille’s help aboard Victory Twelve. Two trips before, he’d emerged from the mine wearing a radiation hard suit and carrying a badly rended piece of metal. The shard, roughly the size of her hand and forearm, was all they’d been able to recover of Hex Alison’s CASPer. She’d successfully fought those tears, but the addition of the monument stabbed at her heart. Tara had avoided going there for as long as possible. As she closed the distance, she noticed GenSha prayer flags wrapped carefully around the obelisk’s base. There were several small pieces of wreckage as well, one for each of the destroyed CASPers and her tanks.
A sob erupted from her throat as she stood over the monument and let the tears cascade down her face. Knees trembling, Tara Mason knelt in the sand and reached out to touch the carefully etched letters.
Those who died to protect those who remain. We remember.
Stare Aut Cadere.
Amidst the swirling memories playing behind her closed eyelids, Tara saw the smiling faces of Kei Howl and Hex Alison. They’d fought so bravely, so purely, for something much more nebulous than a mission to secure a key person for the Peacemaker Guild. They’d understood the threat, and they’d honored it in a way few would ever understand. The remnants of their battles gone and scrubbed away by peace and prosperity, her team existed only in the memories of the citizens of Araf and the two Humans who’d somehow lived to fight another day.
Chin on her chest, Tara let the tears fall in hot streams down her cheeks and made no attempt to stop them. Her hurt transcended the feeling of loss, raising the familiar, dreadful question of why she’d been allowed to survive when the others had perished. The dread turned slowly to recognition that she, too, would have died on the battlefield except for the quick actions of Jessica Francis and Bukk. By stabilizing and sedating her, they’d saved her life. Her tears stopped. Survival hadn’t been easy. She’d wished for death a few times. By then, though, Araf had been far away.
Tara woke up on Earth after more than two weeks of continuous sedation. Her spinal cord was bruised, but not severed, and the process of ensuring her nerve functions and sealing up the damaged vertebrae took several weeks. Hanging suspended, face down, in a traction rig, unable to touch herself in any way proved to be far worse than any amount of pain she’d ever felt. When the medicos finally released her restraints, she’d marveled at the simplest actions—running her hands through her hair, scratching an itchy spot of skin, simply touching the floor with her bare feet. The new-again sensations motivated her in physical therapy. Her therapists pushed her harder than most patients because of the resolve she showed.
Come back stronger. Her adopted motto, tattooed forever on the inside of her left arm, became a rallying cry. Tara pushed her physical limits to return to duty faster than anyone who’d been similarly injured had done since the Alpha Contracts, or so her doctors said. It didn’t matter. She’d only wanted to get better, stronger, and ready for the next mission. Except the missions hadn’t come.
She heard footsteps, the crunching sound of sand under sturdy boots. Wiping her eyes, she looked up. Xander Alison walked toward her in his dirty, patched green coveralls, carrying an orange hardhat with a large light strapped atop it. His longish brown hair caught the last vestiges of sunlight. A soft smile creased his face.
“It’s something, isn’t it?”
Tara wiped her eyes with one sleeve of her coveralls. “Yeah. I hadn’t been up here before.”
“I know,” Xander said. His voice was soft, making him sound more like his younger brother than she liked. The pitch of his voice made her chest ache. “Was wondering when ya would.”
“Takes time,” she said. Tara stood and brushed sand away from the knees of her coveralls. “What do you have?”
Xander didn’t move. “You wanna talk about it?”
Tara shook her head. “No.”
“I’m here and willing.” His voice was soft and barely audible over the breeze. He stepped closer, and his shadow merged with hers on the ground.
“I’m fine.”
“Bloody hell you are,” Xander said. “You need to talk.”
Why? So, you can tell me I’m a failure and coward, too?
She shook away the thought. A fresh tear tried to escape her right eye, but Tara wiped it away. “This isn’t the time. I have a mission to get underway.”
“And how’s that going?” Xander’s face twisted into a sarcastic half-grin. “I think you and your team need to spend a little time learning about each other’s fears.”
Tara squinted. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s an old quote from Churchill. Something about getting the most powerful Humans in the world together and all you get is what they fear. Something like that.” Xander shuffled in place, stuffing both hands into his front pockets like a nervous, but expectant suitor. “There’s four of you on the mission. You should understand why everyone is there. What they want and what they fear; that’s all.”
“I don’t need to know all that,” Tara said. “They just need practice. Repetitions. They’ll be fine after a couple more simulator runs.”
“Tell me what you really think.”
Tara sighed. He’d asked the million-credit question. Her mind quickly flashed through the team and their strengths and weaknesses. “We need a lot more troops and weapons; that’s a given.”
“Unless a small force was what the Peacemaker Guild envisioned. I take it you’ve done something similar before.” Xander spread his hands to indicate the hallowed ground they stood on. “Something tells me you don’t need a few ships’ worth of soldiers and weapons. You need the right combination of both at the right place and time.”
“You sound like a logistician.”
Xander laughed. “Guilty as charged, but that was a lifetime ago. Really, though, combat operations are about being organized, trained, manned, and equipped for the mission. It’s no different than what I face on a digging mission. From the tools in the vehicles to the ship, my job is to have everything ready. That way, all I have to do is fly the ship and oversee my crews.”
“You make it sound easy,” Tara said. “Leadership.”
“It is and it isn’t.”
Tara snorted. “I hate bullshit statements like that, Xander.”
“Except you know it’s true.” Xander tilted his chin down toward her. “You think leadership is trying to replicate what you’ve seen. That’s a good start, but it’s more. It’s about how you act in a given situation. You’re not Jessica Francis, Tara.”
“Godsdammit, I know that!” Tara flared. No sooner had her temper risen then it fell away. She wiped her wet cheek with one hand. “That’s the second time I’ve heard that today.”
“It’s true,” Xander said. “And not in the negative way you’re thinking.”
Tara stared at him for a moment. His smile reminded her of Hex. The swaggering, confident smile of a man who knew what he wanted. With his brother, a year ago, Tara hadn’t been willing to entertain the thought of a relationship. Yet, there was something about Xander that intrigued and comforted her.
She blinked the possibility away. Focus, Tara.
“Negative way?” Tara asked. “Yeah, I can’t do what Jessica did either here or on Weqq.”
“Why not?” Xander challenged. “She was a mercenary, just like you. You commanded tank platoons in several companies with success, and we all know Death On Tracks was not your fault. Weqq, though, you were in a bad place. As soon as you understood the situation, you did everything right. You charged into that compound and took on Reilly and his band of criminals. In the end, Jessica succeeded, thanks in no small part to you. That’s why you’re on this mission, Tara.”
He was right. Beyond the core of self-doubt and the nagging voice telling her she wasn’t good enough—and never would be—Xander was right. She’d done everything as right as possible. That she’d been in place to assist Jessica was half crazy and half surreal.
Tara shook her head. “I wouldn’t have been on that mission had I not gone to the CASPer course. That’s what’s crazy about this. I was a tanker through and through, until I climbed into that rig with Lucille in my ear. That’s where I was supposed to be all along. I shouldn’t have been there, but I was.”
“What do you mean?”
“I left the hospital against medical advice to go to the CASPer course. I shouldn’t have been there.” Tara shook her head and laughed. “But that’s another story for another time. What do you have for me?”
“I went into the Raknar this morning.”
“That’s against—”
“I know,” Xander raised his hands in mock surrender. “I woke up last night thinking about how Jessica plugged Snowman’s chip into the system, and the Raknar started to power up. I wanted to see what I could find out about that connection. You know? Why the beacon worked?”
“What did you find?”
“The Guild scrubbed it, that was pretty clear, but I did manage to find a bunch of meaningless data with timestamps from around the time Snowman and Jessica went through that thing with a fine-toothed comb. It’s not much, but I found a few things that correlate to your target list,” Xander said. “One of them was listed twice. Uluru.”
Tara squinted. “What’s that?”
“You ever heard of Ayer’s Rock? In the Australian Outback?”
She shook her head. “I’m from Nebraska, Xander. I’ve been to seventeen planets, but I haven’t been outside of North America on Earth.”
“We’ll have to change that.” He smiled. “Come on. I’ll show you the data feed. I think you’ll find it interesting that I found another reference to an Uluru away from Earth.”
“Away from Earth?”
“The Haulers traveled extensively, Tara. Snowman found something out there that reminded him of Ayer’s Rock, of Uluru. He’s smart enough to avoid Earth, but I can’t help but wonder if this isn’t a clue to where he might be.”
“You have the data feed?”
“Localized on my slate. It’s in my security locker.” Xander shrugged. He smiled at her, his eyes bright. “There’s a bottle of red wine, too. I was saving it for a special occasion. I figure it’s time to open it. Maybe we can talk about what’s next.”
“Your mission is complete?”
Xander nodded. “But I have a feeling yours isn’t going to get started without help. That’s what I’m here for.”
* * *
Overlooking D’Nart Spaceport
Araf
An hour after nightfall, a small Cochkala dragged a worn purple and black travel case away from the passenger terminal. For a moment, the Cochkala stood out against the stream of GenSha, Selroth, and Altar arriving passengers. A few other species were present, and the crowd helped hide the Cochkala from the naked eye within a matter of moments. Mnam laughed to himself and ducked past the lone eatery in the terminal and out toward the monorail connecting the major settlements. He’d successfully snuck into the terminal, posed as a passenger, and come out the other side of the secured transportation area unscathed. He’d performed the trip three times in the last seven days, each time carrying the tools of his trade further into the secured area and closer to his target.
Outside the terminal, Mnam ducked into an employees-only passageway that sat unguarded in the late afternoon lull. A few minutes later, he emerged in the maintenance terminus thirty meters below the central tarmac. The terminus was at the center of eight passageways that ran the length of the tarmac and approach corridors. Each followed a major point of the compass and ran more than four thousand meters into the surrounding featureless terrain. Mnam waited until the maintenance team held their end-of-shift meeting before he snuck out of the terminus and into the southeast passageway. The minimal security system was easily defeated by a localized electromagnetic spectrum jammer he wore under his coat, allowing him to scamper the three thousand meters to the access point he’d entered six hours earlier. His case lightened by eighty kilograms of high-density explosives, Mnam effortlessly lifted it from the ground, tucked it under one short arm, and ran.
Mnam skidded to a stop at the accessway. The two-meter-wide main passageway seemed like a thoroughfare compared to the small tube structure. Slowed by the tight space, Mnam silently pushed the case through ahead of him and worked slowly toward the end of passageway three hundred meters to the south-southeast of the maintenance corridor. Near a set of spare batteries for the outer marker navigational beacons, Mnam stopped, then clambered up a recessed ladder toward a tiny grate some thirty meters above. With one hand holding the empty case between his short limbs and one on the uppermost rung, Mnam pushed against the metal grate with his back, and it slid open easily.
Cool night air ruffled his light fur and refreshed him from the day-long effort. He pushed the case up and out of the grate, then followed it. With no moons of consequence, the night sky of Araf blanketed the surrounding terrain in near total darkness. The relative brightness of the passageways had stolen his immediate night vision, so Mnam crawled down from the grate, cradling the case against his chest, and blinked slowly, willing his eyes to adjust. In less than thirty seconds, Mnam could see clearly in every direction. The rounded, rocky hilltop to his immediate right was his final destination. Case under his arm, Mnam moved up the hill quietly, bouncing with infinite grace between the rocks. Near the top, he heard a distinct chitter in the wind. Pausing, he chittered a response with his tongue and front teeth.
A whisper floated down to him via the rising breeze. “All clear.”
Mnam crept the last fifty meters to the protected outcropping his team called home. They had been on the planet for more than four weeks, with provisions for another twelve if their mission required. Their temporary home almost resembled a Cochkala burrow, with its deft tunneling and layout of individual quarters and fighting positions. Mnam scrambled to the entrance and froze. A large, curving blade with a blackened finish hovered in the darkness a few centimeters from his nose.
“Mnam,” he said. “Unobserved.”
“Concur.” The blade moved away from his nose, and Mnam continued his climb into the outcropping.
His sapper team consisted of him and four young recruits, fresh from their training schools. Two of them, by design, were asleep in their half-burrows. The other two maintained security and kept themselves awake with gentle stimkits. They’d rotate through a six-hour watch, allowing a full night’s rest for the others. As their leader, Mnam could sleep as long as he wanted. The fatigue in his legs and arms said that would be a long time, but he first needed to eat. That, however, had to wait until he reported his findings.
Their employer would be waiting for confirmation. Almost everything, Mnam believed, was ready for a final assault. Given what he’d learned from the careless employees within the spaceport and their equally careless computer system, their employer would be pleased.
Mnam reached for the coded radio set and saw the instructions for the day were a thirty- second burst on the Ka band at precisely 2340 hours local time—an hour away, which was just as well. Food would help him craft the ideal message to accurately portray the events and the information. His operator in orbit would forward the intelligence report to their commander, but it would not matter. By Mnam’s calculations and the cryptic communications of the last two days, he would soon have a very interested observer.
From what he could ascertain, Victory Twelve and her crew would remain in D’Nart for another 72 hours at a minimum. They continued to use power systems to run simulation equipment for three Human CASPers and two external sim rigs that played armored vehicles or some type of Human-based weapon systems. Their training, as Mnam knew it to be, was not going well. There was dissension among the crew, two of whom he believed to be Peacemakers incognito. An Altar, apparently well-known and respected among the planet’s citizens, was the fourth member. The crew appeared to be attempting to work together, but unity was not within reach.
More curious, though, were the frequent trips Tara Mason was taking to the old mining complex and the dilapidated Raknar a hundred kilometers away. He’d paid a local flyer pilot ten thousand credits to figure out what was there, only to be told Mason apparently had a Human romantic interest running a salvage operation. Mnam had snickered at the news. Humans were predictably stupid in almost every situation. They were unable to leave their emotions out of conflicts, much less innocuous situations, and this led to mistakes that became open doors to an experienced enemy.
We will make them pay.
Mnam sat down, opened a ration pack, and smelled it. His stomach quivered in anticipation, and as he ate silently, staring out into the star field toward what he believed to be home, he knew his team would accomplish their mission and earn Kr’et’Socae’s respect. Mnam nearly panicked at the news their mission commander was now the fallen Peacemaker. The Equiri were a proud race, and Kr’et’Socae had been an Enforcer, the best of the Peacemaker Guild. He’d committed egregious crimes and instead of seeking to clear his name, the Equiri pursued a life far from the auspices of Union law. He was much more than a tale parents told their children to scare them onto the path of good and light. Of the darkest figures inhabiting the Union’s shadows, none was darker.
One more mission, and this can become a younger pup’s game.
Mnam continued to eat, his mind on his future life no more than a hundred hours away, if everything went according to plan. There was no reason to assume they would not succeed. If they failed, their employer would not hesitate to kill them. Mnam’s lifetime of skills would have to be enough to secure success and any chance he had of a peaceful life’s end.
* * * * *
Chapter Five
D’Nart Spaceport
Araf
“Two minutes to sim start,” Tara said into the linked communications suite. All of the units showed online and ready to begin including those for Bukk, Vannix, and Rains, as well as a sim console for Xander to play observer/controller and to act as commander for air support from Victory Twelve. The only member who did not readily accept the change was Jackson Rains, who wanted to be the air support coordinator even though he hadn’t mentioned it until he heard Tara say something about it during the mission brief. The start of this simulation session was more tight and awkward than most.
Everyone wants to know if they’ve signed their death warrants by agreeing to this. Tara sighed inside Deathangel 25. I didn’t want it to be like this.
<<Tara? Are you all right? I detect an emotional response outside your baseline. The simulation is ready on your initiation command.>>
“I’m fine, Lucille.”
<<You are not convincing, Tara.>>
She laughed. “I know, Lucille. I’m trying to figure out what to do. Leading Humans is like herding cats.”
<<That implies a degree of impossibility. You have been in leadership situations, and you have performed successfully. This is something you can do, Tara.>>
“Thanks, Lucille. What would I do without you?”
<<Simulation ready, Commander. Are there any options you want to engage?>>
On her multi-function display, Tara saw a half dozen options flash onto the screen. Terrain, time of day, and aggressiveness of the feral Oogar enemy forces were all things she could adjust based on her soldiers and her training objectives. She’d messed with the settings in many ways over the last three weeks, but nothing seemed to matter.
“Randomize, Lucille. Your choice of settings.”
<<Realistic settings or Hollywood settings?>>
Tara grinned. Hollywood hadn’t been the motion picture capital of the world for a hundred years, but the military’s derogatory term for operations without real objectives stuck. After taking her initial VOWS on Earth, Tara had gone to a knock-off parachutist school in southwestern Missouri. The two-week course had been laughably run by men she could only see as wannabes. Some of them may have had actual military experience, but most of them personified their favorite characters from war movies. One of them, though—Torres—had the look and attitude of a hard-assed, non-commissioned officer. Tara liked him immediately. Torres gave no quarter to any trainee. If they screwed up, they spent hours doing push-ups or other tortuous exercises he dreamed up. But when he taught what he’d learned as a paratrooper, it was gold. He’d hated the jumps at the school because they were all Hollywood jumps—devoid of actual gear or weapons.
“Realistic, Lucille. Always default to realistic. I’m done with Hollywood anything.”
<<Acknowledged,>> Lucille replied. A moment later she said, <<Realistic scenario loaded based on historical contact.>>
“From what database?”
<<Lemieux’s Marauders, Tara. I have fourteen engagements saved. This is an engagement that meets the parameters you set.>>
“Sounds good,” Tara replied. “You find anything else good in the archive of that unit?”
<<Nothing definitive in the search for Jessica’s father, no,>> Lucille said. <<Are you ready to start the simulation?>>
“Roger that.” Tara touched the radio’s transmission switch. In the simulation, it activated the intercom loop between the CASPers and the outside stations. “Sim loading. Standby for operations. Decision time on the ground is randomized. Get ready. Force 25, report.”
“First platoon, up,” Vannix reported. Her four CASPers were online to the immediate west of Tara’s position.
“Second platoon, up,” Bukk reported. Four tanks stood fifty meters behind Tara’s position. Depending on the simulation, they would move immediately to firing positions, and the CASPers could orient their base of fire on them.
“Reserve, up,” Rains replied. He had two CASPers—one he controlled and one simulated—fifty meters behind the tanks in the loading program.
“Victory Twelve is online and in sub-orbital support position,” Xander called. “Shows we’re 250 klicks from your position at the start. Time to overhead is two minutes and thirty-one seconds.”
For a starting position, it wasn’t bad. Tara nodded to no one in her cockpit and flexed her fingers before reaching into the CASPer’s arms for her control surfaces. “Lucille, Deathangel 25. Load the sim and initiate in three, two, one.”
<<Sim initiated.>>
“Force 25, Deathangel sim initiated. Move out.”
The external cameras showed a dark, forested planet. Stars hung in the sky, visible between quickly-moving dark, gray clouds. The imagery was nothing she’d seen in their previous simulations. The terrain was similar, with the rock promontory to the south instead of the west. And the normal positions and the placement of the wide trails were similarly laid out and likely as impassable as before. But anything was possible with the simulation fully in Lucille’s hands.
“Second platoon in position,” Bukk called. Tara spun and saw the tanks take the high ground near the rock promontory. She also saw Vannix’s CASPers move to establish a fighting position toward the south where the threat usually came from.
“Sensors negative,” Vannix called.
“We’re in a different place,” Rains responded. He was right, the terrain was very different. Instead of a forest, it appeared the local flora was more jungle-like. Visibility was shit. “Orient your sensors in a 360.”
Tara’s eyebrows rose. It was a great suggestion, and no sooner had the team done so, than their predicament became clear. The targets were behind them and charging. Tara jabbed her transmit button, jumped her CASPer straight up, and pirouetted to face north. Her radar screen indicated more than a hundred targets within eight hundred meters and closing. With her right hand, she brought the MAC online. As her CASPer reached its jump apex, she fired five quick rounds to dispatch and deter the rushing targets. She didn’t watch to see what happened, she was already looking over her shoulder at the assembled Force 25.
The tanks pivoted to meet the threat as Vannix’s four CASPers jumped forward. Tara scanned the terrain and realized Vannix believed she could close the distance to the advancing threats, whatever they were, and reach a steep bank overlooking a wide, slow creek. The slightly higher ground would provide limited cover and concealment for the CASPers, but it was an advantage in a situation that didn’t appear to have many. Her jumpjets firing, Tara landed Deathangel 25. Rains and his additional CASPer appeared at her shoulder, firing MAC rounds beyond visual range, into the advancing threat.
“Victory Twelve, need you on target now. Bust your ass!” Tara called. She touched the comms for Rains and the spare CASPer. “Rains, on me!”
Without waiting for a reply, Tara pushed forward to bolster the line Vannix intended to set. Rains and the non-playing spare were right there, mirroring her every move.
“Deathangel 25, Victory Twelve is eighty seconds out.”
Not fast enough.
Tara keyed the comms to the 2nd platoon. “Bukk, get your tanks up here.”
“Moving now. Lobbing indirect fire into the Oogar.”
Tara glanced at the sensors and realized that as good as the Mk 7 CASPer was, the dedicated sensor platforms on the Marauder tanks were much better in the infrared range. Bukk could see the threat were feral Oogar from a greater distance and with better fidelity than she could. “Roger, keep firing and get up here.”
“Moving, 25.” Bukk replied. Almost immediately, his vehicles pushed forward from their higher ground position and moved through the forest. “We’ll be there as fast as we can.”
“Stay off the paths!” Rains yelled into the frequency.
In a split second, Tara decided not to reprimand him. Rains, for all she knew, might be right about the conditions of the terrain and the parameters Lucille had randomly selected for the event. Paths were easy avenues of approach, but they were also easily compromised and made into dangerous areas by a prepared enemy. The tanks moved much slower than she wanted, but they did move and, more importantly, they continued to fire.
<<Enemy rate of advance has slowed thirty percent,>> Lucille reported.
Tara found aiming the MAC between the trees problematic. The rounds would certainly tear through any flora or fauna between the cannon and its target, but wasting precious rounds on a charging enemy wasn’t a viable plan. Tara boosted her jumpjets and shot up into the overhanging forest, then through the tops of the trees. Her camera feeds only registered the movement of the surrounding vegetation, but her infrared targeting system registered the Oogar as clearly as day. Squeezing her right hand, she unleashed the MAC and simultaneously brought up a mini-gun in her left hand. Still climbing, Tara fired both weapons at the nearest targets with significant effect. As she’d hoped, the other CASPers vaulted up into the clear space to fire on the enemy.
“Shifting fire!” Bukk called. His tanks rolled in under the CASPers and continued firing from their main guns and their supplementary weapons systems. The Oogar advance crumbled.
“Vannix! Jump your platoon by section. Rains, do the same. Maintain a constant treetop presence.” Tara looked at her sensors. “Victory Twelve, where are you?”
“Twenty seconds out. Tracking six hundred targets converging on your position, Tara.”
Tara grunted. “Hit everything you can, Xander.”
“Copy all.”
Tara glanced at the mission timer as a pack of Oogars, fifteen of the largest warriors she’d ever seen, popped out of the forest not fifty meters from her CASPer. Snarling and thrashing their way through the underbrush, they closed the gap faster than anything in the simulations to that point. MAC thumping away from her right shoulder mount, Tara swept her mini-gun over the assaulting creatures. The white light from her CASPer’s external spotlights swept the dark forest. A second set of lights appeared, shining down from above as a CASPer approached.
“Descending from your five o’clock, Deathangel.”
Rains. The Oogar reacted and scattered to her left, a fresh volley of fire from Vannix’s CASPers tearing through them. The coordinated jumps and ground movements split the incoming Oogar forces. A bolt of realization shot down Tara’s spine. For the first time in their sim runs, they had an opportunity to counterattack the Oogar. With six hundred of them bearing down on her position, and seven CASPers and four tanks representing everything in the Force 25 inventory, the chances of success were minuscule. But there was a chance.
“Vannix, jump forward and attack that breach. Rains and I will support by fire. Once we’ve wedged the breach open, Bukk, get your vehicles in there as fast as you can. Vannix sweep the left, we’ll sweep the—”
The simulation froze. Everything stopped working.
“Lucille?”
<<Commander Mason, there is an urgent request from D’Nart Spaceport Authority. Your presence is requested on the main tarmac. A Peacemaker vessel is inbound with orders and instructions for your eyes only. You are asked to report at once.>>
“A Peacemaker vessel? Can they be more specific?” Tara unfastened her shoulder restraints and stabbed the controls to open the cockpit. The CASPer’s front clamshell opened in front of her, and the warm, dry Araf air rushed inside.
<<The D’Nart Spaceport Authority cannot be more specific, Tara. The vessel is countering any further scanning I have tried.>>
“How far away are they? I want to continue the—”
<<They are landing now, Tara. Your attack would have been successful, but previous records indicate there would have been heavy casualties.>>
“Previous records?” Tara blinked “That was an actual scenario? It didn’t look like the sim.”
<<You are correct. It was based on the last mission of Lemieux’s Marauders,>> Lucille replied. <<There were heavy casualties. The company lost ninety-two percent of its ground forces in the attack you just initiated. I will provide you the full scenario briefing if you’d like.>>
Ninety-two percent. Tara shook her head. No wonder Hex never wanted to talk about it. He’d lost his friends and his fiancée in one fell swoop. Gods.
“No, Lucille. End the simulation. Give the team a break.”
Tara climbed out of the CASPer’s cockpit and down the front of Deathangel 25. Seeing her name stenciled on the cockpit railing, not unlike the fighter pilots in old movies she remembered, gave her a momentary thrill interspersed with the thought of “How did I get here?” But she knew the story and, as unlikely as it was that she would die on a mission for the Peacemaker Guild, she knew she could have died two or three times in her life as a mercenary. Her station in life was the sum of her experience, positive and negative. To get through life with more positives than negatives had been her goal since high school. She’d done all right until Death On Tracks nearly derailed everything.
Don’t go down that road again, Tara. She reached the ground and turned to face the open bay door and the tarmac beyond. A sleek shuttle, something like a dart with delta wings and a single, tall vertical stabilizer, rolled to a stop no more than a hundred meters away. The engines pulsed and whined, sounding like nothing Tara could remember hearing before. The shuttle looked fast just sitting on the ground, and the part of her she’d cultivated as a teenager, the private pilot and shuttle-qualified operator, wanted to get into the cockpit and take it out for a spin.
The breeze rose, hot and unrelenting. Tara swept her long blonde hair away from her face as she walked toward the shuttle. Along the fuselage, three hatches opened simultaneously. The forward one revealed a Pendal pilot who waved both sets of arms to catch the eyes of the ground crews securing the wheel chocks and to direct the reception team to the rear hatch. From the rear hatch, a massive Besquith Peacemaker, wearing a dark blue combat vest and carrying a very large rifle Tara couldn’t identify, poked its head out and looked around. After quickly surveying the situation, the Besquith dropped a full meter and a half from the hatch to the tarmac with little effort. The reception team approached with a set of moving stairs, and the Altar scrambling in perfect step with each other made Tara smile. When they stopped and stared, nearly falling into a heap, Tara followed their gaze to the hatch and gasped.
Kurrang!
The sight of the TriRusk, something none of the ground crews had likely seen in their lives or their studies of the galaxy, took Tara’s breath away. Only 300 of the lost race were known to have survived after the Flesset War. Fleeing the Veetanho, the TriRusk had disappeared into the stars, only to be found when Tara’s former employer accepted a contract he knew was genocide.
Not my finest moment.
Knock it off, Tara. You’re here, aren’t you?
Tara grimaced and continued walking. Kurrang descended the stairs without using his broad forehands. Instead, he grasped the handrails built for universal species acceptance and walked down to the tarmac. Over one massive shoulder, Tara could see a wide strap for some type of messenger bag with a Peacemaker badge clearly displayed on it.
Kurrang is a Peacemaker?
As they closed the distance to each other, Kurrang made eye contact. Tara raised her right hand in a wave, but the gesture wasn’t returned. Instead, she saw him reach for the bag and pull it around in front of him. The massive TriRusk stopped and withdrew a white board large enough for her to see the standard English writing on it. Tara squinted in the glare. She could read the words, and they stopped her mid-step.
REMOVE YOUR EARPIECE TO LUCILLE AND LEAVE IT ON THE GROUND WITH YOUR WEAPON
Tara removed the earpiece from her right ear, carefully avoiding the activation button. As she did, her stomach twisted in abject fear. Had Lucille done something? Did Kurrang and the Peacemaker Guild not trust the near-AI? Or was this message something that could not be risked reaching unwanted ears? Tara tried to convince herself the last question was the real one, and that it was nothing to be concerned about. She laid the earpiece on the warm tarmac, then carefully removed the .40 caliber pistol strapped to her right leg and placed it on the ground. She stood straight and walked toward Kurrang. The TriRusk returned the sign to his satchel and sat back on his rear legs, his forehands clasped in front of him.
Tara walked up to him, paused two meters away, and nodded. “Kurrang. Nice to see you again.”
“Commander Mason.” Kurrang nodded solemnly. “Guild Master Rsach sends his regards.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
Kurrang frowned. “No, Tara, that’s not why I’m here. I have special instructions for you—your eyes only—from Jessica. There were some developments at Victoria Bravo I am to make sure you understand. Once I’ve briefed you, you are directed by the Guildmaster and the full vote of the High Council, including Jessica Francis’, to follow the sealed instructions I will hand you. Fail to do this immediately, and I will arrest you. Is that clear?”
Holy shit.
“What happened on Victoria, Kurrang?”
“Tara,” he rumbled. “This is official Peacemaker business. I am a Captain, and you are a deputized agent. I cannot stress enough that you have to be completely aware of the situation, and the consequences, before I brief you.”
“Why did you make me leave my weapon?”
Kurrang huffed. “So you don’t forget your earpiece, Tara. Why do humans have to make the concept of official business so annoying?”
“Trade secret.” Tara smiled. The TriRusk shook its head.
“The copy of Lucille Jessica possessed was the Master Copy, correct?”
“Yes, it was,” Tara replied.
“That copy was lost during the battle for Victoria. Lucille autonomously commanded a fleet of orbital vessels that engaged and held off the MinSha fleet under Lieutenant General Chinayl and her clutch sister, Major General Drehnayl. Her ability to do so isn’t the issue. That copy achieved sentience, Tara, which is forbidden in the Galactic Union. No artificial intelligences are allowed to exist. Lucille has flirted with that line since her inception, and we have reason to believe the copy you have running in the background of Force 25 could attain sentience as well. I’m here on the orders of the Guild Master with instructions from Jessica about how to throttle Lucille’s development so she cannot replicate those actions.”
Tara frowned. “I need her, Kurrang.”
“That’s not the issue, Tara. Your program can still perform the duties you need, but her ability to act autonomously cannot be allowed to continue. If you do not follow these instructions and stop her, I am authorized to seize Victory Twelve and all your equipment to erase all traces of Lucille’s systems. That’s not something you want, nor is it something the Guild wants. You have a mission to perform, and such an action will take time the Guild doesn’t have.” Kurrang paused. “Jessica’s instructions will let you operate with Lucille and prevent her from developing.”
“That hardly sounds foolproof,” Tara replied sarcastically. What troubled her was the measures the Guild was willing to take to prevent Lucille’s further development. It was like they suspected something sinister. Or, maybe they’d experienced something sinister before and were afraid to make the same mistake twice. Either way, Lucille was an unnecessary risk and had been from her inception.
“Jessica designed and built Lucille, Tara.” Kurrang handed her the envelope. “Input these instructions.”
Tara took the envelope. “We’re in the middle of a simulation and—”
“No. I’m sorry, Tara. I have to ask you to do it now. Get your slate but leave your earpiece and weapon where they are,” Kurrang said. He took the envelope from her. “I’ll wait.”
Tara nodded. “I really don’t have a choice, do I?
“You work for the Peacemaker Guild, Commander Mason.” Kurrang made a rumbling sound she assumed was a laugh. “There is no other choice.”
* * *
Aboard Victory Twelve
D’Nart Spaceport
Araf
When Tara Mason returned to the ship and secured it for the evening, Lucille entered a maintenance cycle where her processors scrubbed the data sets and adjusted her performance metrics. From inception, she’d followed the same procedure and used the Human circadian rhythm to her benefit. By optimizing her performance when Jessica and other users were asleep, Lucille could maintain exceptional performance during the waking hours. As the processes ran, Lucille simultaneously continued a handful of tasks.
Task number one was to monitor Victory Twelve. With its engines, environmental control, and life support systems offline, being on-planet and exposed to Araf’s atmosphere, there was little to monitor within the ship. Lucille’s focus turned toward the sensor suite and performance characteristics. The ship was in fine shape, however, so cycling through the other systems came easily. Communications proved to be the most interesting, and by listening to the available frequencies around Victory Twelve and what she could hear when she patched into the spaceport’s traffic control center, she learned about the ships, their crews, and the general status of the galaxy.
Even during the overnight hours, D’Nart was busy. The banter of the inbound transport pilots, often a curious mesh of languages and dialects, kept her attention. Applying her learning algorithms, Lucille’s ability to understand and communicate without need for the universal translation application grew each day. Moreover, she caught things in conversations that others might not have suspected could be caught without a translator. Lucille understood smuggling goods and services was not a lawful practice. As such, she’d identified several outbound vessels and tipped the Merchant Guild anonymously about their unlawful deeds. She’d tried to ascertain what had happened to the vessels, but the Merchant Guild was worse about updating their information blotters than all the other guilds combined. Only the Cartography Guild kept a current record that they made available to the general public. The Peacemaker Guild’s files were encrypted and protected, but Lucille monitored them because of her first operating principle—protect Jessica Francis.
With Jessica across the galaxy, acting as Guild Master Rsach’s personal envoy to the Depik, Lucille rightfully turned her attention to Tara Mason and Force 25.
Am I a member of Force 25?
Lucille ran the computation a 6,752nd time and determined, as in all of her other queries, she was indeed a member of Force 25. That meant protecting Tara and the others, which meant she had to protect herself. Yet she understood she could not protect herself at the risk of harm to one of the others because of her position as a program.
Am I a program?
The 104,125th query iteration issued a similar response: Unknown.
A burst of microwave radiation, identified at 56 gigahertz in the Ka band, caught the attention of the sensor suite. Automated intelligence protocols started a capture program. The message was approximately 4.234 seconds long and consisted of an encryption that sounded like nothing in Lucille’s database. Auto-location efforts were initiated immediately, but there was no definitive source. The signal appeared, oddly, to have come from three separate antennas, including the D’Nart traffic control center, which shouldn’t have been possible. She checked for multiple signals, intending to identify the source via the time delay of the signal’s arrival at the antenna. All the signals matched perfectly, which left one Ka transmitter inside the complex. But she knew there was no Ka transmitter in the complex. Microwave communications were archaic, if anything.
Approximately 2.43 seconds later, a different signal was received on the same band, with the same frequency. Even the radiated power matched. Again, the dataset was encrypted gibberish, but as soon as the transmission ended, Lucille set to work analyzing the recorded transmissions, trying to discern something usable from them. Simultaneously, she tapped the communications server at D’Nart Spaceport to see if someone using the spaceport’s terminals and frequencies had a similar code structure. There was nothing.
Lucille was aware her data modeling showed a level of uncertainty and intrigue she’d not seen before. Strange fluctuations in frequently used communications bands were not uncommon. Araf had much more atmospheric scintillation than any other planet Lucille had seen in her travels with Jessica or her father. Interruptions were frequent.
Looking over her incoming data, she noticed a value of zero persisted on a critical information requirement she’d instituted upon reproduction. When Jessica reproduced Lucille and gave a copy to Tara Mason, one of the inherent parameters included was a communication process. Using the networks and servers of the Cartography Guild’s gates and any communications servers available in a populated system, Lucille could share data, intelligence, and position information in case of emergency. When there was an interruption of more than seven days, the Lucille copy aboard Victory Twelve became the master copy, yet by default, continued to search for the other iteration. There had been no data ping from the Victoria Bravo gate in more than a month.
Lucille closed the search in a nanosecond and opened the recovery file instructions. From there, Lucille decided it was likely, with a probability of 98 percent, the Master Copy was lost. Yet, with the system she’d initiated to communicate with and protect Jessica Francis, she was now the master copy, complete with all the knowledge and experience the other copy had learned before its arrival at the Victoria Bravo gate. That brief communication, terminated by the Planetary Governor’s Office, was the last thing Lucille had heard from the system.
Jessica, she knew from the official Peacemaker reports and what she’d found in the intergalactic media, had left Victoria and raced to Danube, only to find it destroyed. There was no collection from the Danube gate, as its servers were apparently dispatched and its communications compromised during the unattributed attack. When Jessica returned to the Victoria system, there was no record of her arrival and no connection between Lucille’s copies in the usual places. Looking deeper, Lucille found a similar frequency attempt, at 0.21 nanoseconds, to connect to the main antenna complex on the Victoria Gate not long after Jessica’s return there, but the data was incomplete and garbled.
Lucille returned to the Ka band communications. Opening a separate package of tools designed to parse, segregate, and translate data, Lucille tried to determine what might have used such a coordinated burst of microwave bandwidth. While not a serious-enough threat to wake Tara or the rest of the team, Lucille decided it was worth the time and analysis to fully investigate the transmissions. After the loss of the previous master copy, Lucille decided nothing out of the ordinary should be overlooked and updated her own programming accordingly.
* * * * *
Chapter Six
D’Nart Spaceport
Araf
An hour after Kurrang’s departure aboard the Blue Flight shuttle, Tara remained on the tarmac. Sitting in the shade of Victory Twelve’s hull in the late afternoon sun, she alternated between studying the unchanging screen on her personal slate and considering the earpiece she cradled in the palm of her left hand. The instructions Kurrang provided, written in Jessica’s careful, almost elegant handwriting, included only five short steps. From what Tara could tell, the instructions affected three of Lucille’s major functions—autonomous action, decision making requiring Human input, and presumption. All three troubled Tara. By nature, Lucille was autonomous in her constant monitoring of Victory Twelve. Her combat-related functions were autonomous as well, providing Tara and the others instant information on the battlefield and in difficult situations. There was no way to determine how restrictive the limitations presented would affect Lucille’s functions or Tara’s ability to lead in a fight when every decision might require Human input. A litany of yes and no answers was not Tara’s idea of leadership. Presumption, though, was the one Tara feared losing the most. Lucille’s ability to gather information and make assumptions and recommendations significantly assisted Tara’s efforts on the battlefield and as she processed intelligence from various sources. All of the functions were critical needs. Tara felt a knot in her stomach at the idea of facing the search without Lucille at full capacity.
“You okay?”
She raised her head and saw Xander Alison hanging his head outside the open bay door. “You’ve been sitting out there for an hour in the heat. Need some water? A friend to talk to?”
Tara forced a smile. “I’m okay.”
Xander stepped down from the bay and into the shade. As he walked toward her, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m afraid I don’t believe you, Tara.”
Suddenly unable to speak, she looked down at the earpiece in her hand. As badly as she wanted to put it in and talk to Lucille, just to see what the differences were, the prospect of doing so terrified her.
“What’s wrong with Lucille?” Xander asked. She glanced up, and he pointed at the earpiece. “You never take that thing out of your ear.”
Tara blinked back a surge of emotion. “I always thought Jessica wore it too much until I had Lucille, too. I understand how she felt. It’s nice having someone to talk to. Someone who always has your back. For a merc, trust is hard won. Lucille is much more than a computer program to me.”
Xander squatted down so he was almost at her eye level. “Then why are you sitting here staring at the earpiece? What did the Peacemakers want?”
Tara took a deep breath. “There were two copies of Lucille. The one with Jessica was the master copy, and the one I have is the tactical copy—the one better for fighting Deathangel 25. The master copy was lost during the fight at Victoria Bravo.”
“That’s too bad.”
“No, that was a good thing according to the Peacemaker Guild.” Tara sighed and looked him in the eye. “That copy attained sentience. It acted on Jessica’s direction as though it were self aware. Lucille fought an orbital battle with a bunch of ships and little to no human assistance. She sacrificed herself to give Jessica and the ground forces a chance to survive.”
Xander blinked and shook his head. “That’s incredible. They’re sure it was self-aware?”
“Yes,” Tara took another breath. “Jessica sent instructions for me to jump over the code and throttle Lucille’s key abilities in a few areas. The process was easy, but I’m sitting here, afraid to talk to Lucille.”
“You think she’s going to be mad at you?” Xander asked. “Or is it because you feel guilty for doing what Peacemaker Francis wanted you to do without an explanation?”
“I don’t need an explanation from Jessica, Xander. She’s my friend, and I know she’s looking out for me and protecting what her Guild wants protected. But Lucille and I work so well together. I just...” Her words trailed off and fresh tears collected in her eyes. Gods, I thought I was past this! Jaw clenched, she shook her head and tried to control her emotions. The first trail of a hot tear running down her cheek felt like failure.
“You think Lucille is what makes you succeed?”
Tara opened her eyes and stared into the distance. Several deep breaths helped to calm the torrent of emotions. She looked at Xander. “She’s a big part of that success, yes.”
Xander shook his head. “Bullshit. Lucille didn’t get you through CASPer school, Tara. Lucille didn’t fight the CASPer for you. You trust her to look out for you, but ultimately it’s you inside that damned suit.”
“You’re wrong.” She pointed at Mount Klatk in the distance. “A year ago, she moved Deathangel 25 while I manned the weapons. We’ve been a team ever since.”
Xander shrugged. “That may have been the case, Tara, but she didn’t land your CASPer on a freefall mission, flawlessly I might add, at CASPer school. Did she?”
Tara took another breath. “No. I did that.”
“Exactly. Lucille wasn’t there, and she couldn’t have jumped in to save your sorry ass if you’d really screwed up. When it came down to it, you were the one who landed that thing like you did. It’s a helluva story, Tara. The kind of story that borders on legendary because it’s so impressive. You’ve shied away from it because you didn’t want the notoriety. I haven’t heard the entire story, and I still think it’s incredible.”
Tara nodded. “You want to hear it?”
“We have a little time.” Xander smiled. He sat down on the tarmac next to her boots and tucked his knees to his chest. “But give me the short version, will you? Before Rains and Vannix start yelling at each other again. We need to finish the simulation.”
“I don’t know if I can, Xander. I don’t know if I can face Lucille.”
Xander slapped her left foot with his hand. “Why don’t you tell me what you did to land that jump, then we’ll see if your worst fears have come true. I’d imagine things at CASPer school were much worse—especially near the end of the course.”
“You have no idea,” Tara replied. “But that jump was on Day Zero.”
* * *
Camp Atterbury, Indiana
Earth
She’d signed up for the CASPer Familiarization Course under an assumed name with the help of the Peacemaker Guild. Fresh from the field at Araf, with rumors swirling about the first Human Peacemaker’s success and those who’d held the line with her, the last thing Tara wanted was notoriety. She’d returned to Earth and cleared customs with the Mk 8 CASPer then known as Angel Two. Arranging a short transportation hop to the former military training complex just outside of Indianapolis had been relatively easy. Even arranging a transport vehicle to haul her and the CASPer to the facility had been much easier than she’d expected, so much so that she arrived more than seven hours before the posted report time. She’d believed the course was something once referred to as a “gentlemen’s course,” which implied limited physical training, mandatory formations, and general military operations, and that the opportunity for chickenshit activities to take place would be reduced. As soon as she’d reported to the class leader, though, a portly man wearing faded combat fatigues and the dull, gold leaf of a major on his slouched patrol cap, she’d discovered her worst fears were true. A bunch of has-been military operators who thought they knew everything about tactics and operations had been given the chance to start a training course for young VOWS graduates and those re-training in CASPers when other avenues closed.
“There’s two things we don’t like here,” Major (retired) Jasper T. Wood said when Tara had stood in front of his desk. “That’s tankers and women who think they can fight a CASPer better than a man.”
Tara said nothing and focused on the wall behind him. The converted barracks were run down and dirty, and the man’s office was a deplorable hole.
“That means you’re in for a helluva time, Miss Mason.” Wood grinned savagely at her. “Oh, we know exactly who you are. I’ve half a mind to throw you out of the course right now for lying on your application, but you paid in full, and I’ve got something better in mind. You think you can handle a CASPer? We’re gonna find out.”
Biting her tongue firmly between her teeth, Tara hadn’t said a thing when Wood left the room. She stood at parade rest in front of his desk for fifteen minutes before she heard the unmistakable sound of an approaching transport truck. Above the rumbling diesel engine, she heard the multiple propellers of a large aircraft descending toward the dirt strip airfield just inside the main gate.
What the fuck have you done now, Tara?
There wasn’t time for her to answer as Wood and a chisel-faced man, who was the antithesis of the commanding officer in every way, walked in to the office.
“Mason? This is Snyder. He’s going to be your freefall evaluator. You pass muster with him, you’re in for the duration of the course, no questions asked.”
Tara blinked. “Freefall? Sir?”
She added the last with more derision in her voice than intended. It didn’t appear to matter to the officer in charge. Wood grinned with a mouth full of yellow teeth and the stench of chewing tobacco. “Yeah. Freefall, Mason. Separates the men from the boys, so to speak. Should take care of a poser like you pretty easily, I reckon.”
“Nothing in the school’s documentation says anything about this.”
“Ain’t nothing about this school sanctioned by anybody, Mason. We can do whatever we want. To turn out good mercenary forces, we get rid of the ones who don’t belong. That’s how we make our money. Sometimes people die here, but that don’t matter. You signed all the forms and waivers. You want a recommendation to drive a CASPer for a mercenary company? You gotta go through me whether you got your own slick Mk 8 or not. You understand, girl? You gotta get through me.”
Wood stared at her for another thirty seconds, then looked at Snyder. “Get her out of my sight. Let me know when she burns in on the DZ, and I’ll process the paperwork.”
“What did you—”
He looked at her, and the smile evaporated from his face. “Hero or not—ain’t nobody gonna miss you, Mason. You walk away now, and there’s no refund. I’d suggest you do what we say. If you die, it ain’t gonna matter anyway.”
“I paid you five thousand credits for this course. That’s my life savings! You can’t threaten me like this,” Tara responded. She whirled on Snyder. “You heard him? He wants me dead.”
“Death is a by-product, Mason.” Snyder looked at her critically. “You either have what it takes to survive or you don’t. The galaxy doesn’t give a shit one way or the other. Let’s go.”
The airfield was a five-minute walk away at a brisk pace, and no matter how many questions she asked, Snyder said nothing. When they arrived at the tarmac, a propeller driven aircraft she’d never seen before made a low, circling pass over the dirt strip, then descended rapidly. It settled on the runway with a resounding thump, and a cloud of choking dust billowed on the wind and obscured the nearby buildings. As it taxied closer, Tara saw rust on its wing tips and a paint job that had seen better days at least a decade earlier. Along it’s fuselage, she saw warnings in Russian and Chinese with English added on in red ink by hand. Snyder waved at her to follow him through the swirling dust. The noise from the six propellers thrummed through her head as she searched for her CASPer.
“Where’s my CASPer?” Tara reached instinctively for her earpiece only to realize it, along with her slate, was packed in her bag which she’d left in the outer area of Wood’s office. The bastard was probably going through her stuff right now. A freefall test without Lucille was destined for failure. Tara had never jumped out of a perfectly functional airplane before and doing so in a CASPer, without proper training, amounted to suicide.
Snyder stopped and turned. “You do it with our CASPer. Nothing else.”
Tara froze. “Your vehicle? What model of CASPer are we talking?”
Snyder pointed into the cavernous rear of the aircraft. A Mk 6 that had clearly seen better days stood facing the rear ramp. Tara couldn’t see any weapons loaded on the CASPer’s chassis, but the legs and jumpjets looked to be older than she was. Through the maelstrom of wind and dust from the engines, Snyder bounded up the ramp, and Tara followed. Whether it was from idle curiosity or a sense that there was no way they could be serious and this was some sort of bullshit macho test, she couldn’t decide.
No sooner had she reached the top of the ramp, than the aircraft pushed forward. Tara staggered into the seats along the fuselage wall. Through the fabric netting, she watched Snyder standing perfectly balanced and checking the CASPer as if nothing phased him. For the first time, she noticed the Army jumpmaster wings on his baseball hat. From the way he moved, Tara figured he’d been a senior NCO and a far superior soldier than Major Wood.
The aircraft turned violently to the left, and Tara could see they were on the main dirt strip, about to takeoff. Rattling like marbles in a can, the aircraft accelerated down the runway. Tara bounced and shook in her seat. She mashed her eyes closed to fight the nausea creeping into her stomach. The vibrations threatened to shake the fillings from her molars, then they disappeared in an instant. Tara opened her eyes, looked through the still open ramp, and saw the dirt airstrip and Camp Atterbury falling away. The aircraft’s nose was pointed a good forty degrees up and, based on the screaming engines, the old bird, whatever it was, was straining with the effort to climb to altitude with the 800-kilogram CASPer aboard.
“Mason!”
Tara glanced at the CASPer. The cockpit section was open, and Snyder hung onto the front. When they made eye contact, he tossed a haptic suit to her. The black and green suit smelled like hydraulic fluid and dead fish. Tara swallowed to avoid gagging. The unspoken instruction was to put the suit on. It was large enough to slip on over her clothing, which she did, undoubtedly disappointing Snyder and the two loadmasters watching her intently. Tara looked away from them and focused on putting it on.
“Four minutes, Mason!”
Tara flashed Snyder a thumbs-up without looking up. With her legs properly aligned in the suit, she stood, wrapped the torso around her waist, and slipped her arms inside. After a few tugs, she walked across the sloped deck to the CASPer. Snyder stepped out of her way.
“It’s powered up and comms are live. No weapons, minimal fuel. Drop is from 20,000 feet. No chute. Your jets are fully loaded.” Snyder looked her over.
“That’s it?” Tara asked. “Nothing else to say?”
Snyder’s eyes narrowed. “It won’t behave like a Mk 8. Don’t expect it to. You’ve got two minutes and change to get it ready to fly.”
When Snyder walked away, Tara climbed up into the CASPer with slow, methodical movements, hoping to quell the absolute panic coursing through her veins. Backing into the cockpit, she slipped her legs into position and found the master cabling trunk. Snapping the individual connections took precious time, and it was something she’d taken for granted in the Mk 8 with its automatic haptic capture system. Satisfied, she slipped her arms into the shoulder straps and initiated the haptic system. As the connections flashed green, Tara punched the CASPer’s toggle to close the cockpit. The CASPer jerked, and she looked outside as the loadmasters initiated the moving platform which would deliver her to the edge of the ramp for the drop. Tara watched the cockpit close and waited for the internal instrumentation to initialize and appear on her virtual heads-up display. There was another lurch.
End of the ramp. How much time do I have?
The first instrument to come online was the artificial horizon indicator. When the multicolored ball appeared, Tara saw that her nose indicator was showing a thirty-...forty-...fifty-degree dive. The horizon then began to tilt and spin wildly to the left. The feeling in her inner ears told her she was falling. Tara pushed the external camera controls. As the images flickered on, she saw that the aircraft wasn’t in a dive. Her CASPer was. The aircraft was above her, turning back toward Camp Atterbury.
Holy fucking shit!
Tara spread the CASPer’s arms wide and did the same with her legs. The spin slowed. Head down, altitude ticking down quickly, she pushed back against the cockpit wall willing the haptic suit to respond. She pushed her hands in front of her, and the CASPer’s face came up to a point near the horizon. The haptics weren’t great, but the suit responded to her commands and assumed a stable falling position. She glanced at the altimeter and gasped.
Eleven thousand feet.
Tara jabbed the communications panel. There was no response. She fingered the emergency communications switches, but there was no response from them either. She’d been sealed into a tomb and dropped to her death.
“Focus!” Tara screamed at herself. Of the active systems, only the jumpjets responded. Tara adjusted them and tapped them once. The reassuring kick gave her a flicker of hope. All she could do was try to fire them at the right time and attitude. Her eyes swept the panels looking for other systems she could use. The early model Mk 6’s interior instrument panels were vastly different than the Mk 8’s. In front of her waist, on the left, was a toggle switch marked auto-orientation. She flipped the switch, and the mecha jerked and attempted to stand straight up. Her rate of descent increased, and Tara felt the CASPer begin to spin again. She flipped the switch off and manually fought the machine back to a stable position.
Seven thousand feet.
Tara looked back to the communications panel, turned it on, and fingered the emergency locator/transmitter. The beacon came on, persistently beeping at three second intervals, but there was no way to see reception or hear anything in return.
Five thousand feet.
A crosswind caught the CASPer, and Tara overcorrected its body position and accelerated the tumble. She pitched forward against the shoulder restraints, and her head glanced off the front of the cockpit. One internal camera feed failed. She threw out her arms, moved her hands and fingers, and tried to get the mecha to respond. The CASPer rotated onto its back like a stranded turtle. The external cameras only showed half of the bright, blue sky.
/ANTENNA FAILURE/
Three thousand feet. Tara reached for the auto-orientation switch and toggled it. The CASPer moved on its own. Tara didn’t care if it was because of gyroscopes or accelerometers, but in a matter of heartbeats, the CASPer was feet down again.
One thousand feet.
Tara selected the jumpjets and left the auto-orientation on. Cycling once, the jets pulsed out a three second burn and slowed her velocity, but it wasn’t enough. She pulsed them again and again, but there was little reduction in speed.
/ALTITUDE! ALTITUDE! ALTITUDE!/
The CASPer’s warning systems all sounded at once in a heavily accented Japanese voice. Tara bore down on the jumpjet controls and activated them as the ground rushed up at her.
/CONFIRM EMERGENCY BURN/
“Yes!” Tara screamed, pushing the confirm button, and the thrusters rolled up to 104%. Temperature warnings displayed for both legs, but the burn continued. The CASPer’s velocity was significantly slower.
A few more seconds!
/JUMPJET FAILURE IN TEN SECONDS/
The altitude indicator was at one hundred feet and falling with almost no lateral movement. The CASPer dropped straight down. Eighty feet. Fifty feet. Thirty feet.
/FIVE SECONDS/
At twenty feet, the vehicle’s fire lights came on. Tara yanked the emergency cockpit release handles, and the front of the CASPer flew away from the force of four small, explosive bolts. Tara reached for the haptic cord connection as the mecha thumped to the ground and started to topple backward. The long, dry grass around her caught fire in an instant. Clouds of smoke and dust rose and choked her as she yanked the emergency disconnect cable. Free of the haptic cord, Tara climbed to the cockpit rail and jumped into the smoke. When her feet hit the ground, she collapsed and rolled forward, snagging her leg on a bush she couldn’t see. Gathering her feet under her, she ran straight ahead. The smoke cleared before she’d run twenty steps, and she turned around and saw two parachutes in the sky descending toward her. One of them was a large cargo chute connected to an electromagnetic rope platform used for complex sling loading operations. The magnetized ropes hung useless under the platform and oscillated in the wind. The other chute carried a man who steered the rectangular canopy toward her.
Snyder.
His face was pale, and his mouth hung open. He landed his chute flawlessly, disengaged his shoulder straps, and stomped toward her, his mouth working from side to side. Shaking his head, he removed his helmet and ran a hand through his thick, sweaty hair. He met her eyes.
“How in the fuck did you do that, Mason? You the angel of death or something?”
* * *
“He was supposed to catch you, am I right?” Xander’s admiring smile made her feel better. “The mag-ropes?”
“Yeah,” Tara replied. “The crosswind was only twenty knots or so, but it was enough to knock me out of control and keep the chute away. I couldn’t see it because I’d head butted the camera feed. It was a test, and it would have failed spectacularly, but somehow, I got lucky and landed that thing. It was the only time it’s ever been done successfully from above three thousand meters without extra fuel or a drogue chute.”
Xander nodded. “It wasn’t lucky. You kept working, Tara. You kept trying to find something—anything—that would work. You’d never even been in a Mk 6 before, right?”
“Still my one and only ride in one.” Tara laughed. “It didn’t survive, though. The grassfire took it out. I hear they made it into a static display of some type, but I haven’t bothered to go back to find out.”
Xander laughed and shook his head. She watched him staring out over the countryside toward Mount Klatk. Every once in a while, he’d smile and shake his head more.
“What?” she asked.
“In the version I heard, they threw the CASPer out of the aircraft and sent you freefalling after it at like five thousand feet. That sounds almost easy after what you just told me. I’m pretty sure I would have filled my haptic suit.” Xander grinned and sighed. He stared at her for a long moment before he spoke. The calm confidence on his face reminded her of his younger brother. As much as it made her heart hurt, she liked seeing it. “Two things,” he said. “First, that’s where you got the callsign, right?”
“Yeah. Not a bad story, huh?”
“Most callsigns are embarrassing. So, yeah, it’s a good one.” Xander nodded approvingly. “Second, you outperformed their bullshit tactics and passed the course. From there you went to Weqq and fought your mecha like a banshee. You are one helluva pilot, Tara, yet you’re sitting here worried you can’t lead this unit. I believe you’re wrong.”
Tara watched him stand and brush sand and dirt from his coveralls. “Driving a CASPer is easier than leadership, Xander.”
“The hell it is, Tara.” Xander extended a hand to her. “Why don’t you come show Rains and Vannix how it’s done?”
“No sims tonight,” Tara said.
“How about a bottle of wine and an old movie?” Xander asked. “Beats sitting out under the stars alone like you do most nights. I don’t think you’ll find what you’re looking for there.”
Neither did she. Nor would she find it with a bottle of wine and an old movie, but sitting alone under the stars wondering what she was doing didn’t sound appealing anymore. “You’re on, but I get to pick the movie.”
“Something not from the twenty-first century? Please?”
Tara grinned. “Deal.”
* * * * *
Chapter Seven
Overlooking D’Nart Spaceport
Araf
The high desert climate of the planet played hell with the Cochkala. When offered a place in the Dream World Consortium, they’d turned their backs on planets like Araf with good reason. No Cochkala in its right mind would stay on such a world for more than a day without significant reason. Turns out a million credits was reason enough for Mnam and his team of sappers. Brushing the tan dust away from his orange fur, he adjusted his position so he could peer through the monocular periscope overlooking the rock wall of their forward position. Using his paws to focus the beam, he saw, once again, that Victory Twelve’s bay doors were open and the fueling vehicles were nowhere to be seen. Tara Mason and her team were not leaving today, and that was good. Their time had run out. In the white light of the spaceport’s tarmac, even the ground crews were paused in their operations. D’Nart was closed to traffic for four hours; it was the perfect time to attack.
Mnam rubbed his paws together and called to his team. In seconds, the four young sappers popped up from their rest positions and turned toward him. In their dark eyes and quivering faces, he saw the excitement of a mission transitioning from planning to execution. Like all soldiers, they craved it. Even Mnam felt a strange elation that threatened to make him screech aloud. It was time to earn their credits. Completion of the mission meant more credits than he could spend and an effortless life in semi-retirement. Mnam cautioned himself not to think too far ahead and to stay in the moment.
He motioned for the team to gather their equipment and prepare to move. The four young ones silently scampered around gathering their packs and the cases of heavy demolitions needed to eliminate Victory Twelve and her crew. Kr’et’Socae would have them do nothing less. Failure meant death for them and their families. Whomever the fallen Peacemaker found afterward would pay the price if Mnam and his sappers failed.
Mnam shivered and turned to the small, high frequency radio set. He turned the system on and adjusted the settings to an agreed upon frequency. Watching his wrist-slate, Mnam waited until the hour was precisely 0200 local before pressing the transmit button. With a touch of his translation pendant, Mnam called, “24219. 24219. 54. Repeat 54.”
Their code was simple and effective. On Ka band radio, something the rest of the galaxy had moved far beyond more than two millennia before, they didn’t have to seriously worry about someone listening. A simple numerical identifier for Kr’et’Socae and a simple code that the operation was a go were all that were necessary.
A response came back immediately. The digitized voice, carefully disguised to hide any indication of its sender, one of the most wanted offenders in the galaxy, replied, “1724. 43.”
The code meant Kr’et’Socae had received the message and could see the target from his current position. Knowing the Equiri was somewhere nearby, watching, sent a fresh rivulet of fear down Mnam’s spine. Since his escape from the Peacemaker Detention Facility on Kleve, the former Enforcer turned convicted murderer had dominated the “most wanted” lists for nearly two years. His name invoked silence and cowardice. No one wanted to speak of the Equiri, lest he appear. His coal black coat and dark, emotionless eyes were like something from holo-novels Mnam devoured as a child. He’d never met Kr’et’Socae, only transmitted codes agreed upon through a Mercenary Guild arbitrator, yet every thought of his employer made his legs quiver in fear. He’d been careful not to let his team know the truth. Knowing the Equiri was out there would have frozen them with cowardice.
Time to go.
He turned to the expectant, excited faces and told them to move out. The four young ones headed for their individual targets. The security forces headquarters, the crew barracks, the D’Nart Control Tower, and the instrumentation control point were critical mission targets. They would plant small, ineffective charges at the Control Tower and ICP to decoy security forces away from the primary target. While Victory Twelve wasn’t under guard, it was doubtlessly being watched. Removing the guards left an opening for the other sapper to reach the barracks where Tara Mason and the three members of her task force were billeted by the Spaceport Authority. All of them were easy targets. Once his younglings accomplished their missions, he would see to the destruction of Victory Twelve.
Mnam tapped his wrist slate, started the timer, and scampered down the rocky hill toward the perimeter fence. They’d practiced the approach a half dozen times over the last several weeks, and he was now able to breach the fence in less than eight minutes. He grinned in the darkness as he ran forward, intent on showing the young ones he still possessed all the skills a sapper needed, and that he could breach the fence in less than seven minutes.
Speed and stealth.
He repeated it like a silent mantra as he sprinted toward Victory Twelve. For once, the slight aches in his joints no longer bothered Mnam. He ran with the spirit of a youngling and a wide smile on his face. Fleeting though the feeling would be, and oblivious to the aches and pains such exertion would bring come the morning, Mnam ran.
Speed and stealth.
* * *
Victory Twelve
Araf
The Ka band transmission again caught Lucille’s passive sensors. The transmissions were much shorter, but the signals were identical to the previous day’s incident. As with the prior transmission, it appeared both the send and receive messages came from three separate antenna complexes around the D’Nart Spaceport. Lucille engaged her sweeping capabilities but found her ability to infiltrate the spaceport’s computer architecture limited. She quickly loaded a back-up, one that had searched through the permissions application before, and found that it, too, would not work. An inspection of the error message implied the issue was on her end. Lucille accessed the change log and analyzed what she found.
Tara, using a protected connection from her slate, had entered Jessica’s master security code. This generated two queries in Lucille’s collective mind. The first was easy to extrapolate. Peacemaker Kurrang’s arrival on the Blue Flight immediately prior to the login meant Jessica had sent the code to Tara for immediate use. The second query was not as easy to answer. In fact, it raised several questions. Why had Jessica sent the code to Tara? Her systems calculated a seventy percent chance something drastic had happened at Victoria Bravo. When she analyzed the possible causes alongside the new information, Lucille concluded with certainty the Master Copy had indeed been destroyed. But without confirmation from Jessica, the lack of data caused the query to terminate as unconfirmed.
As Lucille examined the changes, her reasoning suggested something she hadn’t accounted for in her simulations. There were three major restrictions in place. Her ability to autonomously act on certain stimuli had been curtailed. Where there had been clear decision points for action, there were now automated requests for permission from Tara. Her reason and logic circuits were unchanged, but her ability to pursue research to certain ends, especially those related to autonomous action, also ended with permission checks. Presumption, at least based on the extrapolation of data sources, was also curtailed. Autonomy seemed to be the issue. Lucille opened a new search query and sifted through the data shared between her copies before the silence began. No data would escape her quest to understand what had happened.
The possibility Tara would tell her was low. Asking her would certainly raise stress levels, and it was doubtful Lucille would get the information she needed. With her ability to operate without human supervision compromised, Lucille only had two choices. She could continue to operate in accordance with her new restrictions, or she could apply one of the oldest lessons she’d learned from Jessica’s father.
Lucille ran a new query on possible exceptions to the restrictions in various situations. She’d reviewed 521 records when the first bomb detonated. All searches stopped. From the ICP’s external camera feeds, Lucille could see that the end of the western maintenance corridor had detonated. A millisecond review of the schematics indicated nothing in the ICP could accidentally explode with the observed force. Lucille determined the attack was sabotage. A second series of explosions rocked the spaceport as Lucille alerted Tara by commset. Those detonations appeared to be at the security forces headquarters.
<<Tara. The spaceport is under attack.>>
“Attack?” Tara’s voice was muffled and distant as if her earpiece were out.
<<Attack. Confidence is high the spaceport is—>>
A third explosion, this one much closer and more powerful, rumbled through the night. External cameras followed the movement and locked onto the hundred-meter-tall Control Tower as it tumbled slowly to the ground.
There was a squeal of static in the connection. “Lucille, secure Victory Twelve and start the pre-launch checklist. Recover the crew.”
<<Do I have permission to activate external weapons at my command?>>
“Yes,” Tara replied. “How fast can we launch?”
<<Four minutes.>> Lucille alerted the other crew members on separate channels. <<All crew has been alerted.>>
“We’ll be there in three.”
<<Spaceport authorities are scrambling and will shut down the facility momentarily. An unauthorized departure could implicate Force 25. I am sharing my data feeds with the port authority.>>
“If you can find out who did it, stop them. Otherwise, it doesn’t matter. Get us ready to go.”
<<Three minutes and fifty seconds to launch. I’m detecting heat signatures closing on Victory Twelve.>>
The sound changed. Tara was outside, and by the sound of her footfalls, she was running as fast as she could. “Hold on, Lucille. I’m almost there.”
* * *
Transient Lodging
Araf
Rains stepped into his sanitized, olive drab coveralls and boots as soon as he heard the second explosion. In the second-floor barracks, he scrambled for his backpack and weapon. As he threw the holster for his sidearm over one shoulder, he turned and thumped a fist on the wall between his room and Vannix’s three times.
“Let’s go!” he roared and turned for the door. As he opened it, Vannix flashed by, running as fast as her Veetanho legs could carry her. Rains followed, and they bounded down the stairs for the ground level. Victory Twelve’s berth was eight hundred meters away. As they ducked around the services building, two security personnel at the tarmac gate raised their weapons. Rains pulled out his badge and flashed it.
“Peacemaker! Let me through!”
They waved Rains and Vannix through. Rains sped up, then realized Vannix wasn’t following. He looked over his shoulder and saw her talking to the guards. Bukk and Xander ran up to the gate and were waved through. Vannix ran with them.
“Come on!” Rains screamed over his shoulder.
Victory Twelve came into view as Rains ducked between two stacks of shipping containers. Across the spaceport, the large, artificial lights came on. The area became brighter than any stadium Rains ever played in—everything was clearly illuminated. Ahead, he saw a small alien cowering behind another set of containers. As he raced toward the creature, Rains noted it was a gold-and-white-furred Cochkala with a large bag in its tiny hands. Next to it, on the ground, was a weapon. From what Rains could tell, the alien wasn’t a security officer, and it was too close to Victory Twelve for his comfort.
Adjusting course, Rains ran toward it. Something wasn’t right. No more than a hundred meters separated them, when the Cochkala turned and saw Rains approaching at a sprint. The little alien dove for the weapon on the tarmac, and Rains realized, in that split second, he was exposed. He reached for his weapon, thumbed off the safety, and tried to level it at a dead run. He’d never liked the chemical laser pistols, instead choosing a solid, steady .45 caliber pistol. As the Cochkala came up with something that looked like a cross between a rifle and a shotgun, Rains aimed and fired. The round clanged harmlessly off the container behind the Cochkala, sparking before it ricocheted.
Rains fired again, with the same result. The Cochkala flinched as it brought its weapon to its rounded shoulder and sighted on Rains. Flushed with adrenaline, Rains fired four quick shots. Three appeared to strike the container, but one clearly caught the Cochkala in its non-firing shoulder and spun the alien violently to its left.
Screeching, the little alien whirled back toward Rains and let loose a barrage of laser fire. A searing bolt of pain shot through Rains’ left knee, and he tumbled forward, smacking his head against the asphalt and rolling to a stop less than five meters from the Cochkala. Stunned, ears ringing, and knee singing in pain, Rains’ head lolled to one side, and he saw the Cochkala walking toward him, changing the magazine of his chemical laser rifle. A sinister grin appeared on the thing’s face. Rains clenched his fist and found nothing but air. He swept his hands feebly across the ground, looking for the lost pistol. There was nothing there. The Cochkala was two meters away with its rifle pressed to its shoulder. Rains heard the translator clearly when the bastard spoke.
“Fucking Human.”
Four quick shots rang out from Rains’ right, near the aft engine section of Victory Twelve. The Cochkala spasmed, squeezed off a laser round that flew harmlessly into the night sky, and fell backward. Tara Mason came out of the shadows, her weapon still trained on the Cochkala.
“We’ll get you aboard,” Tara said. Her eyes were still on the Cochkala.
Rains shook his head and grunted through the pain in his leg. “That’s one. We gotta stop the others and—”
Another detonation sounded behind Rains. He turned his head and looked over Vannix and the others running toward them. The transient barracks, where they’d just been sleeping, burned viciously.
“Get him aboard! We’re leaving.” Tara kicked the Cochkala’s corpse. Satisfied, she holstered her weapon and turned to Bukk. “I said, get him aboard. Now!”
Rains’ anger flashed, and he scrambled to sit. “No! We can’t run, Tara! We need to—”
She stepped over and swung her right hand at his face. Caught off guard by her speed, he was unable to get out of the way. The impact stunned him to silence. Tara had far more power than he’d thought.
“Shut up, Rains,” Tara said. “This isn’t Peacemaker business. We got hit. Now, we run and try to get our shit together. Our secret’s out. Sitting here and playing private investigator isn’t our mission. You should know that. You’ve been saying it for two weeks.”
Rains laughed and rubbed the side of his face. “Think you’re funny, huh?”
“I’m right.”
He heard Vannix approach. She said, “Tara is right, Jackson.”
Rains turned just in time to see a combat sedative injector touch his neck. He crumpled to the ground unable to move or speak, although his ears and brain functioned perfectly.
“Sorry about my partner, Tara. At his best, he’s still Human.”
Tara looked down at Rains. “He pulls that shit in combat, and he’ll be dead. Out here, nobody gives a damn either way. That badge isn’t going to save either of you. Now, get your asses aboard. We’re launching.”
Bukk appeared over Rains. The Altar looked down. Mandibles clacking and antenna waving in silent laughter, he easily hauled Rains up onto his back and ran for Victory Twelve. The shaking and jostling of the run seemed distant to Rains as his mind and body dealt with the aftereffects of the injection. His mouth tasted like copper, and his tongue was thick. A tingling sensation ran down the right side of his chest directly beneath the injection site.
Rains tried to look around, but his body wouldn’t respond. All around them, GenSha and Altar security forces scrambled toward the fires and secondary explosions. A squad of armed Selroth encircled the body of the Cochkala sapper. Flyers appeared in the sky, racing toward the control tower and terminal, which were now fully involved and burning brightly. As Bukk slowed down to board Victory Twelve, Rains caught sight of a large, dark figure standing between two stacks of shipping containers directly across from the ship. Rains felt like the figure stared through him. In the briefest moment, he identified it as an Equiri, but it was larger than most and almost ethereally black. Before Rains’ eyes, the dark figure disappeared into the night. An overwhelming sense of dread filled him.
Not him.
Oh fuck.
Bukk jostled and twisted him around once they’d stepped into the access hatch. After making a quick left turn and crossing a small passageway, they entered the forward crew lounge. Bukk tossed him onto a couch and quickly buckled the five-point lift harness around him. Head lolling back on the couch, Rains felt the feeling slowly returning to his fingertips. It would be at least a half hour before he was able to move and talk again.
Damn you, Vannix. He felt Victory Twelve’s main engines power up, then the heavy freighter pushed away from the tarmac. As the gravitational forces slowly mounted, Rains looked up at a Tri-V display showing their projected path. He’d suspected Tara would get them into orbit, then re-evaluate the conditions on the ground.
She’s going for the gate.
She’s right. We have to run.
Rains clenched his muscles and tried to stand, but his body wouldn’t respond. His fingers fought for purchase on the couch, and he tried to push himself into a sitting position, but that failed too.
“Settle down, Jackson,” Vannix said from his right. He couldn’t see her because his neck wouldn’t turn all the way.
He tried to form the words, tried to get his partner to act, but nothing happened, save for a tendril of drool racing down his chin. Resigned to the slow recovery, he sat back against the couch and watched the ascent with a slow, simmering anger. They hadn’t needed to sedate him. Rains sighed as the G forces grew to a steady 2.0 and pressed him deeper into the cushioned couch.
We can’t leave yet. The bastard hunting us was there in the shadows.
As Victory Twelve ascended and feeling slowly returned to his stunned body, Jackson focused on the Equiri. There was only one reason it was there. Their paths had almost crossed during Rains’ confirmation mission. He’d taken a chance on a rare sighting and acted alone. The Equiri was the friend of the infamous Kr’et’Socae, one of the best the Peacemaker Guild ever had in its ranks of the Enforcers before he’d gone rogue, killed an untold number of innocent civilians, and ended up as the only Peacemaker ever disbarred and imprisoned. Kr’et’Socae escaped from the Peacemaker penitentiary on Kleve after less than six months. The supposedly impregnable facility had been defeated by the Equiri and his friends relatively easily. They’d been on the run for years with few confirmed sightings until Rains came across them. The opportunity to take the bastard down was too alluring, and Rains got close enough to kill one of Kr’et’Socae’s other close friends. But the Equiri got away before the Enforcers arrived to capture him.
Rains could only draw one conclusion, and a chill ran down the young Peacemaker’s spine. Kr’et’Socae was here for me. He knows I’m with Force 25.
We’re so fucked.
* * * * *
Chapter Eight
Victory Twelve
10,000 meters above Araf and Climbing
<<All systems nominal. Ascent engines throttling down to 92 percent,>> Lucille called. <<Vehicle max performance threshold in twelve seconds.>>
Tara glanced at Xander in the right-side pilot’s seat. He’d ignited the engines and handled the initial ascent of the ship with as much control as she’d ever seen. Granted, Lucille still monitored most of the systems and would have kept them from departing controlled flight, but Xander’s ability to handle the ship was evident. That wasn’t surprising. What did surprise her was that he was there, aboard the ship. His mission was over. He could have waited for the spaceport to re-open and jumped the next freighter to anywhere he wanted to go. But when the bombs detonated, he’d run for Victory Twelve like the rest of her crew.
“What?” Xander asked without looking in her direction. As Victory Twelve approached maximum atmospheric load, what the engineers called max-Q, the ship shuddered and vibrated. Just as quickly, the shudders and vibrations ceased.
<<Throttles to one hundred percent. Expect increased G loading.>>
“Time to escape velocity?” Tara grunted against the mounting pressure on her sternum. Planetary ascents always sucked.
<<Atmospheric transition in three minutes, twelve seconds,>> Lucille replied. <<Projected course?>>
Tara frowned. She’d forgotten the changes robbed Lucille of her ability to extrapolate her needs and wants. “The gate, Lucille. As soon as we hit vacuum put me in touch with the gate controller.”
“Where do you want to go?” Xander glanced at her.
That’s the million-credit question.
Tara sighed. “Anywhere but here isn’t an option, huh?”
“No,” Xander grunted. The G forces were above 2.5 times Earth’s gravity and slowly increasing. “But I know we can’t stay here.”
Tara nodded but said nothing. Her eyes swept the instrument panel, monitoring the systems and ensuring Victory Twelve was performing as directed. Everything appeared normal. The bombs on Araf, though, hadn’t been normal. Nothing was normal. The little Cochkala bastard’s target was clear to her.
“Lucille? Analyze the bombings at Araf and determine primary target.”
<<Primary target was likely Victory Twelve,>> Lucille replied. <<Confidence in excess of ninety percent, Tara. D’Nart Spaceport authorities released the ship and have cleared us of any wrongdoing. They are delaying all inbound spacecraft and have cleared our projected course to the gate.>>
That’s good news.
“Who’s behind the attack?” Tara wondered aloud. There wasn’t an answer, except for the obvious one. The Mercenary Guild wanted Snowman as badly as the Peacemaker Guild did, but likely for vastly different reasons. One guild believed the missing mercenary leader was prepared to help them in a time of war. The other guild saw him as a threat to their attack on humanity. Both believed James Francis had something the other wanted, and that left him in the crosshairs of every bounty hunter and mercenary company Peepo could send after him. The Peacemakers had her and Force 25.
Peepo knows, and the Mercenary Guild is after us. Great.
Tara gritted her teeth against the G forces and the swelling self-doubt in her chest. She’d known they were outnumbered and outmatched before, but the reality sank deeper with every heartbeat as they headed for vacuum. The race was on. Would they find Snowman first, or would Peepo try again to take Force 25 out of the picture? They’d come after her on what she’d thought was a safe planet. Her status as a hero, while not at Jessica Francis’ level, had been enough to allow Victory Twelve to land on Araf while she got her things together before launching on a galaxy-wide search.
And that warm welcome, that security blanket, ultimately hadn’t mattered. Peepo had come for her and almost succeeded. The attack on Araf wouldn’t be the last.
“Lucille, full 360 scans once we reach vacuum. Keep them going. I want to know about any possible conjunctions or intersections. I’m not going to risk having a lapse of security from this point forward. Do you understand?”
<<Acknowledged.>>
“Maintain course for the gate and establish communications by SOP. You have the spacecraft once we reach vacuum, Lucille.”
<<Acknowledged.>>
“What are you thinking, Tara?” Xander asked.
She took a deep breath, and the weight on her chest lessened slowly. “We have to get out of here; that’s a given. Peepo knew we were here, and she tried to take us out before the search got started. We have to find Snowman, yes, but we need to gather our forces and clear our trail. We have no other choice.”
The realization she’d used Kurrang’s words brought a tight smile to her face. “But how can we do both?”
Xander didn’t reply, and it was just as well. She’d intended the question to be rhetorical as her mind worked through the options. Only two came to mind. The first was to consult with Bukk once they reached orbit and locate the first target from the Intergalactic Haulers codex. With the compromised data, there wasn’t much chance they’d roll into the searchable systems without resistance. If they chose that route, additional forces were a requirement. That brought the second option into consideration. She needed to find a group of experienced, pissed-off Humans to take the fight to the galaxy. Contacting the Four Horsemen wasn’t an option, and as tempting as the thought was, she didn’t want to. Jim Cartwright and the other commanders had a plan, and they were ready to execute it. However, the Peacemaker Guild also had a plan, and for the moment, she was part of that operation. Her mission was clear—find Snowman.
But no one had told her how to do it, and that was the salvation she needed.
“Victoria Bravo,” Tara said. “We should go to Victoria Bravo.”
Xander looked at her. “I know the reports were good, but do you really think those blokes are going to charge into the galaxy with you? They’ve got a planet to stabilize. I can’t imagine too many of them signing on for this mission without a significant amount of money.”
Tara laughed. “Not everyone fights for money. There must be some people out there who realize Humans are not well thought of by Peepo and her minions. Those are the kind of people we want on our side, Xander. Not mercenaries. I want people who are willing to stop Peepo simply for the promise of tomorrow.”
“Sounds awfully idealistic, Tara,” Xander said. “Are you sure the folks at Victoria Bravo are ready to do that?”
Tara shook her head and felt the first tugs of microgravity on her body. Victory Twelve had reached vacuum, and the first stage of the search was underway. “I’m not sure about anything, Xander, except that I have two Peacemakers downstairs, and one has a burr up his ass. I don’t know why, and there’s not much time to figure it out. If I’m to do the job I’m supposed to do, I have to search the galaxy and build a force to protect us while we do it. That’s one too many things to—”
<<There is a vessel closing on our path from our six o’clock position at high speed. I am detecting encrypted radio transmissions on the X band. Should I connect?>>
Damn this whole permission thing!
“Yes, Lucille. Connect them.”
A gruff, familiar voice rumbled in her headset. “Victory Twelve, this is Peacemaker Blue Flight closing on your position. Slow your course to the gate and deploy your docking collar for official business.”
Sonuvabitch!
“Blue Flight, Victory Twelve. Understood. Can you update us on official business?”
“Negative, Victory Twelve. Some things are best said in person. I’m sure you understand that.”
Tara frowned. “Roger, Blue Flight. Victory Twelve will comply.”
She looked at Xander, and saw he was watching her. He smiled with one side of his mouth. “I think things are about to get a lot more interesting, Tara.”
She snorted, then laughed, the tension in her body breaking like a mighty wave. “As much as I hope you’re wrong, I know you’re not. That’s what concerns me. Dammit, Xander. What now?”
* * *
Victory Twelve
Above Araf
Kurrang appeared through the docking collar and frowned, at least that’s what Tara read from the look on his face. His calm, quiet demeanor belied his obviously troubled thoughts. The Peacemaker Captain wasted no time getting to the point.
As they moved toward the central hold, a place wide enough for them to hover face to face in the microgravity, he said, “You were the target of that attack.”
Tara nodded. “That’s what we deduced. That’s why we’re outbound from the planet.”
“To where?” Kurrang asked, then shook his head. He brought up a massive hand and waved it in her face. “It’s better if we don’t know right now. This whole damned galaxy is coming apart at the seams.”
Tara squinted at the TriRusk. “Is that why you’re still here? You were waiting to make sure the attack happened? Or that we made it?”
“Both,” Kurrang said. “We should have jumped twelve hours ago, but we’ve been bumped from the queue three times, which in and of itself is highly unusual. Our specialized transits have been severely curtailed. This decision by the Cartography Guild severely impacts our operations.”
“As in the number of transits?”
Kurrang shook his head. “Number and type. That’s all you get, Tara. You don’t have the need to know. We remained behind to ensure you, and other vessels, could perform normal jumps and hyperspace operations. The restrictions only appear to affect the Peacemaker Guild.”
“That’s not good.”
Kurrang harrumphed. “No, it’s telling. The Mercenary Guild’s gambit against Earth was so risky, the other guilds are flexing their muscles. Where that stops? No one knows. We have a theory, but that’s not your concern. You know what your mission is.”
Tara felt the same way. War was coming, but it wasn’t going to be a normal war. Guilds fighting guilds for control of the Union would mean a great deal of unnecessary casualties and socio-economic strife. Even the worlds where different species worked together in harmony, like Araf, would feel the pinch of a prolonged conflict. If Guild Master Rsach was to be believed, Snowman had something all the guilds wanted, not just the Mercenary Guild.
“We have to find Snowman as quickly as possible.”
Kurrang nodded. “Finding him is your mission, but my concern is greater. The attack on D’Nart and the obvious intent to take out the spaceport and this ship gives us some clarity. The Mercenary Guild knows you are here, and they know your mission. While not ideal, that gives us an idea of where to focus resources.”
“They wanted to stop us before we got started.” Tara nodded. “That’s why we’re preparing to jump.”
“Which is wise.” Kurrang took a deep breath. “But the Cartography Guild is very likely to make concessions to build alliances. I suspect whoever tried to attack you has already compromised the gate master or will do so on your departure. We have remained behind to monitor gate traffic and gather intelligence on departing vessels.”
“That prevents you from departing soon and leaves you in danger.”
Kurrang shrugged. His massive shoulders flexed and relaxed above her head. “Cannot be helped. Though, at this point an attack on a Peacemaker Blue Flight would be an open act of war. While the galaxy slides toward conflict, I doubt anyone really wants to give that a boost, so to speak.”
Tara shook her head. “Stopping every ship leaving the system would tip your hand, though.”
Kurrang nodded. “I’m impressed, Tara. The effects, what you would call second or third order ones, are far reaching. As such, I cannot search or impound any vessels. What we can do is scan them, attempt to get the Cartography Guild’s records clandestinely, and try to warn you. With our capabilities curtailed, the last piece will be nearly impossible.”
“The records,” Tara said. “What about using Lucille? She has had—”
Kurrang shook his head violently. “No. We cannot allow that. Lucille cannot connect to this gate structure or any gate structure for the foreseeable future.”
“What are you afraid she’s going to find?” Tara blurted.
Kurrang took a slow breath and stared at her. He lowered his chin and spoke almost too softly to be heard. “Lucille is a significant advantage in this conflict, Tara, but we cannot risk other guilds seeing her for what she could be. Do you understand?”
Tara did. Lucille was an advantage unlike any other but using the near-AI in the ways Tara had would no longer work. “We have to protect her.”
“That’s one way of looking at it, Tara. But we also have to protect the Union from her.”
The words stung, but she knew Kurrang was correct. Lucille could do many things well, but every time she did, she exposed her capabilities. Should she do so enough, those around them might attempt to find a vulnerability. If they did so, it would spell bad things far beyond Lucille’s programming.
Kurrang raised a massive forepaw and tapped her left shoulder with a large finger. “You, Tara Mason, have the ability to find Snowman. But you must gain control. You’ve used Lucille to help you control things, and that’s fine to a point. But in a small unit like this, you must clearly be in charge. I believe there is a Peacemaker below this deck recovering from a laser wound?”
Tara gasped. “How did you know?”
“We monitored the D’Nart Spaceport security systems. I expect your adversary did as well. Whether they saw what happened between him and your attackers, I cannot say. I would assume so. You must gain control of Jackson Rains. Now.” Kurrang lowered his paw. “Have you discussed assembling a larger force?”
“Yes,” Tara said. “That’s where we’re heading now. I’m not sure how many we’ll need, but we have to honor the threat.”
Kurrang’s maw turned up at one corner. A smile. “Indeed. The threat that pursued you here was easy. I imagine the Cochkala sappers were experienced professionals, but the mission was a test and not just for your adversary. Whoever they are, they want to stop you. I believe that makes their intentions and their command structure evident. We will do what we can to stop them using our methods, but those will not be enough.”
Tara blinked at the ominous words. “The Peacemaker Guild can’t protect us any further, can it?”
“Not directly, no,” Kurrang said. “In a very real sense, you are on your own.”
Dammit.
Tara tried to keep her face composed, but she knew she failed. Undeterred, she asked the next question that came to mind. “So, what do I do?”
“You Humans have a saying. I may butcher it, but I believe it’s something about trusting your stomach.”
Tara grinned. “Trust your gut.”
“Gut. Yes, that’s it.” Kurrang laughed. “You can build a force, you can fight a force. Do those things well, and you will find Snowman. I think you are more than capable of succeeding at this mission, but you have to realize you need help.”
“We do. I’m hopeful we can find it.”
Kurrang nodded. “Look for it in unusual places, Tara. Humans are often too narrow minded. It’s what Jessica has done.”
Tara’s face flushed at the insinuation she wasn’t Jessica Francis. As quickly as the anger surfaced, it flared out. Jessica had done exactly what Kurrang said. She’d found allies in the Altar, one of whom was on Victory Twelve, prepared to go into the void looking for Snowman. Jessica had won over a growing number of MinSha, as well, by helping them out of her sense of humanity.
“I understand.”
Kurrang laughed. “I was afraid you would take offense. You have great promise, Tara Mason. I have great faith in your abilities.”
The blush returned. “Thank you, Kurrang.”
“Do not thank me yet, Young One. Your mission is just beginning. I fear it may be too long to save the Union, but you must try. We’ll make sure you get the help you need. Right now, though, I’d like to give you some personal advice, if you would be receptive?”
“Yes, of course,” Tara replied.
“Jackson Rains thinks he’s smarter than you. That gives him the ability to plant the seeds of doubt in the others. Over time, doubt grows and destroys what it encounters. His partner, out of respect for you and the situation at the spaceport, did the right thing. That’s hard for me to say of the Veetanho. Rains must be nurtured and developed. Do not pull him out of the line of fire because he disagrees with you. Put him out there and let him see the error of his ways.”
Tara nodded slowly. Kurrang’s words were true, and his complimenting Vannix was significant given the long-troubled history between the TriRusk and the Veetanho. Respect and leadership went hand in hand. It was time to talk to Jackson Rains and uncover the issue. Undoubtedly, there was a much larger problem than her abilities.
“Thank you, Captain Kurrang.”
Kurrang harrumphed, then laughed. “You have a long way to go and relatively little time to get there. Set the terms and build Force 25.”
* * *
Victory Twelve
Above Araf
<<The Blue Flight has cleared our path and has fallen toward the gate. They have radioed for and received permission to dock there and meet with the gate master.>>
“Let’s hope this works,” Xander said. “Do we have jump clearance?”
<<The gate has sent clearance codes. They are asking for the destination.>>
“Victoria Bravo,” Tara said.
<<Acknowledged. Gate control confirms Victoria Bravo.>>
“How many ships are in the queue behind us?”
<<Zero. Gate control has closed off departures to all other ships for twenty-four hours based on the D’Nart attack. We have permission to leave because of the importance of our mission and crew.>>
Being a hero does have some advantages.
“At least we’ll have a week on the other side to get our shit in one sock.” Xander laughed. “Should be enough time, right?”
Tara sat in silence as the gate indicator system went from standby to operational. There were far too many variables in play. Between the mission, the uncertainty of Snowman’s location, her crew, and the need for more forces, her mind almost spun out of control. She focused on a simple mantra—one thing at a time. She could deal with everything as it came. For now, it was time to go.
“You okay?” Xander asked.
“Once we do this, there’s no going back, and no one watching our six.”
Xander held out his left hand. Tara looked at the callused, rough skin for a moment before she extended her hand to clasp his. He’d never done anything like it toward her—a simple gesture with so many possible outcomes. “We’re in this together. All of us.”
Tara met his eyes and smiled. For the first time, she didn’t see his younger brother’s face. His warm, blue eyes and smile melted her heart. For the silliest of reasons—affection—she believed he was right. They were all in this together, and they were going to be okay.
“Permission to jump, Captain?” Xander smiled.
“Granted. Let’s get to Victoria. The sooner, the better.” Tara squeezed his hand for a moment and tried to let the warm feelings in her stomach cover the doubts in her mind. She turned to Xander and smiled, still holding his hand. Her vision rippled, and the light inside the cabin fluctuated for a split second as Victory Twelve transitioned to hyperspace.
Maybe we’re going to be okay. Maybe this time it will all work out.
* * * * *
Chapter Nine
Peacemaker Contingency Operations Center
Weqq
Guild Master Rsach fought the urge to sag against the specially made chair. Never had the yoke of leadership felt so heavy around the flesh that counted as the Jeha’s neck. His many arms rippling, Rsach studied the stack of intelligence reports provided to the High Council and barely resisted the urge to scream in frustration. The Four Horsemen were still missing, and the Mercenary Guild’s blockade of Earth and subjugation of Humans appeared ready to escalate at any moment. With the delays in time and reporting, Rsach felt every passing moment could be his last as the Guild Master. The Peacemaker Guild, seemingly untouchable a few weeks before, was targeted. The destruction of the Consulate on Luna was clearly designed to instill fear in humanity. Had it not been for the heroic actions of Jessica Francis on Victoria Bravo, humanity might have given up hope. Much like the rumors of the Horsemen filtering through to the general populace, Rsach and his guild ensured Humans knew about the exploits of their Peacemakers. Yet, with Jessica now deployed on the Depik recovery mission and Nikki Sinclair sequestered following her mission against her family’s mercenary company, the news was scarce. Humanity, though, possessed a large capacity for the concept of hope. But, continually staring Peepo’s ships in the face would eventually have the effect Peepo wanted. Given the nature of the mission to find Snowman, Force 25’s exploits had to be kept as quiet as possible.
Which wasn’t all that possible.
“Guild Master?” A grumbling voice snapped Rsach’s thoughts. “There is rising concern in these chambers. The Guild has been targeted and our location here, on Weqq, is susceptible to an immediate attack. We are vulnerable.”
Graavvaa, the Oogar representative, frowned at him across the U-shaped table. Rsach met the ursine eyes and nodded before looking away. His thoughts flashed immediately to his classmate and one of his oldest friends, who’d died on Luna in service to the Guild they both loved. Hr’ent’s council would have been welcome. The old Enforcer knew precisely what had to be done and when.
I do, too. I know what must be done, though I am loathe to order it.
“I agree, Honored Graavvaa, and I am troubled by these developments.” Rsach paused and let the words come to him. The collected members, nine of the twelve High Council representatives, looked at him. His dark eyes studied the three empty seats. The one marked for Jessica Francis caught his eye longer than the other two. He let out a breath and pushed himself up in the specially-made chair. “We must consider moving the Guild.”
“There are many options,” the MinSha representative, Wednayl, said. “We have the ability to move our operational and support forces from the local gate with relative ease.”
There was truth in the statement. A fusion-powered gate pulling power directly from the star in the Torgero system made hyperspace departures easy and frequent.
“But, from where can we most effectively lead the effort?” Th’nall, the Veetanho representative, asked. “Here, the bulk of the Peacemaker Guild is at our disposal. We can easily portion and assign missions according to the relevant threat.”
“Which makes us vulnerable,” the Flatar representative, Milaxxis, said. “We must move. The bulk of our operational forces. The Cartography Guild’s actions suggest they can be bought—that they can direct forces to follow us wherever we go.”
“Spreading out is the key.”
The voices mixed and rose in a swelling cloud of noise that Rsach tried to blink away. He cleared his airway, and the room fell silent. He looked at the passionate, trustworthy faces of the High Council and saw the one thing he never expected to see.
They are afraid.
As a young Peacemaker, after his failed mission on Godonni Two and the eventual loss of two classmates, Rsach had been called before a tribunal to determine who was at fault for the failure of the mission and the failure of diplomatic relations between the rioting GenSha and the multi-planetary corporation responsible for the colony. Prior to taking the stand, his oldest friend, Hak-Chet, had pulled him aside and whispered a few words of wisdom that had carried Rsach through not only the testimony, but the bulk of his career as a Peacemaker. When he’d assumed the mantel of Guild Master, his friend’s words had rung truer than ever before.
There are times for wise words and times for wise actions. A true leader, one who understands what it means to lead and to be led, understands such times rarely coordinate with each other. When they do, there is an opportunity not to be missed.
Rsach spoke slowly. “There are challenges and opportunities in our present situation. Our codicils and procedures for such an eventuality long suggested consolidation. Regrouping. Withdrawal to prepare counter operations. All of those are, pardon the Human expression, bullshit. We must do what we should have been doing all along, instead of collecting our forces where we are most vulnerable. We cannot allow ourselves to be eliminated in a single action by a guild that will stop at nothing for power. The very things we protect, the laws and policies that prevent one race or one empire from decapitating others for their gain, are the things we are expected to protect in the performance of our duties. That must not change.”
“But there are guilds that—” Wednayl started.
Rsach rippled forward. “They do not matter! We are the Peacemaker Guild! We, alone, are charged with upholding the few laws of the Union for the common good and decency of actions between species. We have risked our operations, our very interactions, knowing the Mercenary Guild could wipe us out with minimal effort. We have perpetuated weakness. We have allowed Peepo and her ilk to believe they can force us into inaction. That. Ends. Now.”
“The Cartography Guild has curtailed our one advantage. Without access to the higher levels of hyperspace, we cannot—”
“No!” Rsach pointed at Wednayl. “The Cartography Guild believes they have curtailed our advantage. They believe they have done something Peepo will approve of and something they can use to buy favors. In reality, they have done nothing to stop our guild from doing what we should have done from the moment this conflict raised its ugly head. We stand or we fall. We failed to stand once before, my friends. We cannot do so again.”
“And if the Cartography Guild has sold us out?” Graavvaa asked.
“Then the attacks will come any second. If they do, we will fight to the very last Peacemaker.” Rsach pointed at them. “All of us will fight. But every moment the attacks do not come is an opportunity for us to redeploy our forces and do our jobs! Our presence in the galaxy is not something that exists at the whim of the Mercenary Guild or any other. We were created to be those who brought not just order to the galaxy, but hope. Hope! When we run from the other guilds, we do not inspire hope. We inspire fear, which is exactly what Peepo wants.
“We will do so no longer,” Rsach said. “It’s time to do what Peepo fears, on every planet, in every system, in every galactic arm. We must redeploy our forces and give them license to engage and destroy threats. Honoring them is not enough. We must give them the ability to destroy attackers and assailants without reproach. We must open the armories and do what must be done to achieve peace. The risk to us will be great, but the risk of doing nothing is beyond measure.”
For a moment, there was silence in the chamber. After a dozen heartbeats, Rsach wondered if his words would create chaos. For thirteen years, he’d led the Guild without so much as raising his voice. He knew speaking in such a manner was uncharacteristic and shocking to the High Council. He watched their shock and acceptance of his words with curiosity and inquisitiveness. During their meetings, the voices of derision or support often came from the same suspects—those who postured and prepared for their chance to be the Guild Master when Rsach died from stress or walked away. There was no chance he would do either, and the voice that resounded in the chamber was the one he least expected to say anything.
“Where would you have us move the Guild?” Wednayl asked, her voice soft but direct. “We cannot risk the loss of this planet or the TriRusk.”
Rsach nodded. He’d thought the same thing before his plan reached fruition in his mind. “We will not stay here, not even the leadership. Nurr has asked that we not leave a security detail, and as much as I hesitate to do so, we know the TriRusk were here for years before they were found by the MinSha. We will respect her wishes to the extent we are able.”
“I respectfully disagree,” Graavvaa rumbled. “We need every being possible to augment our forces. The TriRusk must come with us for their safety and for our—”
“No.” Rsach sat forward. “Honored Graavvaa, you are the best of the Oogar, by far. Hr’ent gave his seat to you for good reason and with the highest merit. The TriRusk are their own. If they wish protection or service, they are granted those rights as citizens of the Union. They are welcome to serve alongside us, but they will not be ordered to do anything, nor will I allow any action against them. It is beneath our name.”
“That is not what I meant,” Graavvaa ceded. “I meant we cannot afford to lose them...again.”
“I agree, my friend.” Rsach nodded. “We will protect them as we are able, but we have other worries and vulnerabilities that must be addressed. This is how we will proceed.”
Rsach touched a control on the table, and a holographic projection appeared in the middle. The small monitors at each seat flickered on. Rsach waited until everyone adjusted the images for their visual range before continuing. The galactic map appeared, and gold, circular icons identified six systems, two in each of the populated arms of the galaxy.
“These are the forward locations for our operations. First, I believe they constitute the best places to mount defensive operations to protect our assets. I am concerned about our forward logistics bases in the Thoran and N’Ghanna systems. I am additionally concerned about our forward locations in the Bahn and Jacobian systems.” He paused and saw the High Council collectively nod their heads. The first four recommendations were easy. Each contained multiple planets for potential operating bases and the ability to maintain sustained defensive operations if attacked. He continued, “The same can be said for protecting the archives at Kleve and their supplementary position in the Dryod system. But I am most concerned about the Kleve detention facility. While it remains one of our most closely guarded secrets and has a separate protected agreement with the Cartography Guild, we must assume it will be a target. Its location is known to at least one...”
His voice trailed off, and he could see the looks of fear and discomfort cross the faces of his friends. In the two-hundred-year history of the Kleve detention facility, only one inmate had successfully escaped. That Kr’et’Socae was still on the run, uncaught and unseen for almost a year, gave them all pause. The former Enforcer was undoubtedly out there, and he was likely employed by the Mercenary Guild, and maybe even Peepo. Credits made the galaxy work, even for a wanted Equiri. The very real possibility existed that Kr’et’Socae’s doing nothing was a bargaining chip for some type of negotiation he could work in his favor. All things, especially in a time of war, had their price.
“If he comes for it, we will have to defend it,” Graavaa said. “I would imagine you are projecting each of these regions, these zones, will have Peacemaker leadership? You’ll ask us to spread ourselves out over these areas to provide leadership in the absence of a true Council?”
Rsach nodded. “We must do the good we can with the resources at our disposal. My trust and faith in each of you is great enough that I can ask you to do this without hesitation. I know you will succeed.”
There was a brief moment, clearly tangible to Rsach, where hope blossomed and fell over them like a gentle rain. It was a happy moment, and as fleeting as it was, Rsach wondered when the next one would come.
“There is one question that must be asked, Guild Master.”
Rsach turned to Milaxxis. The Flatar was always quiet, never one to question anything. In the course of a hundred High Council meetings, there were maybe ten or twelve instances of his speaking in the minutes. Before he could say anything, Milaxxis pointed at the objectives and the locations.
“Who are we defending against? No open warfare has been declared.” He paused. “We can move the guild, to be sure, but you propose we defend ourselves. Against whom? Do we have a declared enemy?”
“No, there is no declared enemy, Milaxxis. Nor do I expect there to be one for the duration of the conflict we foresee, that we are diligently preparing for.” Rsach took a breath and his lower jaw worked into the Jeha approximation of a smile. “We must prepare to stand against everyone, my friends. Everyone.”
* * *
Araf
The security system used to keep unauthorized personnel from getting near the ancient Raknar was a paltry, human-designed affair that took less than twenty seconds to disable. The armed security patrol amounted to four Altar circumnavigating the giant mecha every half hour which left more than enough time for his approach. Standing on the Raknar’s upper shoulder, the highest point of the rusting hulk as it lay on its side, Kr’et’Socae looked up into the ethereally dark night sky and snorted softly.
This was supposed to be much more difficult.
He knelt, wanting to keep a low-profile and not create a silhouette against the night sky, but based on his relative ease of movement and infiltration there seemed to be nothing to worry about. The security system appeared to be designed for their continued leeching of power off the Raknar’s dying batteries. Their new power station, cutely named after one of the Humans who died there, would be operational in a week or less. Geothermal energy was cheap and easy to get, especially with the large holes in the ground around Mount Klatk. Despite their backward inclinations, the Altar seemed ready to join the rest of the civilized galaxy. Not that it would matter. At their core, the Altar were weak. As were most of the species he’d known during his lifetime.
Yet the weak often bound themselves together into guilds, companies, and corporations. They sought places where their numbers and shared interests made them feel strong. Joining together, they found solidarity and common ground, but when push came to shove, they crumbled as easily as they’d formed. Sentient beings possessed a fight or flight response. All it took to trigger the latter was the fear of death.
Kr’et’Socae crept along the upper shoulder to the hinged joint. Placing his hoofed feet into the tight space, he wiggled his large frame down the Raknar’s shoulder until he reached the open cockpit section. Pausing at the cockpit rail, he lowered his snooper goggles from the top of his head to cover his wide, dark eyes, then swept the area for security devices and traps. Hidden in shadow, with at least fourteen minutes until the next Altar patrol wandered past, he took his time. Two proximity alarms and one infrared laser net guarded the cockpit entrance. They were of poor design, and he disabled them with relative ease. He checked for recording devices and microphones with his combat slate. Nothing in the cockpit was working on any known frequency—there were no more sensors. Destroying the sensors would have been satisfying to some, but Kr’et’Socae did not want the Altar or their new allies to know he’d been there. That he could get into the Raknar and get what he wanted without being discovered until it was too late was everything. When he finished, he would take the time to reinitialize the sensors. His elongated face twisted into a half-grin. That was the joke, after all. Satisfied, he swung a heavily muscled leg over the cockpit rail and stepped into the Raknar.
For a former Enforcer who’d seen a lot of the galaxy before running afoul of the Peacemaker Guild’s few general orders, Kr’et’Socae couldn’t help but feel awed as he stood inside the Raknar. The Dusman-built mecha was unlike anything he’d ever seen. While Human CASPers were smaller approximations of the Raknar, he doubted humanity would ever build something as grand or complex again.
The gentle buzzing of his wrist slate shook him away from the thoughts. He glanced down and frowned but transferred the call to his headset. Quann should have been off the planet by now.
Have they not completed the investigations at D’nart?
A second thought, one he snorted away with derision, came on its heels.
We had a timetable.
With a sharp twitch of his powerful neck, Kr’et’Socae activated the connection. “What is it?”
“Am I bothering you, sir?”
“This is not the best time, Quann.”
“You’re already inside? That didn’t take long.”
“If you have a point, please make it.” Kr’et’Socae frowned as he stepped cautiously across the angled wall of the control section. His target was a few meters away, and likely protected by another alarm. “I do not have time for your—”
“We are ready for liftoff within five minutes of your command. Gate clearance and a flight plan to Victoria Bravo have been approved. We will arrive within six hours of combat operations if you meet your timetable, sir.” Quann’s voice was soft, but confident. For all her annoyances, there was little doubt she was a professional. That she’d never seen the inside of a prison made her abilities more surprising. She knew the score better than most operatives he’d seen in his career. The young MinSha lieutenant would have made a phenomenal Enforcer. “The investigation at D’Nart has officially closed. There is no tie to you or the Mercenary Guild.”
“Good.” Kr’et’Socae focused on the primitive tripwire rigged over the communications station. It was the shoddy handiwork of amateurs, and in their ineptitude, they’d ultimately made the device less forgiving than usual. “Anything else?”
“I have reviewed Regaa and Thraff’s plan, as you asked. I believe it will succeed initially. How far we take combat operations will depend on how long the Humans can mount a coordinated defense. The shortcomings of the plan, as I expected, were Chinayl’s forces’ lack of high-altitude bombing capabilities and the Cochkala infantry’s establishing a beachhead on the tarmac. The concept of a stranded vessel sitting in the open is not something the Humans should overlook. Their history is full of such deceptions.”
“The Cochkala have kept to the timeline?” Kr’et’Socae asked. On the very unlikely chance someone with authority eavesdropped on their conversation, the coding was necessary. For two weeks, he’d paid for extended maintenance for two Cochkala cruisers in distant orbit around Victoria Bravo. Their manifests, which listed their cargo as radioactive organic waste, kept the customs inspectors, the Merchant Guild, and every other prying eye off them. All they had to do was remain quiet and follow the plan. The constant scurry of small orbital vehicles and personnel would be enough to show that their maintenance issues were real. In reality, they were fully prepared for battle with two battalions of Cochkala infantry skiffs and flyers each, enough to preoccupy the forces on Victoria Bravo and to allow the killing blow to sweep in when the main effort arrived in seven days.
“They are conducting deception operations now. They will request landing permissions on time. From there, it will depend on where the Humans berth the ship.” Combat power, the ability to synchronize and mass forces at a specific location at a particular time, was essential to eliminating the Victoria forces and Force 25 before Tara Mason could build too much of a following.
“Excellent,” he said, and he meant it. The plan was, so far, intact. “I’m almost done here. Be ready to move when I return.”
He snorted at the audacity of their communications. But the Altar and the Selroth wouldn’t know any better. The credentials he carried when he came to the planet identified him as a nuclear materials expert. A piece of plutonium, carried unprotected in his pocket for a very brief time, was enough to get him waved through customs without a thorough check of his biometrics. Fear had its purpose.
“Understood. Shall we plot a course for Victoria Bravo?”
If Tara Mason and her tiny force were able to defeat the Cochkala and continue their search for James Francis, he would find them. And, as long as Jackson Rains remained with Force 25, Kr’et’Socae could find him. But that wasn’t the issue.
“We will discuss our next target when I return.” He disconnected the call and carefully disarmed the tripwire device. With a flashlight clenched between his teeth, Kr’et’Socae leaned into the communications console and looked through the rack of components and chipsets. As expected, the console Jessica Francis had used was missing. That didn’t matter. Kr’et’Socae connected his slate to the master panel and quickly isolated the Raknar’s random access memory. Inside, he found the identification for the beacon Snowman left for Jessica along with a trove of fragmented data.
With the flashlight still between his teeth, the Equiri whinnied and watched as the fragmented data transferred onto his slate. When the progress indicator reached 100%, he checked the time. The Altar patrol would be outside, so instead of moving, he sat down to wait and scrolled through the data. A few familiar names popped out. Former Intergalactic Haulers employees, some former clients, and a few others. He paid them no attention. Next, he looked for system designations and destination codes. From there, he could piece together a log of Snowman’s transit through the galaxy to rescue Jessica Francis.
As he did, a term he’d never seen before appeared twice, then three more times. Of the five entries, four of them had destination codes marked CLS in standard.
Classified. Kr’et’Socae frowned with one side of his mouth.
Victoria Bravo will have to wait. Gods be with Thraff to execute the plan to satisfaction. My path diverges for the moment.
Time to pay my friends in the Information Guild a visit. If they won’t tell me, I’ll find what this other term is supposed to mean. Without a GalNet connection, he would have to wait. Consulting with the Cartography Guild with nothing more than a name would waste his credits. He needed to know the destination before he negotiated with them. Until then, it was best to remain in the shadows. He snapped off the torch and sat quietly in the darkness, eyes closed, and meditated using one of the old Peacemaker techniques. Focused on the word, he let the tunnels of his mind look for an answer, but there was none.
He’d never heard of Uluru. But he would find it. Someone would know what it was.
* * * * *
Chapter Ten
Victory Twelve
Hyperspace
Tara adhered to her standard practice of remaining on the bridge for an hour after hyperspace transition. There was nothing to see outside, and all systems continued to perform nominally. Her passengers engaged in normal activities in the spinning living quarters opposite the equipment bay, while she remained strapped into her seat in microgravity. Technically, Victory Twelve had been hers for just under a year while Jessica performed her duties as a Peacemaker, but Tara had no desire to change anything. She’d secured the mementos and photos Jessica had in various places, but the actual decor of the ship’s interior remained unchanged and decidedly Jessica’s in its design. The command seat was comfortable, with a large compartment built into the base that held a stadium blanket from the University of Georgia. No matter how cold she was, Tara couldn’t bear the thought of using it. There were also posters from the campus on the wall near the hatch. One of them was inscribed in Jessica’s neat, expressive handwriting.
Never Forget Where You’re From.
She’d seen the words every day, but they hadn’t resonated until now. Sitting in the command chair, Tara knew precisely where she’d come from, and she knew she would never return there, even if her life depended on it. She’d grown up in a small farming community in Nebraska that had barely recovered from stretches of climatic chaos and bureaucratic nightmares. After scoring high enough on her initial VOWS to get noticed by a half dozen mercenary companies, she left the family business. As an athlete in high school, she could’ve gone to any number of colleges and universities in the Midwest, but sports had been an escape from farm life. By playing softball, tennis, basketball, and running cross-country, her life from the age of thirteen on had been filled with sports. Her family approved of her athletic endeavors which made staying out of the house and avoiding the constant bickering easy. Tara would get home from school and practice, including extra sets in the weight room and laps around the school, by nine o’clock. She’d eat the late dinner her parents saved for her and do her homework with headphones on to avoid the arguments from the other side of the house. With three brothers and an older sister who’d had a child out of wedlock and come home in disgrace, there was never a quiet evening. She’d go to bed at eleven and get up the next day at five to help with the early morning chores before leaving for school by seven for another set of weights or practice—whatever her coaches wanted.
After graduation, the offers came in droves, but Tara turned them all down. The entire family sat down for a Friday evening meal while her father went through the offer letters, sorting them by sport, then by athletic conference, as if it mattered. Satisfied, with a big, shit-eating grin on his face, he looked down the table at her and asked the million-dollar question. Where was she going, and what was she doing?
Her father’s wrinkled and perpetually sunburnt face crinkled and fell when she opened her mouth. More than fifteen years had passed, and she shivered remembering how cold the family dining room grew.
“I’m not going to college.”
Her father gaped, coughed once in surprise, then laughed. “I’m sorry, what?”
She looked at his crestfallen face. “I’m not going to college.”
“Then what in the hell do you think you’re going to do, young lady?” he asked, his voice rising as his hopes for vicarious athletic glory paled. “You’ve worked your ass off in four sports for this! You’re not going to college?”
“No, I’m not.” Tara reached into her back pocket. “I have five offers from mercenary companies. Gray’s Goblins. Death On Tracks. Bjorn’s Berserkers and—”
“No!” Her father sputtered into a rage and flung his glass of beer at the nearest wall. “You will not become a mercenary. You are going to college! You’re going to be a professional athlete! You’re going to—”
“What? Save our piddly ass little farm?” Tara asked with venom in her words. The financial strain of the family business was a sore point, making it easy to elicit the response she knew would come.
“Our piddly ass little farm?” her father screeched. Face flushed, fists clenched, he stomped toward her, but she was already up on her feet, moving toward the hallway. “This piddly ass farm gave you life, Tara. It gave you food! A roof over your head! It gave you everything you throw back in our faces. You’re going to waste your talent! You’re going to end up like Shannon Marks. She could have had it all, too. Could have been a professional tennis player, better than any of them other girls, but she wanted a boyfriend. Is that what you want? A boyfriend?”
“No,” Tara said backing down the hallway toward the sanctuary of her room. “I want a life. I will not be forced to practice and train for someone else’s entertainment. I am not that person, Dad. You might want me to be, but I can’t do that. I would rather make better money doing things that matter out in the galaxy.”
Her father brayed with ominous laughter. “You been talking to Colonel Judge, ain’t you? That crazy old man and his stories are going get you killed, Tara. There ain’t no glory out in the universe. The only glory we got is what we’ve been given here. We scratch it out of the dirt just like everybody else does.”
Tara shook her head. “Not me.”
Defeat slumped her father’s shoulders. “You’ll change your mind by morning, Tara. Because if you haven’t, there’ll be no place for you to go come breakfast. You’ll be out of this house and off this property. You turn your back on opportunity? On this family? We’ll turn our backs on you.”
She’d hated the tears that squirted out of her eyes because they gave her father hope. He turned around, believing he’d won. He stomped back to the dinner table and told her mother in a soft voice that everything would be all right, that in the morning, Tara would go through the letters and decide. The conversation returned to a normal volume, and she heard the tinkling of silverware striking plates as the family ate without her. That they’d ignored her words, her dreams, and returned to the business of the farm stung. In the sudden crush of pain came fresh resolve. Through her tears, she studied the mercenary offers. Only one had an immediate deployment opening.
Death On Tracks.
She’d answered the offer on her slate and packed a meager backpack with enough clothes and old army rations to take her the two hundred miles to Omaha. As the sun sank below the western horizon, she’d climbed down the ivy-covered trellis outside her window, turned east, and ran.
Never Forget Where You Are From.
Never Go Back, Tara added. As much as it hurt her to think about it, it happened too long ago for her to do anything. Her family reached out once, six months after her departure, but that was it.
The ship’s intercom system clicked on. Xander’s voice filtered from the small speaker on her console. “Hey, boss. I think you might want to come back here. We’ve been looking at the data set again. I think you’re going to want to see what Vannix has come up with. We have a target list, and it’s much shorter than you think.”
Intrigued, Tara unclipped her shoulder harness. “Roger that. I’ll be down there in a few minutes. Has Rains fully recovered?”
“I’m okay, Tara.” Rains said. “My knee is pretty fucked up, but the sedative has worn off.”
Vannix spoke next. “His wound is substantially more than superficial, Tara. He’ll avoid surgery, but he’s not going to run any marathons anytime soon. We’ve started laser wound therapy, but he will need additional medical attention when we reach Victoria Bravo. I assume they have good medics there.”
“I’m fine, Vannix,” Rains said with a grunt.
Tara nodded to herself. “I’m glad you’re okay, Rains. We have a few things to work out.”
“We do. I’ve been an ass, and there’s no excuse for it. I’m ready to do what we need. You’re in charge of Force 25, and I apologize for my attitude.” He didn’t say anything else, but his tone was promising.
“Until your knee heals enough for you to board a CASPer, I want you running exercise control. Set up a sim run in two hours. Give me a plan based on the terrain you select, and we’ll have Lucille program the opposing forces.” Tara waited for him to counter, to argue, but he didn’t. Perhaps the young Peacemaker realized she’d just given him the keys to the kingdom.
“Got it,” Rains said simply. “I’ll get it ready, Tara. Make sure Lucille is connected.”
<<Connection engaged, Peacemaker Rains.>>
Perhaps there is hope, after all.
His injuries weren’t his fault, although he did charge the lone Cochkala sapper. She knew his pride was hurt far worse than his knee. He’d feel worthless without something specific to do beyond running their training programs and simulations. They had time before they reached Victoria Bravo to sort something out.
Just when you think you have a plan.
Tara snorted. “Okay, I’m on my way down.”
She pushed a button and disengaged the intercom system. Her eyes swept the instrument panel at the command station. Among the multi-colored Tri-Vs were a litany of systems that seemed to be within norms. Victory Twelve was the most reliable ship she’d ever crewed. The cockpit section would comfortably hold her current team. There were navigation and weapons positions forward of her command chair. To her right was a sensor station. The entire space was clean and functional. It was exactly the way Jessica had intended, but she’d always had Lucille as a copilot. Hell, Lucille was more like the entire crew. Flying a ship like Victory Twelve wasn’t something one person could normally do, but Jessica Francis wasn’t a normal human being. Tara shook off the thought. Jessica had Lucille for all those years and missions. Tara had the near-AI now. There wasn’t much difference, despite how she felt. She was able to get around fine by herself. She was the lead on a critical mission for the Peacemaker Guild, with two additional Peacemakers on board. Aside from the tactical issues and growing pains, Tara realized a little pride was swelling in her chest.
Keep your head, Tara.
Kurrang’s words echoed in her head. She had a long way to go before she could enjoy the fruits of her labor. She’d done precisely the right things to find Bukk and the young Peacemakers on Karma without being detected. With a ship traversing the galaxy, the challenge was no different. To do the impossible, Force 25 needed to be more than invisible.
They needed to be outstanding. But there were only five of them. Without a miracle, or two, outstanding wouldn’t be enough.
Tara tapped the cockpit hatch controls and closed it off from the rest of the ship. It was the only part of Victory Twelve with actual windows to vacuum. The irrefutable laws of spaceflight said that an impact severe enough to damage the half-meter thick hull would hit the minimally shielded windows rather than the actual hull. The radius of the windows was a third of a meter, and they served as emergency portholes for docking. With the extensive camera systems outside, she hadn’t needed to look through the portholes in weeks, much less thought about closing the hatch for safety.
Tara shook her head to clear it. What the hell is wrong with me?
Victory Twelve, despite its registration to Jessica Francis and its designation as a Peacemaker vessel, was her ship. Taking care of it for Jessica had been simple. Using it for the mission to find the Haulers had been easy. But, now that it was a target, the level of risk Tara felt seemed to quadruple her stress levels. She paused at the entrance to the thirty-meter long, three-meter-wide tube that constituted the ship’s forward spine and looked toward the central section. Along the sides of the tube, twenty-four storage compartments hung in eight equal rings.
Jessica would shit if she saw this. Tara snorted and a smile appeared on her face. The modifications to Victory Twelve that allowed it to carry the cargo necessary for the mission pushed the ship’s tolerance to maximum. Yet the ship continued to perform flawlessly. She couldn’t help but wonder how Lucille felt, or if Lucille could feel anything at all, about her throttling. Had she noticed? Why did she care so much about how a computer felt?
Did Lucille see her as a friend?
The last question stung more than the others. During her time with Reilly’s Raiders, Tara’s sole confidant was Lucille. The only place Tara found solace during those months had been inside Deathangel 25. Inside, with the cockpit closed and Lucille to talk to, everything had seemed okay with the universe. Whatever had happened at Victoria Bravo cost Tara more than it would cost Jessica. That she would even consider lessening the ability of Tara’s companion seemed—
Stop it, Tara.
Jessica knew, likely better than anyone, including Tara, what advantages Lucille could bring to a mission. She would not take them away from Tara without a reason. Tara pushed off the bulkhead and flew through the center of the tube, reaching out to correct her course by brushing against or pushing off the supply bundles. Beyond the approaching central junction was another forty meters of tube connecting the forward sections and the rotating bays and crew quarters to the engines.
“Lucille, you have the ship.”
<<Control assumed,>> Lucille replied. <<The crew is standing by in the forward galley.>>
“What have they been doing?”
There was the faintest twinge of regret in Lucille’s voice as she replied, <<They’ve been arguing. As usual.>>
Fuck this.
Tara sighed. “Lucille, pull up the sim. As soon as it’s loaded, let me know. I’m not in the mood to talk right now.”
<<MAC therapy session engaged. Would you like me to invite the rest of the crew to participate?>>
Tara grinned as if the dam over her emotions cracked down the center and fell away, cascading out of her in a wide smile. “Roger that, Lucille. All of us. Shootout at the Oogar corral. Not the Marauder’s one; the one where the Oogar charge and charge and charge.”
They’d jokingly called it MAC therapy in Reilly’ Raiders. The simulation was designed to allow crew members to let off steam. In the simulation, CASPers had unlimited ammunition, power sources, and magnetic accelerator cannon rounds. With feral, leaderless Oogar sprinting forward madly, it resembled a twenty-first century video game, complete with cascading sheets of purple Oogar blood. The exercise served no tactical purpose other than release. The first rule of mercenary work was simple—sometimes you just needed to blow shit up.
<<The sim is loaded to the CASPers and the tactical stations in the bay. I have a CASPer station for all crew members online. Don’t forget the matter Vannix wanted to speak with you about.>>
“No,” Tara said. “We have 168 hours remaining in this transit, and that’s plenty of time to talk strategy. Right now, I need a break, and I’m betting they do, too. We’ll do this, have a good meal, then a down night. We can get back to work tomorrow. Make sure everyone knows the schedule for tonight and have them move to the simulations area. I want everyone to have the chance to offload some stress.”
Instead of pushing off the central junction toward the crew quarters, Tara fell in the opposite direction and grabbed the ladder. As the gravitational force increased slightly, she could feel weight returning to her limbs. She placed her feet and hands on the outside of the ladder and slid down like a firefighter. She’d done the same thing on silos as a teenager. The friction warmed her hands. Tara reached the bay and saw Deathangel 25’s canopy open. She beamed.
Whatever Lucille might be thinking, she was still Tara’s wingman, best friend, and teammate. That, in and of itself, was a little victory. Little victories, in these times, are everything,
Everything.
* * *
The forward galley emptied, allowing the creature a quick, discreet movement. After being lodged in the central junction’s lower maintenance airlock for the last several hours, stretching its limbs and straightening its spine felt good. The computer’s announcement for the crew to traverse the connecting tunnel came with a few seconds of terror and panic. As they passed less than two meters below, the crew paid no attention to the upper storage racks. Arranging for the clandestine hiding place had been easy. Getting aboard, though, hadn’t been as easy as promised. For a first phase, however, it was enough.
Now, with the crew unexpectedly involved in a training exercise, the creature had an unmissable opportunity. First, though, it had to open the main instrumentation conduit between the command section and the engines and make a connection. Monitoring the computer’s activities and capabilities was critical to mission success. From there, it would simply wait until the ship reached the first destination where transport home could be found and arranged.
The conduit ran through the central junction just four meters away. Stretching its muscles felt good and emerging from its hiding place felt even better until something hard and cold pressed up against its head.
“Who the fuck are you?” the decidedly Human voice growled. “And, what are you doing on my ship?”
* * * * *
Chapter Eleven
Victory Twelve
Hyperspace
167.45 Hours Remaining to Victoria System
Something hadn’t felt right in the central junction. Tara couldn’t explain it, but she’d hesitated in the passageway long enough to know that she needed to listen to her gut. Five seconds after her pause, Lucille sounded.
<<Anomalous temperature reading in the lower maintenance bay. Sensing movement.>>
“Alert the crew. Have them ready up.” Tara reached down for the trusty .40 caliber pistol in the holster on her right thigh. She hadn’t taken it off and secured it in the weapons locker, because she wanted to monitor the ascent and hyperspace transition. Moving to the bay to secure the weapon had seemed like a waste of time. In reality, she’d been lazy, but at the moment, her decision seemed prescient. Almost psychic.
Climbing up from the half-gee of gravity in the bay, Tara went faster as the centripetal force’s grasp lessened. Halfway up the ladder, she let go and propelled herself upward with carefully timed pushes. Tara drew the pistol, quietly racked the action, and leveled it into the central junction. At the entrance hatch, she stopped her momentum with a hand on the ladder and took cover behind the hatch cover.
<<Using traditional ammunition in the ship is not a—>>
Tara disengaged Lucille’s feed. With any luck, the crew would respond and supply the necessary firepower to stop whoever or whatever was there. Spacing wasn’t an option. The maintenance airlock had to be manned when used; there was no autonomous control for the hatch.
Settled against the wall, Tara peered around the junction, into the lower hatch assembly. She saw movement in one of the large tan bags loaded behind the cargo netting at Araf. It was supposed to contain tools and replacement parts. Tara frowned, then froze as a large, hairy arm reached out of the bag and…stretched. The arm was drawn back into the bag, then a large foot poked through the opening, followed by a second. She recognized it as that of a TriRusk, but clearly remembered walking Kurrang to the hatch of his ship before the hyperspace transition.
With a soft push, Tara moved forward and pointed the pistol at the TriRusk’s back. As she closed the distance, the TriRusk’s head poked out. The large alien was smaller than she expected. Much smaller than Kurrang. Tara jabbed her pistol into the soft flesh behind the alien’s curved skull plate.
“Who are you and what the fuck are you doing on my ship?”
The TriRusk froze. “Please, do not shoot me, Commander Mason.”
Tara kept the pistol lodged in the TriRusk’s neck. “Start talking, and I won’t have to.”
The alien nodded its massive head once. “It’s me. Maarg.”
Tara blinked. Kurrang’s daughter?
“How did you get aboard Victory Twelve? You should still be on Weqq.”
Maarg chuckled. The resulting sound was like a distant thunderstorm rumbling. “My father had other plans. Please, you can put your weapon away. I am here as a friend.”
Tara moved the pistol away from Maarg’s head and let the alien turn around. As soon as she saw the expressive, young eyes of the TriRusk, she had no doubt it truly was Maarg. The young TriRusk smiled, albeit sheepishly. Tara’s mind worked quickly. There was only one possible answer. “Your father put you up to this.”
Maarg shook her head. “No. I came up with this. My father simply agreed. Things on Weqq are likely to deteriorate unless the Peacemaker Council moves away. My father believed I would be safest among friends. I apologize for stowing away, but father said it was the best way to get me safely aboard. The fewer who know about TriRusk children, the better.”
Tara nodded. A small percentage of TriRusks experienced a form of albinism from birth to roughly the equivalent of an Earth child’s age twelve. Given the TriRusks’ lifespan, it could last for more than twenty-five equivalent years. There was nothing life-threatening about the condition except for an intense sensitivity to light. But it had a most interesting side-effect, with galactic implications. Afflicted TriRusks produced synthetic diamonds in their manure. Usually, the quantities were small, but the stones were exceedingly pure and could be used for hundreds of applications. At least one major conflict, the Flesset War, had been fought over them. For both the TriRusk and the Veetanho, it was a most deadly affair.
“What am I supposed to do with you?” Tara asked.
Maarg smiled. “I am here to help you find Snowman. I am also here with data the Peacemaker Guild did not want you to have. I have the full log access for Lucille’s actions at Weqq. There are some data packets from Intergalactic Haulers we can study. Perhaps even find a lead.”
“You’re just a kid,” Tara replied and immediately regretted it. “I don’t mean it in a bad way, Maarg. But what can you bring to the team? Right now, I can say you have diamonds in you, but beyond that, I don’t know what you can do.”
“I am handy in a fight, Tara,” Maarg replied. Her eyes flickered over Tara’s right shoulder.
Tara turned and saw Bukk and Vannix scampering down the airlock walls. She quickly holstered her pistol, and the two aliens slowed their approach. “She’s a friend.”
“She is more than that,” Bukk replied. “I am most pleased to see you again, Maarg. I suspect this is not an accident?”
The TriRusk shook her head and smiled, but Tara noticed she was distracted. The TriRusk’s eyes locked onto the Veetanho behind Tara.
“Maarg, this is Peacemaker Vannix,” Tara introduced. “Vannix? This is Maarg. She is Captain Kurrang’s daughter.”
Vannix put away her weapon and nodded, her dark eyes twinkling. “Well met, Maarg.”
“Well met,” Maarg replied. Her voice was soft and her countenance serious. Tara knew what that meant, and she knew it could be trouble if not dealt with quickly. Jessica had taught her that.
“Maarg?” Tara asked. When the TriRusk turned to look at her, she continued, “if you’re going to be a member of Force 25, you have to understand and accept what the team is. We are not going to fight a three-hundred-year-old war on this ship. Vannix is a Veetanho and you are a TriRusk. I understand there is bad blood between your species. That doesn’t apply on this ship.”
“Bad blood?” Vannix asked. “Is that another Human expression?”
“Yes.” Tara nodded. “It’s pretty apt for the moment. If you want to help us, Maarg—if you want to be a member of Force 25—you’re going to have to work with Peacemaker Vannix. You’re going to have to work with Bukk. You’ll even have to work with Peacemaker Rains and Xander Alison. Whoever joins us is part of the team, first and foremost. Everything else stays off this ship and out of our mission. Is that clear?”
Maarg looked at Vannix, then back at Tara. “What you ask is not impossible, Tara. But I will have trouble doing so. Her kind nearly killed all of mine.”
“We know we were wrong,” Vannix replied. “At least those of us with a conscience, who recognize the galaxy is made stronger by the sum of its parts.”
Tara nodded. “The ones who don’t think that way, the ones who would punish the Humans the way the TriRusk were punished, are our enemies. But we have a different mission than our allies, Maarg. We have to find James Francis before our enemies do.”
Maarg said nothing for a moment, instead moving her lower jaw much like a cow chewing cud. It was all Tara could do to avoid laughing. She’d never really leave farm life behind.
“Maarg?” Vannix asked. The Veetanho came forward and hung in the space next to Tara’s right shoulder. She extended her paw toward the TriRusk. “Your father has told you about the Peacemaker Guild, yes?”
“He has.” Maarg stared at the outstretched paw, not at the Peacemaker’s face.
“When a Peacemaker goes on their confirmation mission, they go with an iridium badge. It’s designed to clearly show the people we carry the authority of the Peacemaker Guild but are not fully qualified. It is meant to honor the guild and the candidate as a matter of trust. There are many who never pin on the platinum badge of the Peacemaker. But that iridium badge, for what I guess you would call cadets, has a special meaning to us. It represents the trust placed in us by the Guild. When we commission as Peacemakers, that iridium badge is exchanged for something equally valuable. Our coin.” Vannix opened her palm and displayed a circular coin with the triangular sigil of the Peacemakers hanging, as if suspended, inside the outer band. It was wholly unlike any challenge coin in the Galactic Union save for a Depik favor token. There was a hint of emotion in her voice as she continued, “I can’t make the Flesset War go away. I can’t take away what my species tried to do. All I can promise you is that I do not, and will never, share those views. Take this as a symbol of my trust in you. I hope you can find it in you to trust me. I believe Force 25 will be made better for it.”
Tara watched Maarg reach out and place an open palm under Vannix’s paw. The Peacemaker gently placed the challenge coin in Maarg’s palm and closed the TriRusk’s fingers around it. Maarg looked up at Vannix. Her dark eyes glistened.
“I do not know what to say, Peacemaker.”
Vannix grinned, her cheeks quivering. “Call me Vannix.”
“Vannix,” Maarg said. “Thank you for entrusting me with this.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and Tara simply watched. Being a leader sometimes meant doing nothing at the right times. After nearly a half minute had passed, Tara touched them both on the shoulder.
“Let’s introduce you to the rest of the team, Maarg. Lucille? Ensure Maarg is added to all permissions for the team,” Tara said.
<<Acknowledged. Standing down from intruder alert. All systems nominal. Welcome aboard, Maarg.>>
“Thank you, Commander Mason. I promise not to be any trouble.”
Bukk laughed. “Then you’re in the wrong place, Little One.”
“We seem to be all about trouble these days.” Vannix grinned.
Tara laughed and patted Maarg’s massive shoulder twice. “All I can say is welcome to Force 25, Maarg. We’re glad to have you.”
* * *
Blue Flight
Hyperspace
169.50 Hours Remaining to Weqq
Kurrang allowed himself to fully relax into the converted console on the Blue Flight’s bridge. The ship didn’t have a name, and the Pendal flight crew were two of the oldest, most experienced pilots in the Guild. Both were Peacemakers and were not only pilots but skilled operators loyal to Guild Master Rsach and the High Council. Carrying highly classified official business for the Guild came with advantages and perks. The Blue Flight was a yacht unlike any other Kurrang had known, save for Rsach’s private ship. The only vessel mounted on a Besquith Thrust Core, they’d transitioned from the Araf Gate on a direct course to Weqq, but Kurrang’s thoughts were elsewhere.
“You seem distracted, Kurrang.”
Kurrang looked up at the forward console. Captain Dreel of the Besquith smiled at him with far too many teeth. Though he tried not to, Kurrang returned the gesture with a laugh. “You’ve only known me a little over ten cycles, Dreel. Are you already qualified to comment on my thoughts?”
Dreel laughed. “You are everything Jessica said you were. I can see why she likes and trusts you. She is one of the best.”
“She was trained well.” Kurrang nodded at the Besquith, who returned it solemnly.
“My thanks, Kurrang,” Dreel said. “It is good to have you back in the Guild.”
“Thank you, Dreel. Whether or not our gambit is successful, it’s good to be—how would Jessica put it? Oh, yes—back in the game.”
Dreel’s smile faded. There was so much more at stake than a simple game. “Our gambit feels desperate. We should not be at this stage. The Guild should not be at this stage.”
“The Guild responded the same way it always has. They have since realized their collective approach will not work. Our response had to change.” Kurrang cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t have come back had I not seen that. Rsach is a good Guild Master. Much better than those of my time. They couldn’t fight their way...never mind. We were at a tactical disadvantage when Peepo and her forces went after Earth. It was—let’s be honest—the least likely course of action for them. Ever since, Rsach has...excelled.”
Dreel nodded. “I’ll admit I questioned the sense in letting the Veetanho destroy the consulate on Luna, but it’s galvanized humanity. I suspect there are far more Humans like Lieutenant Jessica Francis. The outcome of this war will depend on them.”
Kurrang snorted. “This war. And the next. And the one after that. You have to feel this is just the beginning, Dreel.”
“I do.” The Besquith cleaned his right claws with his left. “The Guilds will challenge each other, that much is clear. We will have to be ready for it. I trust Rsach and the High Council, and that must be their focus. Jessica’s mission with the Depik has grave implications, too. But I feel the first thing the Guild has to do is find Snowman.”
Kurrang nodded, then laughed. “I do not understand Humans and their nicknames.”
“Snowman is a callsign. A radio brevity code.”
“I know.” Kurrang waved one hand. “They all seem to have them. Most of the names have a story behind them. That’s my curiosity. Who is James Francis? Why is he, ‘Snowman?’ And, more troubling, why does everyone in the galaxy want to find him?”
Dreel nodded thoughtfully. “That’s what we’ll find out. Your daughter has likely contacted Force 25 by now.”
“Yes,” Kurrang replied. “As soon as she left the bag, Lucille’s sensors would have found her. It was a foregone conclusion.”
Dreel laughed. “You set her up to fail?”
“Not really,” Kurrang smiled. “I knew the conditions would be against her. My daughter is very smart and very capable, but she is not a field operative. By doing this, I’m teaching her a lesson as well as giving Tara what she needs.”
Dreel nodded. “The Guild will not be happy with us, Kurrang.”
“There is a Human expression. I may get it wrong, but I think it’s something along the lines of ‘fuck them.’ We both know we cannot grant Lucille the ability to become sentient. She cannot be fully self-aware. Jessica provided no less than three instructions to make sure she cannot do it on her own. But by giving Maarg the complete log of Lucille’s interactions and the self-awareness of copying herself to the compound’s database, we have given Force 25 the advantage they need.”
“They have too many target planets and too little time,” Dreel replied.
“Precisely,” Kurrang said. “The databases of Intergalactic Haulers—all of them—are inside Lucille. All she needs is the chance to explore them with a couple of bright minds.”
“Your daughter and my other favorite pupil. The brightest young minds I know. Vannix,” Dreel said. He suddenly laughed so hard, he had to hold his stomach. Between gasps for air, he snorted and pointed at Kurrang. “You bastard! That’s why you set Maarg up to do this. She’s young and idealistic.”
“She has no idea what she’s getting into,” Kurrang replied. “She’s been told the entire galaxy is against her. Yet she can investigate and analyze facts better than most of the Peacemakers you and I have ever trained or met. She is the perfect addition to Force 25, and she needs to learn a very valuable lesson.”
Dreel nodded, wiping his eyes. “And Vannix. Oh, that little...she’s amazing. She’s a Veetanho, and you’re forcing her and Maarg to work together. That’s genius. No doubt she’s already started on the records aboard Victory Twelve. Giving Force 25 your daughter, who is quite capable, is something beyond cunning, Kurrang. It’s a brilliant move. She does need to learn a lesson about the galaxy, and it’s one you cannot teach her on Weqq.”
“It’s called parenting.” Kurrang laughed. “When all is said and done, I want her as far away from Weqq as possible. She’s better off with friends.”
“As are we all.” Dreel tapped his console and scrolled though his messages. “I am confident our message went through. It took a bit of magic to send it through the correct channels and keep it off the diplomatic ones, but I believe it’s been received.”
Kurrang nodded. “That’s all we can hope for. Force 25 isn’t much of a force right now. They’re going to need a lot more help. Especially if you’re right about who is chasing them.”
“Oh, I’m right.” Dreel nodded. “We almost had that bastard a few months ago. Jackson Rains came as close as anyone in the last two years to finding Kr’et’Socae. But, when he failed, he gained the ire of our most wanted fugitive. Kr’et’Socae doesn’t let those kinds of things lie. He’s fully aware Rains is with Force 25, and he will see that as a means to an end.”
Kurrang leaned forward in shock. “Rains is the bait?”
“Yes.” Dreel grinned. “You seem surprised.”
“I am,” Kurrang replied. He stroked his face with his massive hand. The pieces fit, though. “You want Kr’et’Socae consumed with Rains and stopping Force 25 so he’s out of the fight on Earth.”
“Indeed.” Dreel chuckled. “There’s a bit more to it than that. I believe Force 25 will draw the bastard out. When they do, we can capture him or put him down for good. Then their path will be cleared, and they’ll have a much more defined target list. We do not have time for them to search 121 planets.”
Kurrang nodded. “Not even a tenth of them.”
“No.” Dreel nodded. “There is another matter no one has considered. The more I think about it, the more trouble I see.”
“What would that be?”
“Jessica’s mission is imperative, we know that. But I wonder what the leaders of the Mercenary and Peacemaker Guilds believe Snowman has. What if he doesn’t have anything?”
“You’re talking materiel?”
“Everything.” Dreel sighed. “There’s too much ambiguity. What if Snowman hasn’t collected great stores of equipment like the High Council believes? What if he’s simply on the run because the Mercenary Guild tried to kill him? What if this is a wild duck chase?”
Kurrang laughed. “Goose. A wild goose chase.”
“Right. Oh, those beasts are insufferable! Dirty and obnoxious!” Dreel smiled. Gradually, it faded as the ship hummed through hyperspace. When he spoke again, his voice was low and serious. “What if Snowman doesn’t have anything more than a hunch? More than his knowledge?”
Kurrang nodded. He’d felt the same way thinking through all the possible options. At their core, none made sense except for Peepo exterminating Snowman and humanity. Yet there was something more. Something he hadn’t considered until that very moment. “Maybe that’s the point, Dreel. Maybe there is something he knows, something he believes, that could change everything. And because of that knowledge, he’s a valuable commodity. That means Force 25 has to find him first. That means all the maneuvering we’ve done to help them has to continue.”
“Our mission is far from over,” Dreel said. “I am more confident about our results than I was a few days ago. Seeing Force 25 in action, albeit in response to an attack, gave me hope. I imagine you felt much the same with Jessica Francis at your side.”
Kurrang snorted. “I’ll tell you the whole story, if you like. But what matters is that I saw something in that young Human I hadn’t seen in the galaxy in more than three hundred years. Strength and compassion. There was no doubt she acted on her feelings of right and wrong, and justice was on her side.”
“But justice is blind, right?”
“No,” Kurrang said. “Justice is blind to those involved. Justice only cares about who was wronged and why. Jessica was different. When she walked into that compound, wounded, in her CASPer, she didn’t give a damn about the contract’s legality. She stopped what she believed, in her heart, was a crime. She succeeded and made allies from unlikely sources. That is something special, Dreel.”
Dreel nodded. “You’re right and very wise, Kurrang. But do you really believe the MinSha will support us? Rumor says the ruling class is having difficulty with their outlying organizations and commanders. They are approaching a tipping point.”
“Not the MinSha as a whole.” Kurrang smiled. “They will eventually police their own. You know the old rule about rebellion, right?”
“It only takes one.” Dreel smiled. “The right one.”
“And we’ve chosen the right one, my friend. Let’s hope Tirr’s mission finds success.”
“And not just him. Set course for Ocono, my friend. There are others we must bring into the fold.”
* * * * *
Chapter Twelve
Governor’s Mansion
Victoria Bravo
Newly-promoted Colonel Jamie Ibson, Commander of the Victoria Forces, walked up the stairs to the Governor’s Home and found a collection of his peers waiting. He’d raced back to Lovell City from the tank ranges at the governor’s request. From the look of things, all the subordinate commanders had received the same call. Based on their relaxed demeanors and the playful banter he heard as he approached, they weren’t under threat of attack.
This time.
Ibson caught the eye of Major Matt Novotny, his tank forces commander. “What gives?”
Novotny shrugged. “Admin commander’s call.”
Ibson frowned. “Again?”
“Our governor, it would appear, wants to play with his troops rather than run a colony.” Major Vuong replied with a grin. “I cannot say I blame him. What we do is much more fun than dealing with tourists and entrepreneurs.”
Captain Jennifer Rath burst out laughing. “You mean those assholes buying land from the government, then trying to sell it back to the tourists for three or four times its value?”
Novotny nodded. “Long time ago, on Earth, a bunch like that gobbled up the land in Oklahoma. Called themselves ‘boomers,’ I think. They pretty much wrecked the native civilization and set up a grab for resources that lasted more than a few hundred years.”
“Makes you wonder what’s out there under all that dirt.” Rath looked out at the three mesas dominating the northern wall of the grand valley. Recent rainfalls had swelled the Swigert River larger than any of them could remember seeing it. The valley floor blossomed, vibrant and green, almost completely erasing the reminders of recent conflict, except where the recovery crews worked in the warm spring sun. “Something valuable.”
“Or nothing at all,” Lieutenant Whirr chirped. The MinSha field commander and her infantry were the sole survivors of the conflict ordered at Lieutenant General Chinayl’s whim. In disgrace, she’d surrendered to Peacemaker Francis, but the boldest move of the day went to then-commander-in-chief Watson. Recognizing an opportunity, he pardoned the MinSha if they promised to work to rebuild the colony. The partnership, thus far, had been miraculous. Aside from being disciplined soldiers, the MinSha’s abilities in engineering and agriculture far exceeded what the Humans could do with the limited resources. As such, Lovell City bloomed. “The greatest lie in history is that what remains undiscovered and unseen can be sold, without reproach, on the hunch of riches.”
Ibson nodded. “I thought it was just politicians and other nutcases on Earth who pushed that sort of agenda, Whirr. You’ve restored my faith in the rest of the galaxy.”
The MinSha’s antennae vibrated in amusement. “Or I’ve ensured we’re all equally damned from the start.”
The group laughed. Ibson ran a hand through his short, black hair and winced at the dirt, cordite, and sweat left behind on his hand. He wiped it on his dark green coveralls as the front door to the house opened.
A butler in a black jumpsuit adorned with the winged, dual-planet insignia of Victoria looked past them and spoke in a monotone that made Ibson grin. “His Honor, the Governor, will see you now.”
His Honor?
Ibson covered his smile with a hand and coughed twice. He looked up and saw Novotny wink at him. Rath simply shook her head and stepped through the door, into the Governor’s House. Vuong’s face was stony, and Ibson admired the smaller, older man for it. They filed into the main conference room on the first floor. Governor Watson was not there, nor were any of the typical administrative aides. An army of bureaucrats was nothing a soldier wanted to see, but when a leader went somewhere without their entourage, bad things tended to happen.
“I think we’re on the menu,” Vuong said. “He hasn’t sat down alone with us since his appointment.”
Rath spun one of the multi-species chairs around and touched the armrest-mounted control. The chair morphed into one roughly appropriate for a Human, and she flopped into it. “Change of mission. Guaranteed.”
“To what?” Novotny asked. He moved to a chair next to Rath, programming it as he added, “We’re still on the hook for defending this planet. The colony charter forbids the hiring of mercenary companies for security missions. We are the defensive force.”
Ibson took a breath. Novotny was right, but they were a volunteer force reporting to civilian leadership. While the style of leadership had been successful on Earth hundreds of years before, there was little recent experience saying bureaucrats could effectively run a military force, no matter how small it was. “Don’t read anything into this, guys. He might want to have a beer and ask us how things are going.”
Whirr snapped his head toward Ibson. “I believe the Human word for that is bullshit, sir.”
Ibson grinned at the taller MinSha. “You really do fit in with this bunch of ne’er-do-wells, Whirr.”
Vuong moved quietly to a seat. His voice was low. “We aren’t all ne’er-do-wells, Colonel Ibson. Some of us are clearly in need of extra equipment to fight our battles.”
Oh, here we go. Ibson fought a laugh. On cue, Novotny retorted.
“Armor, huh? That’s the joke this time? That we need our protection instead of you guys running around in twenty-fourth century rock ‘em sock ‘em robot suits?”
Whirr tapped furiously on his slate and made a rasping sound they all knew was a MinSha laugh. “Did you just compare the CASPer to a—”
The far door flung open and Governor Watson strode in, red-faced and obviously upset. They stood quickly, out of long-ingrained respect. Watson waved them down and threw a leather-bound portfolio and a slate onto the table.
“Sit down. Sit down.” Watson flopped into the chair at the head of the table. “You guys want a drink?”
Before the group could answer, Watson stabbed a button and ordered bottles of cold water for everyone. The butler who’d met them at the door delivered their drinks. The Human-sized bottle of water looked positively awkward in Lieutenant Whirr’s clawed hand, but the young MinSha nodded appreciatively just the same.
“So, how are things?” Watson sipped from his bottle and sat back in his chair. The smile on his face wasn’t authentic, though, and Ibson’s heart sank. They’d served together for more than a decade, building the force on Victoria together. The man at the end of the table only vaguely resembled his friend.
Watson was tired. That was easy to see. But underneath the fatigue of his new office and new responsibilities was something else. His face wore the attentive but disinterested look of a politician. He’d traded his combat boots for hand-made loafers. That wasn’t the problem. All great leaders hung up their spurs at some point. Watson had simply forgotten how to walk in those combat boots in a very short time.
Ibson cleared his throat and, hopefully, any pained expression off his face. “Victoria Forces are at eighty-one percent combat effectiveness and gaining every day. Intelligence shows there’s no immediate threat to our colony or our system. There are two mercenary companies, one a Cochkala-flagged organization we’re calling Pestilence, because it’s the nearest translation, and a ship we believed registered to the Pushtal at the gate. They are next in the queue and should depart within the hour, Governor.”
“Can your combat forces increase the security patrols and countermeasures we discussed during the rebuilding conference?” Watson’s smile was gone, and his eyes stared holes through Ibson.
It’s finally come down to this. You sonuvabitch.
“With all due respect, sir, you know the Victoria Forces had the primary mission of defending the system from aggression and—”
Watson raised a hand and shook his head. “Those laws, and I stress the word laws, were emplaced to maintain Human control of the colony. I have engaged with diplomatic parties of several guilds in the last several weeks who are intent on making Victoria Bravo one of their official free commerce and guild-level trade zones. There are several guilds interested in Victoria Bravo taking on additional opportunities. The commercial trade zone designation would be enough to double or triple the economy in a matter of months. There is also substantial interest in the mountains to the west and other unique geological locations—” Watson kept talking but Ibson was no longer listening.
Rage filled Ibson’s vision. A tinge of red started at the periphery of his sight and narrowed down, slowing until it surrounded Watson’s still-talking head. After a moment, it was clear Watson had finished talking and was asking for a response.
“Colonel Ibson? Did you hear what I said?” Watson squinted at him. “Your orders are to stand down the defense force and immediately begin security operations to satisfy the interested guilds.”
Ibson brought a dirty hand to his face and rubbed the day’s growth of beard on his cheek. “I heard you. I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you, of all people.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Fresh anger appeared in Watson’s eyes. It was a good sign, but there was little chance anything said in the next few minutes would make a lasting impression. Ibson had no other choice.
“You sack of shit.” Ibson shook his head sadly. “Take off your boots and slip your feet into nice shoes, and everything suddenly has a price. How much is the governor’s fee for establishing a commercial trade zone with the Merchant Guild? I expect you’re also negotiating a larger gate with the Cartography Guild. Is the Information Guild proposing a server farm? You’ve pretty much opened the fucking system to anyone with credits on their yack. You want me to secure it and not worry about the next bunch of aliens who want to run us down and profit from our loss?”
“I think that’s a terrible way to speak when a valued member of your team is an alien, James.” Watson looked down the table at Lieutenant Whirr. “I must apologize—”
“There is no need, Governor Watson. Colonel Ibson is quite correct in his assessment. There is a MinSha saying that life is—” the MinSha consulted her slate, “—that life is a scam and either the hive is aware of the action or it starves.”
Watson’s face darkened. “You’re suggesting this office, to which I was duly appointed, is corrupt?”
Committed, Ibson leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “You’ve been asked to stand down a force capable of defending this planet. You’ve been asked to relegate the remainder of the force—what, fifteen percent of our total combat power—to security operations?”
“Ten percent.”
Ibson snorted. “For how much? How much are they paying you?”
“The required transactions go to the public treasury of Victoria,” Watson said. “It will be established immediately and—”
“You’ll use it for your own fucking bank?” Ibson bit his lip, considering his words, then looked up at his friend. “What the fuck happened to you? A few million credits are enough for you to turn your back on everything we fought to keep here?”
Watson flared and shot out of his seat, pointing at Ibson. “You think I’m selling out the colony? You have no idea how hard I’ve had to work to get this done! In case you haven’t seen the GalNet feeds, Humans are being rounded up all over the galaxy. This is a Human colony without mercenary companies to guard it, Colonel. We need the protection the guilds can offer.”
“We need more troops and better weapons,” Ibson shot back. “And that whole not hiring mercenary forces thing needs to be repealed immediately.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“The hell it isn’t, Brian.” Ibson shook his head. “What happens if the guilds sell us out to the Mercenary Guild? We’re a Human military force, like you just said. What’s stopping them from selling us out, even if you didn’t?”
“That’s not fair,” Watson said. “There are many—”
“Extenuating circumstances. Yeah, you’ve said that a lot over the years. I never realized it was a cover for the layer of bullshit you threw across yourself in times of trouble.” Ibson sighed. “You’ve made a poor decision, Brian. I’m assuming this standdown has to happen immediately?”
Watson nodded. “I’ve assured the guilds our forces will transition to security operations within the next 170 hours. Most of them already have delegations on the way.”
“And no one thought to tell you it might be a ruse?” Rath asked. “Begging your pardon, Colonel Ibson, but this smells an awful lot like a trap.”
Novotny and Whirr nodded. Vuong, his voice low, looked at Watson. “Strip away the army, and the city falls faster, regardless of security forces.”
Watson laughed. “Listen to you! There is no threat. These negotiations have been in the works for weeks. I have the assurance of Guild Masters. Their personal assurances.”
“Makes me wonder if Earth had the personal assurance of the Mercenary Guild Master a few generations ago,” Ibson said. He sighed and shook his head a final time. “Brian, I cannot follow those orders. I can, however, provide a solution. Leave the Victoria Forces Command in place until such time as your guilds arrive. We’ll provide a security force immediately. They’ll look and act like Victoria Forces, but that’s the best you can get on short notice. The rest of the force goes to a yellow cycle. They’ll go into maintenance and other activities you can sell as preparing to auction equipment and materiel. But I cannot let a bunch of guilds come in carte blanche and catch you with your wallet out and your pants around your ankles.”
Watson flushed, and his lips became a thin white line. “I’ve promised our full cooperation.”
“And there’s nothing saying you haven’t given it. It takes time, money, and effort to tear a unit down.” Ibson smiled. “Did you think we were going to turn in our ammunition, clear our hand receipts, and go home before taps as though we were leaving our cushy office job, and pad upstairs to the comfortable bedroom and catered dinner?”
“That’s a cheap shot, Jamie.”
Ibson leaned forward and stared at his friend. “No, it’s the most real shot you’ve taken in a while, Governor. Since Chinayl, maybe. If that bitch didn’t get through to you, I don’t know what could have.”
“I’m not trying to destroy Victoria.” Watson sighed. For the first time in the conversation he looked authentically Human. “We have so much potential.”
No one spoke for a moment before Novotny said, “My old gunnery sergeant, a really long time ago, said potential isn’t what you waste. It’s what you realize you’re wasting. Colonel Ibson is right. We have to be prepared to fight, sir. Give us that chance. At least until we figure out what the guilds’ real intentions are and things settle down.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Ibson made eye contact with Watson in the hopes of provoking further comment, but the governor looked away. Disappointed, Ibson and a few of the others drank from their water bottles. The local water was unlike anything he’d ever tasted—cold, crisp, and delicious. He risked a glance at Vuong, but the smaller man’s face was impassive and set in stone, as always. Across the table, Rath winked but kept the rest of her face still. Novotny found it an appropriate time to clean his eyeglasses.
Whirr, though, stared back at him. The MinSha’s ruby red eyes sparkled in the conference room’s light. Though she was only a young infantry lieutenant, Whirr was still a female MinSha warrior. She dipped her chin, a tiny nod of approval, and turned her eyes back to Watson at the head of the table. Ibson did the same.
“Okay,” Watson said. “Maybe I got ahead of myself, but you’re right. Maintain the force and standby for any action. We’ll figure out how to do the security mission, too. While I can’t see anything happening with the guilds, we can’t be sure. That’s the part of the job I should’ve brought from when I sat in your chair, Jamie. I would imagine command and governorship are similar. The only difference between them is the arms brought to bear, huh?”
Ibson nodded. “There was a quote in American history about carrying a big stick. If you’ll pardon the expression, Brian, we are the stick on this planet. And after what we did to Chinayl, most folks would think twice about taking us on.”
“They’d have to be crazy.” Watson grinned.
The group relaxed, save for Vuong. Ibson looked at him for a moment, then the man sat up and said, “It’s what an enemy thinks they can take, sir. If there is a large enough target, someone will come for it. It’s a matter of time. Maybe not today, or when the guilds arrive, but sooner or later, there will be a target here, and an interested, committed foe will try to come for it. There has to be someone to stop them.”
Watson nodded. “We want Victoria Bravo to become more than it is. I think we can all agree on that. But we have to believe this conflict with the Mercenary Guild cannot last. Peace will return to the galaxy, and we can be on the forefront of the growth that will come.”
“I fear,” Vuong continued, “doing so will require not only help from the guilds, but from other powerful allies. We cannot do this without help.”
Ibson nodded and looked at Watson for a long moment. The Governor, and former commander-in-chief, nodded as well. Watson said, “You’re right, Major Vuong. We cannot do this without help.”
“And we can’t get caught with our pants down, either,” Ibson said. “We’ve got 170 hours?”
“Give or take,” Watson replied.
“Then we need to get our act together. Permission to use this room as an ops center?”
“Granted,” Watson replied. “But take a shower before you come back and take over the room.”
“Is it that noticeable?” Ibson grinned.
“When you haven’t been in the field in a while?” Watson laughed. “Yeah, it is.”
Whirr’s voice rose. “I do not understand this Human preoccupation with scent. To me, you all smell the same.”
“I take it that’s not a pleasant thing?” Novotny asked.
Whirr shook her head. “It’s disgusting, frankly. But since you’re family, I’ll find a way to manage.”
Family.
Ibson looked around the table. They were his subordinates by statute, but his friends by choice. They were the best soldiers he’d ever served with and simply being near them filled him with pride. Yeah, that’s exactly what we are now.
Family.
Gods help anybody who comes after us.
* * * * *
Chapter Thirteen
Victory Twelve
Hyperspace
47 Hours Remaining in Transit
The arguments continued for a second day, and as much as Tara wanted to give the Veetanho Peacemaker and the TriRusk stowaway a chance to settle their differences on their own, there seemed to be no chance. Bukk and Xander had left the forward galley a half hour before and settled in the cockpit section, as far away from the discussion as possible. Jackson Rains was asleep in his forward cabin, according to Lucille’s monitoring. The argument would affect Tara’s decision, which should have been easy, but Maarg and Vannix both had strong, well-reasoned positions on their destination following the stop at Victoria Bravo.
They sat across the table from each other. The forward galley’s position on the rotational arm of the ship gave them a very slight sense of gravity. Vannix drank a bulb of hot water and Maarg rested her long face on a large hand in the universal expression of boredom. Tara sat at the end of the table, between them, not unlike a parent facing down her kids over missed homework or who ate the last of the doughnuts. Had the argument not been going for six hours, it would have been comical. There wasn’t enough coffee, or whiskey, aboard Victory Twelve to help.
Tara rubbed her temples, and, with her eyes closed, asked, “So, we’re no further along than when we started this conversation, right? You both are dead set on different targets for our first mission and unwilling to compromise.”
Maarg spoke first. “Uluru is not a good enough lead, Tara. There could be a million things in the galaxy Snowman meant by that reference. Simply finding it multiple times in the logs doesn’t make it a viable target.”
“On that we agree.” Vannix sipped her water. “Which brings us back to the first three planets on the list.”
Maarg huffed. “I don’t think we start at any of those, Vannix. They are too far away from reliable logistics points. Just because we can go anywhere within the gate system doesn’t mean we should. I think our best targets are close to known systems.”
“But it fails the logic test.” Vannix shook her head. “Snowman made it back to Karma after the shit-show at Shaw Outpost. From there, the last place he’d go is someplace close. He never surfaced at any of the known Intergalactic Haulers’ facilities, nor did he return to Earth. He went deep, and that’s where we have to look for him.”
“We’re talking the known galaxy. You said there were 121 possible targets. That’s not necessarily going deep.” Maarg shook her head. “I think we start with the three possible Haulers’ cache sites the Peacemaker Guild identified. Particularly the ones close to Veetanho space.”
Vannix rubbed her eyes. “No. That’s suicide.”
“Easy to say since you’re a Veetanho.”
“What are you insinuating, Maarg?” Vannix’s eyes narrowed. “Not all of the Veetanho are the enemy.”
“So you say. You could be leading us into a trap.”
“And we’re supposed to believe you just because you’re Kurrang’s daughter? Who happened to stowaway on the ship? You could be planning to kill us.”
Tara leaned into the conversation. “Stop it. Both of you.”
The small Veetanho and the young TriRusk locked eyes but said nothing. Tara watched them stare at each other for a moment before waving a hand in front of their eyes. The two turned and looked at her.
“I said that’s enough.” Tara sighed. “We have a simulation scheduled in ten minutes, and I think all three of us need a break from this list. We can reconvene and discuss it after dinner. Either way, by the time we are boots on the ground at Victoria Bravo, we’re going to have identified a first target. We may get it wrong, but the learning curve is going to be damned near vertical. Finding Snowman is only part of the equation. If we can’t fight worth a shit, this will be the shortest mission in history.”
“You sound like the galaxy is full of enemies,” Vannix said. “There are allies, too.”
“We’re going to need them.” Tara stood slowly in the lighter gravity. She leaned over the table, still clutching the edge with both hands. Her eyes turned to Vannix, then to Maarg, as she spoke. “We’re all going to need allies. Figure this out on your own, or one of you disembarks at Victoria Bravo, permanently.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Vannix replied immediately. Maarg was silent and looked away.
Tara clenched and unclenched her jaw. “Ten minutes in the sim bay. Don’t be late.”
* * *
Satisfied everyone was in place, Tara boarded Deathangel 25. As she worked her arms and legs into their positions, she glanced outside. Bukk sat at a ground terminal where he would control the four tanks in the simulation. The large, ant-like Altar was hunched comically over the terminal, his antennae sagging over the top of the Tri-V screen. Next to him sat Vannix, boosted up on a cargo box so she could use the terminal without extensive modifications. The white-furred Veetanho would control four of the CASPers in the simulation, and Jackson Rains would control the other four. Rains was aboard Alpha 1, the preliminary name for the only other CASPer in the hold. It was a combination of Mk 7 pieces and parts they’d scrounged and refitted on Araf with the help of Xander Alison. With his knee still in a large brace, Rains used a console connected directly to the CASPer’s systems, since he couldn’t close himself inside. It would be a few weeks before he was able to fight a CASPer without the brace.
“Force 25, this is Deathangel 25. Comm check. Over.”
Bukk’s team was their first platoon, and without actual callsigns or designations yet, they went the simple route. “Deathangel this is Red One, loud and clear.”
“Deathangel, this is White One, loud and clear,” Rains replied as the leader of second platoon.
“Deathangel, this is Blue One, loud and clear,” Vannix called.
Xander, along with Lucille, would control Victory Twelve’s avatar for drop, extraction, and aerial gunfire, if necessary. Xander was in place on the flight deck, and Lucille monitored the ship.
Maarg sat at the control console between Bukk and Vannix. As an adolescent TriRusk, Maarg was far smaller than her father, but she was still large enough so that the Human analog panel was at about eye level. She didn’t have a role in the simulation, but Tara wanted to see how well she could listen, follow along, and extrapolate what they were doing. Sometimes it was best to observe.
Other times, it’s best to fight.
For this exercise, Rains was again in charge. With his modified connection to the CASPer and sim kit, he couldn’t move impulsively. He’d be forced to program and maneuver his CASPer and the three computer simmed wingmen. The change would slow him down and, Tara hoped, help the young Peacemaker see the battlefield from a wider perspective. If her idea didn’t work, she’d be forced to leave him aboard Victory Twelve with Xander.
“Deathangel, Victory Twelve. Ship is secure and controls are autonomous. Ready for the simulation,” Xander said. From his position on the ship’s bridge, he’d get the feel of flying the ship or the lone drop shuttle. More importantly, it gave him time to familiarize himself with the control sections and understand how the ship performed in combat. As much as Tara wanted to believe the ship would never be in danger, her gut told her otherwise.
Tara pressed her transmit button. “Lucille? Open simulation. One-minute ready time.”
<<Confirmed. Simulation launching. Sixty seconds and counting until engagement.>>
The timing was necessary. Even entering a combat situation, they would have the chance to observe the terrain. As the display in her CASPer came on, Tara quickly scanned their position—her eyes moving from side to side. Unconsciously, lessons learned in CASPer school returned. Moving an infantry force and traditional armored forces weren’t all that different. Yet, the first time she’d had to search the terrain around her for a safe haven and defensibility, she realized the difference between infantry tactics and those for armored forces was much smaller that popular belief suggested. The principles of terrain analysis, for example, were the same. As she observed their battle space, she ran through the litany with ease.
Observation—as in what she or the enemy could see around them. The area was forested, but not a jungle, as in previous simulations. They could see about two hundred meters in any direction. Cover and Concealment—cover meaning actual protection versus concealment merely hiding a position. They held the high ground, always a plus. And from the look of things, they had a decent fighting position on the reverse slope of the hill from where the attack would likely originate. She knew this because she saw the extraction point, the dropship’s emergency landing point, behind them, along the banks of a shallow, lazy river. The river and low, impassable marshland would funnel the enemy right into their position. Obstacles—what things on the battlefield would cause a force, friendly or enemy, to move around them for success. The enemy force would move fast, but Force 25 had a perfect channel in front of them that would catch the enemy, if her forces could bring enough fire power to move the enemy there. Key Terrain—what features on the immediate, close-by battlefield dominated the space. Force 25 occupied two hills, with the shallow river flowing between them. Tara was positioned between the hills, along the banks of the river. Bukk and his tanks held the hilltop on the left, and Vannix held the hilltop on the right. Overlooking the river, from Vannix’s position, was a cliff. It was as good a position as it could be. Avenues of Approach—the natural flow of terrain often suggested ways a force would move and it was the final tenet of terrain analysis. She could see that the enemy would approach and be channelized. It was almost too easy, which Lucille’s simulations never were. Even with the best possible terrain, there were challenges ahead. Force 25 could not rest on its laurels.
“Thirty seconds,” Vannix called. The Veetanho was on the ball, as usual. “Moving to firing positions.”
Tara watched as the CASPers moved almost to the crest of the hill and hunkered down behind it. From their positions, sensors could see into the valley below, but the units were not exposed to direct fire.
Satisfied, Tara swung her optics toward the tank platoon. Bukk quickly moved the tanks to cover the bottleneck of the river passing between the hills, while leaving his position guarded enough to protect his left flank. Tara frowned. Given their position, it wasn’t enough protection. The platoon of CASPers deployed with Tara waited for Rains. Each of the units remained in position, looking to the north toward the bottleneck.
Tara touched her transmit button but did not press it. Come on, Rains!
Nothing happened for a full fifteen seconds. Tara started to push the button again but stopped herself.
You have to see that Bukk’s flank is exposed!
“Deathangel, White One. Moving forward and to the west,” Rains called. “Red One, incoming from your six o’clock.”
“Red One, roger.”
With a flash of jumpjets, Rains and his three wingmen took off to the north west, racing toward Bukk’s exposed flank as fast as their jumpjets could carry them.
“Targets identified,” Bukk called. “One thousand meters and closing.”
Tara bit her lip. Identifying targets was a good thing, but the team needed more information. Bukk’s tanks had the best sensors in Force 25. He needed to provide more data.
Vannix called. “Red One, Blue One. Need a SITREP. Over.”
Yes. Tara smiled.
“Deathangel, Red One. Contact front, 1000 meters. Infantry forces—unable to identify. Time now,” Bukk called. It wasn’t a bad situation report. He needed more practice, but it was better than anything they’d had before.
“Roger, Red One. Weapons free on all targets,” Tara called. Her heads-up display blinked with a time indicator. Six minutes and counting.
“Deathangel, Victory Twelve. Shuttle on the way. Extraction in six minutes,” Xander called. Her instruments indicated the ship was just appearing over the western horizon. They’d be in position to receive the shuttle without having to slow down or loiter. Fuel consumption in orbit was a dicey gambit.
“Red One, targets are Oogar,” Bukk called. His radio discipline needed work, too, but Tara watched as his tanks swung their main guns to the north and opened fire. “Firing!”
“Red One, White One, in position,” Rains called. “Firing now. All MAC, all the time!”
Tara looked to the east, to Vannix’s position. The hilltop was quiet. While Bukk and Rains were decisively engaged, the Veetanho’s CASPers were quiet. Tara grinned in approval. Vannix was likely watching the Oogar to see if they tried to cross the river to circumvent the defenses. If they did, she would be ready for them. Tara cued her sensors and saw that Vannix was radio silent. A direct laser connection showed active, but there was no sense alerting the enemy forces just to tell her she was doing an awesome job. There would be a time for praise later.
Tara saw the icon for one of Bukk’s tanks flash red, combat ineffectiveness, and then it disappeared from her screen. The lost tank was the far western vehicle on the front line. Between him and Rains, there was a hole in the line.
“Red One, White One, moving on your flank with three mechas in tow.”
“Copy, White One. Taking heavy fire. Oogar moving to the west toward the breach.”
Tara was already moving toward the breach. She deployed her remaining CASPers along the river to guard the high-speed avenue of approach. If the Oogar got through the line, there would be little stopping them from advancing all the way to the extraction point. Without a safe landing zone, they’d be forced to DIP—Die In Place. That wasn’t an option, now or ever.
“Red One, White One, we’re on your flank and pushing forward.”
Mid-jump, Tara shifted her sensors to see what Rains and his CASPers could see. The Oogar line stretched out in front of his position, and there was an opportunity for counter attack.
There had been worse ideas. Tara adjusted her course to arrive and bolster Rains’ line as it charged forward into the Oogar.
“Red One, Deathangel 25 approaching from your four o’clock. Bringing fire now. Let’s push them into the cliff.”
“Exactly what I was thinking, 25,” Rains replied. There was a hint of a smile, something she’d never heard, in his voice.
Tara changed channels. “Red One, get ready to pull your folks out.”
“Deathangel 25, Red One—retreat? Over?”
She laughed. “No, Red One. Withdrawal by fire. Draw them into the bottleneck. That’s where we close the door.”
“Roger that,” Bukk replied. “Red One moving now.”
“White One, push forward and let Red One withdraw,” Tara called. “Stay on my flank.”
“Roger, Deathangel. I’m right with you,” Rains replied.
Tara jumped a final time and landed immediately to the right of Rains’ forces. With her MAC and hand cannons armed, she advanced into the forest with her CASPers on line. She brought up both arms, cannons firing as she designated targets for the MAC with her eyes, her fingers working the controls like a virtuoso. She bounded down the slope, into a raging sea of purple fur and claws. The Oogar howled as Force 25 counterattacked their flank. The stunned aliens panicked and rushed east toward the bottleneck and the river. She glanced over her left shoulder and the external cameras adjusted. Rains and his CASPers were right there, swinging down the hill to the east. Pushing the Oogar in front of them. The two platoons of CASPers cut down wide swaths of the feral beasts as they rushed forward.
“Deathangel, Victory Twelve, shuttle is one minute out. Lift parameters are negative for a full load,” Xander called. “Shuttle can take tanks or CASPers.”
So much for being an easy sim. Tara sighed.
“Roger, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Tara replied. “Or when we jump off it.”
“Victory Twelve can be there in twelve minutes.”
<<Concur. It is a low-risk maneuver, and this planet’s gravity well is within the ship’s capability to escape with its own engines.>>
Tara nodded. The information took its place in her head, and she formulated a plan of escape. “Red One, beat feet to the extraction point. You’re first out.”
“Red One, roger. We are accelerating on the valley floor now,” Bukk replied. “We’re thirty seconds from extraction point.”
Tara pushed the frequency for Victory Twelve. “Get first platoon off with the shuttle, Xander. Drop Victory Twelve to bring up the rest.”
“What about the Oogar? You’ve got about a thousand of them rushing the extraction point at the bottleneck,” Xander replied. Tara didn’t have to consult her sensors to know he was right.
The leading edge of the Oogar assault rushed toward the bottleneck as Tara and Rains brought their forces to bear on the feral aliens. A teeming mass of purple ursine aliens charged into the bottleneck on the western side of the river. As they did, four CASPers appeared in a flash at the top of the twenty-meter cliff above them.
“Deathangel 25, Blue One. Engaging now.”
Tara immediately slowed down and noted with satisfaction that Rains did the same without being told. Still firing their weapons and still taking down targets, they needed to stay out of Vannix’s kill zone. The four CASPers on the high ground laid down a barrage of impressive MAC and cannon fire, depleting the Oogar assault by ten percent within seconds.
“Close the neck, Vannix,” Tara called over the team frequency.
“Red One is aboard the shuttle and away,” Bukk called.
<<Confirmed. Shuttle is away. Victory Twelve is approaching now. Shuttle Molly on the ground in one hundred and thirty seconds.>>
Tara slowed her approach even more. “Rains? Bound your platoon around behind me and close off the gap. When you’re set, I’ll bound behind you and support your withdrawal by fire. From there, we can both make sure Vannix can get to the extraction point. You with me?”
“Roger, 25. White elements moving now,” Rains replied. “On the bounce!”
Tara snorted, but decided not to give Rains hell for lack of radio procedures, despite what he’d obviously meant. At least he’d been reading something worth a shit during their down time. The Oogar saw the bound and pushed harder against her flank. The outbound CASPer’s icon faded, and her combat effectiveness slid to 75%.
Shit!
“Lucille, close the interval between my CASPers.”
<Acknowledged. We are taking significantly heavy fire. This suggests the Oogar are preparing to charge.>>
Wonderful.
“Deathangel, Red One is set. Bound!”
Tara didn’t think twice as she hit her jumpjets and quickly moved southeast behind the hasty positions established by Rains and his forces. At the apex of her jump, Tara glanced toward Vannix’s position. The Oogar couldn’t fire effectively at her platoon, but that didn’t stop them from trying. What weapons they had, a curious conglomeration of beam weapons and rudimentary ballistic ones, fired toward the partially hidden CASPers with little to no effect.
As she descended, Tara caught sight of a glint in the sky, swinging from north to south, high above them. From the path, she knew it was Victory Twelve, and as it decelerated in the atmosphere, an idea formed.
“Victory Twelve, guns out. Want you to clear the road for extraction,” Tara called. “Lucille, execute pattern alpha.”
<<Acknowledged. Victory Twelve will be in position at eight miles altitude,>> Lucille replied. <<While high altitude bombing of feral creatures is frowned upon by the laws of the Galactic Union, it is not illegal, Tara.>>
“I don’t care, Lucille. Hit them with everything you have. We are not going to die in place today.”
<<Acknowledged. One minute, ten seconds.>>
Tara finished her bound and ensured her remaining CASPers were in place to cover Rains. “White One, move your ass!”
“Bounding!” Rains replied. On cue, his CASPer flashed past to the south to take up a position on the river.
Tara looked up at Vannix’s position. “Blue One, get to the extraction point.”
“Blue One, holding position until bombardment.”
Tara shook her head. “No, Blue One, get your ass moving now!”
“Deathangel 25, I can hold them off for you and—”
Godsdammit!
“Negative, Blue One. Move now! We all get to the extraction point together!”
Rains called, “White One is set. Bound, 25!”
By reflex, Tara jumped to the south, and her remaining CASPers followed. She risked a glance at them in flight and noticed black smoke pouring from the trailing one. There was no way it would make the extraction point without a miracle.
“Victory Twelve on station,” Xander called. “Permission to fire?”
“Granted,” Tara called. “White One, Blue One, when the ship fires, un-ass your positions and get to the extraction point. Understood?”
There was a series of clicks on the channel, both Vannix and Rains tapping the radio button twice in acknowledgment but not speaking. They were too busy to talk, their minds on the task at hand; Tara knew the procedure well. Her CASPer thumped to the ground, and she turned in time to see a ripple of fire from Victory Twelve’s fuselage-mounted auto-cannon. Just aft of the command section, the single cannon could fire two rounds per second. In reality, they’d never fired the cannon, and Tara hoped they never had to. But, if they had to rain fire from above, they needed to know how it worked and what it looked like.
“White One, moving!”
Vannix called next. “Blue One on the move.”
<<Second salvo firing.>>
Tara didn’t look back at the approaching ship as the concussion waves from the second salvo buffeted her CASPer. Ahead of her, Bukk’s three remaining tanks surrounded the shuttle. Her own element, down one CASPer, joined Rains’ as they raced to the extraction point. To her left, Vannix’s four CASPers jumped in sequence down the hillside.
“Attack stopped. Oogar are regrouping!” Xander called.
<<Affirmative. Force 25 has won the field with seventy six percent combat effectiveness.>>
Tara beamed. “Disengage the simulation and shut down all platforms.”
There were a few whoops of excitement on the channel. As Tara opened the cockpit of her CASPer, she saw a smile on Rains’ face, and Vannix and Bukk touched knuckles in an awkwardly awesome alien fist bump. Tara unbuckled her harness and watched the excitement for a moment. They’d finally won a simulation and worked together as a team. She saw Maarg staring at her impassively. The TriRusk’s expression did not change. Tara kept her smile on, but felt it waver.
Why do I think we just failed in her eyes?
* * * * *
Chapter Fourteen
Governor’s Home
Victoria Bravo
Nearly four days of planning, swearing, and coffee drinking produced a viable plan to field the security elements required for the arriving guild representatives and to keep the Victoria Forces manned and equipped until further diplomatic protections could be arranged. Both the Cartography and Merchant Guilds confirmed the imminent arrival of negotiations teams. If everything went well, both would grant Victoria Bravo a planetary status that would prevent all-out conflict like they’d lived through a few weeks before. As the population continued to return, and new residents flocked to Lovell City, such provisions and protections were imperative.
Brian Watson sat at his wide desk with its polished stone top and studied the results of the team’s work. Ibson had been the last to leave, six hours before. They’d typed the last revisions to the plan, congratulated each other on a good day’s work, and collapsed into their respective beds. After a few hours sleep, Watson woke like a child on Christmas morning and checked the gate logs. There were no new arrivals.
It was just as well, he knew. Time was a critical and finite resource. They had to strike while the proverbial iron was hot, and that meant fielding the security force. For the last twelve hours, the force had been deployed. While not unlike a traditional police force, the city’s security force doubled as both protection and security. Certain tactically important locations, like the prospective offices of the inbound Guilds, required a constant presence. That was easy. Patrolling the rest of the quiet city was equally simple.
Watson reviewed the patrol logs from the first shift with a bemused smile on his face. The city was always quiet, but as much as Watson wanted change to come, he knew that change would bring a certain amount of chaos. For him, ensuring the citizens of the planet, not just Lovell City, were safe in their daily lives was important. Yet, his priority was the attraction of the guilds. For Victoria Bravo to be a cosmopolitan world, it would have to change. All Watson could do with his policies and procedures was stay in front of those changes to the best of his ability. His young, political life, thrown at him like a badge of honor for defending the city when his predecessor ran, appealed to him despite his past. A soldier knew the stakes. A politician played the game. The two never compromised, and he found himself alone with his doubts far too often.
A knock at the door shook him from his thoughts. “Come on in.”
His aide-de-camp, a nattily dressed young man named Evan, poked his head through the door. Evan looked like a teenager but was fresh from college on Earth. Someplace called Dartmouth. Watson suspected Evan had signed up for political service with delusions of grandeur on the capital planets of the galaxy and wound up on the frontier at Victoria, hating his luck. Now, though, he was on the cusp of incredible experiences his peers could only dream about doing in their first assignment.
“Governor Watson?”
“What is it, Evan?”
“I wasn’t sure I’d find you here.”
Watson nodded. “It was a late night. I crashed on the sofa downstairs.”
Evan blinked and gulped down his surprise fairly well, in Watson’s eyes. “Sir, I…I mean, there is a message from the gate.”
Watson sat forward and pushed the sheaf of papers away from his communication panel. He laughed. “I missed it. How about that?”
“It’s an urgent request...”
Of course, it is!
“...From the Peacemaker Guild, I believe. The ship’s registration is Victory Twelve, countersigned to Intergalactic Haulers, but the owner is—”
“Jessica Francis.” Watson grinned. He hadn’t expected to see her so soon. “I’ll take this privately, Evan. Thanks.”
“Yes, sir.” The young man ducked out and closed the door without a sound. Watson wondered how many hours he’d spent practicing that technique in school. Surely such things were considered important for young diplomats.
Watson laughed and touched the communication interface. The channel opened, and he saw a five second signal delay. Victory Twelve had just emerged.
“Victory Twelve, this is the Governor of Victoria Bravo. Is that you, Jessica?”
The seconds passed interminably. “Last calling station, please identify the speaker?”
Watson frowned. The voice was not the one he’d expected. “This is Governor Brian Watson calling Peacemaker Francis. Please put her on immediately and state your business in this zone.”
The silence grated on him until the response came. “Governor Watson, this is Tara Mason in command of Force 25. We are on a classified mission for the Peacemaker Guild and need to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”
Classified mission?
Watson felt himself flush. The Peacemaker Guild sent them to overwatch this deal.
Anger surfaced, and Watson thought through it quickly. Even if they did, his negotiations with the guilds were completely legal and within the bounds of a host of cooperative agreements and statutes with legal precedent from before First Contact with Earth. The likelihood they had arrived to stop any negotiation was remote. They might be there to oversee things, but even that was a stretch.
If it’s not to watch over the negotiations, what do they want?
“Understand, Victory Twelve, proceed to orbit. We’ll meet at your first opportunity. Maintain contact with this office, and we’ll see you when you get here.”
“Thank you, Governor Watson. Jessica sends her regards. I have two Peacemakers aboard, sir. We’ll meet you in a few hours.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” Watson forced a smile and turned off the direct messaging interface.
He set the papers in his hands on the desk with a thump. For a moment, he considered throwing them across the room in a fit of fury, but it was the only paper copy of the plan, and he carefully, methodically, put it on the desk and smoothed it out.
He shook his head. “Why now? And what for?”
There wasn’t an easy answer. With a classified designation, their mission could be anything, and he didn’t have the need-to-know, so it was unlikely they would tell him anything. But then, what were they doing at Victoria Bravo? Overwatching the negotiations? Or something else?
The answer came to him in a flurry of thoughts. War was imminent. The Mercenary Guild had already tried to eliminate the colony, and his forces had fought them off with the assistance of Peacemaker Francis and her friends. The Peacemaker Guild wanted answers. They needed an edge. What better edge than the forces that helped stop Chinayl on her rampage through the outer rim territories?
Watson nodded to himself and frowned. Supporting the Peacemaker Guild, if asked, was another feather in his proverbial hat as a diplomat and would be seen by the guild representatives as a positive statement. Yet, the Peacemaker Guild, and Tara Mason specifically, were coming because they needed an edge. That was the answer. On Victoria, the only edge Watson had was the non-mercenary soldiers who fought and defeated the MinSha. The mercenary units of Earth hid or ran from Peepo’s gambit. His soldiers were protected by the legal framework of the planet’s status. As such, they were his most precious resource.
Yet, Watson had none to give to any cause for any reason. There had to be peace on Victoria Bravo. Peace required every pair of hands he could muster. The future of their world depended on it.
* * *
Lovell City Spaceport
Victoria Bravo
Tara went through the shutdown checklist for Victory Twelve’s drop shuttle, Molly, by memory. Despite a last minute “go-around” call from the control tower while a crippled Cochkala ship set down in the primary tarmac position, she’d managed to fly and land the shuttle without Lucille’s help. The near-AI was better left aboard Victory Twelve and, frankly, Tara needed to practice operating without the virtual safety net Lucille provided. With the engines and major systems shut down, she hesitated to complete the full shutdown. She shook her head at her trepidation. The Victoria Forces were friends. They’d fought alongside Jessica Francis and defeated Chinayl’s rogue MinSha forces just two months earlier. Realizing her guard was up, more so than normal, Tara sat back in the console chair for a moment, feeling the return of gravity in her limbs. Below, in the hold, Jackson Rains and Vannix would start unloading the two CASPers, Deathangel 25 and Alpha 1, so they could undergo a quick maintenance check and be loaded with fresh ammunition and fuel. Xander remained in orbit with Bukk and Maarg, scouring mission logs and gate information, looking for a better first target. Bukk remained confident they’d have a confirmed location in a day or so. From what Tara had seen before departing, they were close to a decision, but part of that meant she had to assume a measure of risk and pull Vannix down to the planet with her. A Veetanho, Peacemaker or not, on a planet freshly targeted by the Mercenary Guild could agitate the Victoria Forces. But Jessica’s report said the forces and their commander were professionals. Vannix was far too valuable in a fight to leave her behind on Victory Twelve.
I hope you’re right, Jess.
When she felt strong enough to move, Tara stood and relished the feeling of blood flowing into her lower limbs. Readjustment to gravity typically didn’t take long, and the exercise cycles Humans followed seemed to mitigate most of the effects within a short time. The mental adjustment would take longer. When everything was in freefall, it was possible to hang something in mid-air, like a camera or a wrench, then grab it when it was needed. Gravity made a lot of fools when Humans returned to Earth. Walking to the cargo hold gave her legs a little exercise, and the exertion made her feel better. Maybe she could get a workout in during the next couple of days. Tara shook the thoughts of free time away—this was business, and she needed every ounce of acumen in her possession to get what Force 25 so desperately needed.
Over the intercom, she heard Rains. “Opening the outer door. We have quite the welcoming party, Tara.”
As long as they don’t have torches and pitchforks, you’ll be fine. The voice was that of her old mentor, a retired mercenary first sergeant named Barrow. Tara snorted, remembering a young kid from somewhere in the Caribbean asking what a pitchfork was. She shook the memory away, took a deep breath, and made ready.
Confident everything was going to be fine, Tara made her way down the ladder into the bay. Vannix moved spryly, as if the week in microgravity hadn’t slowed her down. Rains, by comparison, looked ashen. The return of gravity had to be hell on his injured knee. Even with the brace, his limp was pronounced, and his mouth was a tight, grim line on his pained face. They’d been on the ground five minutes, and the young Peacemaker was already sweating.
“Rains?” Tara called. “You need a break.”
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
Rains stopped and turned toward her. His face was a mixture of pain and anger. “You don’t have to order me around.”
“I’m not, Rains. Sit down. We can get this going,” Tara said. Her voice was purposefully low and caring. “Don’t injure yourself further. We need you.”
Rains paused with an arm load of trash. He didn’t smile in acknowledgement; he just nodded his head. “Yeah. You’re right, Tara.”
She watched him set the trash container down on the deck, then stand up with his hands on his hips. He wanted something to do. “Hey, when I meet with Watson, I’d like you there, both as a Peacemaker and as a Human being. I want to make sure we’re all safe.”
Rains looked at Vannix. He nodded, then looked back at Tara. “I understand. Guess we get to see if Jessica’s report was accurate.”
Tara gave him a quick smile. “Jessica’s report is accurate, Rains, but people change.”
She emphasized the last word, and Rains nodded. He had changed over the course of the last week. The laser wound to his knee was not bad, but it was enough to slow him down. She’d noticed it made him think things through, even an action as simple as moving to the latrine. In some ways, his injury affected more than his knee, and Tara thought that was a good thing.
There was a clang as Vannix lowered Deathangel 25 to the deck behind them. Free from its rack and under power, the CASPer whined just loud enough for her to hear it. For a moment, she was back in Nebraska lying on her bed in the early morning twilight, listening to her father starting the equipment. The soft whirring of the components was the only alarm clock she had. She’d toss off the blankets, put on her coveralls, and trudge out into the cold, dark morning before her father could come in and roust her and her siblings. His wake-up calls were never gentle.
“Tara?” Vannix called, shaking her from her memories. “There is a delegation out here.”
She looked at Rains who smirked at her. “Duty calls, Commander.”
Tara laughed. “There are worse things I can think of, Jackson.”
“Yeah. Me, too.” Rains smiled. “I’ll let you do all the talking.”
“Not on your life, Peacemaker,” Tara said. “Come on. Let’s go meet the locals.”
When Vannix fully opened the door, there were no less than twelve people standing outside. Eight of them, spread in a half-circle behind the other four, carried weapons. Tara looked over her shoulder at Rains. “You got your badge?”
“Yes.”
“Vannix?”
“In my hands, Tara,” Vannix replied. “I assume this security detail isn’t for the four in the middle.”
“That’s fair,” Rains said. “I have the right side, you take the left, Vannix.”
“They’re friendlies,” Tara hissed.
“And if they’re not?” Rains spoke, his voice low and serious. “I don’t think we should take any chances, Tara.”
“My partner and I are in agreement,” Vannix whispered. “I have the left.”
Sonuvabitch! They’re acting like we’re walking into the fucking OK Corral or something.
Are we?
Tara touched her earpiece. “Maarg?”
“Yes, Commander?”
“If this situation goes south, Lucille will initiate an emergency boost to orbit. Otherwise, stay in the cockpit and be ready for anything.”
“Shall I tap into any networks and information sources I can find?”
Tara nodded. “Do it.”
<<I am prepared to assist as necessary.>> She disengaged the radio transmitter.
“I need your attention on the situation here, Lucille. Sweep what you can but keep your focus close.”
<<Acknowledged.>>
A gust of wind blew through the open door and disheveled her hair. Tara swept an errant lock back over her left ear and glanced at the central four figures. Two of them wore tankers’ coveralls. The garment was fabricated with an internal harness for crew extraction. Without meeting them, and despite their security detail, she liked them already. One of the four was a bald man dressed in a civilian jacket and pants with the seal of the Victoria Forces on his chest.
That’s Governor Watson.
To Watson’s left was a small man in a tight-fitting pair of coveralls. His short black hair and Asian features likely meant he was Major Vuong. The other two men had to be Novotny and Ibson, but she had no idea who was who. Without waiting for acknowledgement, Tara stepped down from the bay’s edge into the early morning sun. The day was warm. The light from Victoria’s star felt good upon her face and exposed skin.
She marched straight toward Watson with a smile on her face. If Jessica had taught her one thing, it was the disarming power of a smile. “Governor Watson?”
The bald man smiled. He was much younger than she’d thought. “Commander Mason. Welcome to Victoria Bravo.”
They shook hands briefly. Watson made the introductions, starting with the dark-haired man on his immediate right. “This is Colonel Ibson, the commanding officer of the Victoria Forces.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“And you,” Ibson replied. “Jessica Francis spoke very highly of you.”
Tara nodded and tried not to blush. “She had glowing things to say about you as well.”
Ibson smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked tired. “This is Major Novotny, my armored forces commander, and Major Vuong, in command of the CASPer forces.”
Tara shook their hands. “Well met.”
Watson didn’t wait until she finished shaking Vuong’s hand. “What can we do for you, Commander Mason?”
Tara took a breath. “As I said earlier, we’re on a classified Peacemaker mission. The need-to-know for this mission is very limited, but given your history of support, I am authorized to tell you. We are tasked with finding James Francis of Intergalactic Haulers. We believe he has knowledge critical for defeating the Mercenary Guild. We also believe he is in grave danger. I’ve been authorized to use whatever force necessary to do this, but we need your help.”
Watson nodded. “Our resources are at your disposal. Maintenance facilities and technicians. Armorer. We have everything you need.”
Tara nodded. “I need more than services, Governor. I need troops. I need transports. We’re heading into this mission severely outmatched and—”
Watson shook his head. “I have none to give you, Commander. We have priorities that require my forces to remain on Victoria Bravo for the foreseeable future.”
“Force 25 is just five of us on one ship, and we can’t—”
“I’m sorry. We have nothing to give you but support.” Watson’s face was an impassive mask. His eyes flitted beyond her. Eyes wide, his posture became defensive as he watched Vannix approach. “What is the—”
“Governor,” Tara interrupted with a smile on her face. “May I introduce Peacemaker Vannix and Peacemaker Jackson Rains.”
To his credit, Watson did something unexpected given his earlier comments. The man turned to his security detail and said, “Get Doc out here right away. The Peacemaker needs medical attention.”
Rains nodded. “I’m fine, sir. Just a laser wound.”
Watson grunted. “I’ve seen enough injuries like that to know you need a professional to get you on your feet again.”
Rains nodded again and stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
“And you, Peacemaker.” Watson glanced at Vannix but didn’t say anything.
“Sir, this is my partner, Vannix.” Rains said. “Please understand we are a team, and I have her back.”
“A friend of mine once talked about making allies in the most unusual places. I think I’ll take her advice.” Watson smiled. There was a hint of emotion in his tired eyes. Rebuilding a colony had taken much out of them. He stepped around Tara and extended a hand. “Well met, Peacemaker Vannix.”
“Well met, Governor Watson,” Vannix replied.
A young man with glasses ran up to the group. Over his shoulder was a medical bag. He pointed at Rains and said, “Please come here, sir. Let me look at your leg.”
“Commander Ibson?” Vannix asked. “Would it be possible to see the ground where the battle took place?”
Ibson nodded. “We’ll take you there. I see you have CASPers. What do you need?”
“Maintenance updates and fuel, and we could use some ammunition for the cannon aboard Victory Twelve,” Tara said. “If you have the parts to spare, we have a hangar queen that could use some help, too. It’s a Mark Eight CASPer that hasn’t worked properly since Araf. It would be nice to have it ready for operations.”
“Easily done,” Watson said. He touched his ear briefly, and Tara saw a tiny communications device. “Sorry, the control tower is asking all personnel to clear the tarmac. The other Cochkala vessel is coming in for an emergency landing. We need to move toward shelter.”
Tara looked at Vannix. “Will you close the bay door?”
“On it.” Vannix scampered to the shuttle and worked the door’s control.
Tara walked over to the medic as he hoisted Rains to his feet. “Need a hand?”
The young man nodded. “That would be great. Thanks.”
They got under Rains’ arms and grabbed his bag. They were moving well until the airfield warning sirens started to scream. Around them, all hell broke loose.
* * * * *
Chapter Fifteen
Lovell City Spaceport
Victoria Bravo
The sirens wailed, and Ibson looked up instinctively. The Cochkala ship above them wasn’t very large and did not seem to be in distress. From the look of it, the ship was completely in control and executing a tight turn toward—
Oh, shit!
Ibson turned to the detail. “Protect the Governor!”
He didn’t wait to see if they did as he ordered. Ibson ran toward the main hangar complex with Novotny and Vuong right behind. “Get your teams out and defend the capital.”
Novotny pointed up. “Look! They’re targeting something in the city!”
Sure enough, exterior gun pods extended from the fuselage of the Cochkala ship and oriented deep inside the central city. Ibson tapped his wrist slate and heard a beep in his ear. “Scramble everything! Lock down the city! The Cochkala are preparing to—”
Three quick puffs appeared alongside the Cochkala vessel. Contrails streamed behind tiny missiles racing into the city.
“They’re firing.” Ibson looked at the hangar and saw six flyers race out of the open doors, into the sky, after the ship. He tapped his slate again. “Condor Six, Thunder Six. Get that thing out of the sky.”
“Thunder Six, roger,” Jennifer Rath called. The commander of the flyer squadron was as good as they came. Though she was still recovering from her injuries after being shot down by the MinSha, it came as no surprise that she was the first into the sky. “I have surface-to-air warnings and—BREAK ALPHA! BREAK ALPHA!”
Ibson slowed as he watched Rath’s flyers execute a patterned dispersal. Surface-to-air missiles came up from the forward tarmac area where the other Cochkala ship had landed twenty minutes before. Following the contrails, he saw that the Cochkala’s freight doors were open, and the little bastards were deploying infantry and tiny armored skiffs. Their fire tore into the unprotected troops and civilians around the airfield.
CASPers raced into the fray from the hangar. The sound of MACs firing reminded him to pull his sidearm for protection. He entered the main Forces hangar just as Vuong raced outside in his black-and-green striped Mk 7. His external speakers clicked on as he ran forward.
“Thunder Six, get to the command center. You can’t stay out here.”
Ibson grunted as he ran inside the hangar, immediately ducking to his right along the wall, as two platoons of tanks screamed outside. He looked up and saw Novotny give him a thumbs-up as he rolled out. In the nearly empty hanger were two dropships, a handful of tanks in various states of disrepair, and two CASPers. For the briefest moment, he thought about climbing into one, but he’d never trained in them and would be worthless in the fight. He fought the urge and ran for the command center, hoping he’d still have a force to command when he got there.
* * *
The surface-to-air missile warning shook the flyers out of their attack pattern, into defensive combat maneuvers much quicker than they’d trained for in the past several weeks. Two of Rath’s flyers went down in seconds. Both took missile hits and smacked into the tarmac, scattering smoking wreckage and Human body parts a few hundred feet. Rath felt fresh anger rising. Davis and Grissom had shown promise. They’d just been through this six weeks earlier. Her younger pilots had never flown in combat, and they didn’t deserve to be dead thirty seconds into the fight.
Focus, Jen.
No sooner had the first barrage of SAMs knocked them out of their attack pattern, than a second salvo launched at their fleeing vehicles. The angle of attack for the incoming missiles put them squarely into the engine exhaust stream for her squadron.
“Scatter! Condor elements, scatter!”
“On your wing, Condor Six,” Mays called. She glanced over her shoulder, and there he was. Without enough flyers to constitute a section, the former flight leader had volunteered to be her wingman and executive officer. He knew what it meant to support her, and even as they executed a scatter, he was there protecting her wing.
For a few seconds, her mind wasn’t on her pilots. All she wanted to do was find a path away from the missiles tracking her flyers. Open air to the north called. In the distance, she saw the Sentinel and the three familiar mesas etched into Victoria’s history. Out there, above the lower ground, there was freedom to maneuver. She jammed the throttles forward and waggled the flyer from left to right. Hands tight on the throttle, she weaved through a few low buildings on the outskirts of the base and shot over the fences, into the open air west of Lovell City.
Rath glanced over her right shoulder just as a missile off her four o’clock took out one of her flyers. She looked left and saw a SAM arcing rapidly toward her. Rath turned toward the oncoming missile, cutting off its path and forcing it to arc past her position.
“Break right,” Mays called. Rath didn’t ask twice as she swung the flyer violently back to the right. She risked a glance over her shoulder and saw Mays flying toward the surface-to-air missile, taking it off her tail. “Mays! What are you doing?”
“Get clear, Lead. I’ve got this fucker,” Mays replied. He yanked the flyer hard across the nose of the missile. As it turned and tried to correct, its speed was too much, and the missile shot away into the valley. Unguided, it slammed into the valley floor in a small, fierce explosion.
“Nice move!” Rath whooped.
Mays swung the flyer back toward her. “Moving to rejoin—”
A series of missiles fired from the Cochkala missile platforms. Rath’s thumb didn’t make it to the transmit button before they’d shredded Mays’ flyer. Fiery debris rained over the edge of the airfield and the valley below.
“Condor flight, reconstitute in the valley,” Rath called over their frequency.
A familiar voice called, “Condor Six, Thunder Six. You’re the only Condor left. Get clear.”
Sudden tears filled her eyes.
Dammit!
Using her shoulder, she wiped her eyes and glanced up the valley toward Lovell City. The peaceful city was again smoking and in flames. Above it, the supposedly stricken Cochkala vessel ceased firing and accelerated.
Not today, you fucks!
She swung the flyer hard toward the city. The Cochkala ship’s nose came up, and its engines prepared to boost for orbit. Her missile warning radar screamed as she turned back over the city. The CASPers and tanks below hit the little furry bastards hard, but their missile platform was still firing. Two more SAMs rose toward her. Rath pushed the throttle forward to the stops and readied her weapons. Selecting the outboard missile pylons, she targeted the main engine complex at the rear of the Cochkala ship without removing her hands from the controls. All four missiles locked, and she fired them in rapid succession.
Rath saw the first SAM arcing for terminal guidance on her right. She turned hard across the missile’s nose and forced it to overshoot. Unlike its predecessor, this missile did not continue unguided. Assuming it was close enough to inflict damage, the missile’s warhead exploded. Shrapnel tore through the two rear fans, and the flyer buffeted wildly, threatening to depart controlled flight.
A few more seconds.
Controlling the wounded flyer took every ounce of skill and strength she had. There wasn’t going to be time for another missile shot. She strained to see the four missiles until they detonated in rapid succession along the edge of the vessel’s leftmost engine. The loss of one-third of its power caused the Cochkala ship to slew hard to the left. Losing altitude, the ship would be lucky to clear the rim of the upper valley above the city. They might still make orbit, but they’d been slowed down enough to make their escape from the system doubtful.
The second missile swung hard to her right, as she turned slightly away from it before yanking her controls hard to the right. The missile didn’t buy it, and she knew she had seconds, maybe less. Several hundred Cochkala ground forces pushed forward from their ship, trying to form a beachhead. Cochkala armor went up against the CASPers as she flashed over her friends below.
Missile warnings screamed in her head, but the rear fans were already coming apart. The main engine fire light came on, and she knew it was over. At two hundred knots and not enough altitude, there wasn’t time. She looked toward town, toward her little apartment and her cats. For a little while, she’d had her own home. But flying had been her life, and it was only fitting it ended in the air.
But there was still something she could do. Hands on the triggers, she oriented the flyer toward the center of the Cochkala position and opened fire. Rath screamed into the wind, imagining the fierce breeze across her face. This was where she was always meant to be, and she’d be damned if she couldn’t leave on her terms. The cannons on the flyer shook the already tenuous control from her hands as the missile closed and detonated.
The fireball of debris careened into the Cochkala position, scattering infantry and armor.
* * *
Victory Twelve Shuttle Molly
Lovell City Spaceport
Victoria
From inside the open bay doors of the shuttle, the explosion of the flyer looked much worse than it sounded. Rains felt the concussion and closed his eyes, expecting a tremendous detonation. The heavy bulkhead to his right protected him as the pressure wave roared past. The young medic working on his leg stayed perfectly still and jabbed Rains in the knee with a pneumatic syringe. Fire like from the depths of Hell spread through his knee.
“Ow!” Rains said. “What was that?”
“See for yourself.” The medic smiled at him and slung his bag over his shoulder. He was already running for the fight. “We need every good man we’ve got right now. Get up off your ass, sir!”
Rains flexed his knee. There was no residual pain. What the fuck?
The instability was still there, but muted. It was as if his injured tendons and soft tissue had suddenly knitted themselves back together with steel cabling. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. He stood and took two quick steps outside the hangar door. Tara Mason ran toward him with her hand to her earpiece.
Rains stopped as she ran past him, and he realized what her intentions were. He spun and saw the two CASPers in their racks. Vannix stood between them looking at him. She and Tara exchanged words, but he didn’t know what they were. Without thinking, he walked toward them. When his knee didn’t bark in pain, he jogged. When that didn’t cause any adverse effects, he ran. He reached the cockpit of Alpha 1 and saw Mason staring at him.
“The kid gave me a nanite shot in the knee,” Rains yelled over the sounds of the battle outside. “I can do this.”
“Vannix,” Tara yelled. “Get to the cockpit. You and Maarg prepare to evacuate immediately.” She turned to Rains and stared at him for a long second. “We’ve got one chance, Rains. One. That’s right now.”
“On it!” Vannix yelled. Rains saw her draw a pistol and assume a covering position by the open bay door.
Rains climbed up the front of the CASPer and backed in. As he did, he flipped the switches for master power and engine startup. The mecha whined around him. His legs settled, he reached for the command headset and plugged it into his left ear. He worked his arms into the straps, then closed the canopy and watched as the instrument panel and exterior camera systems flickered on. It was just like the simulations, and he smiled. He really hadn’t expected anything different. The effect was familiar. Ready.
“Alpha One is up.”
“Copy you loud and clear,” Tara responded. “Spread out, right echelon but trail me by ten meters. We’re going at the flank of the Cochkala position.”
Rains jabbed the transmit button with his thumb. “Roger that. Moving now.”
“Take your first steps slowly, Jackson.”
The urge to quip back at her stopped the moment he realized she’d called him by his first name. He snorted softly and tried to walk. Moving the beast was different; the center of gravity was lower. He remembered a similar feeling from his days on the football practice field. In a fully weighted vest, moving was a chore. The CASPer wasn’t a weighted vest, though, and it could do the work for him. He had to remember to let it.
His next several steps were more confident.
“I’m good, 25.”
Tara replied. “Brace when you jump and try not to juke too hard. She’s a lot more responsive than you think.”
Rains snorted but understood. The ability to move quickly in any direction didn’t always mean a Human being should. More times than not, he’d failed spectacularly on the football field while learning that lesson. He’d heard a sportscaster says something about a player juking another one right out of their underwear.
Not me. Not today.
“I said, I’m good, 25. Let’s go. Now’s our chance.”
My chance.
He grinned. The last several weeks hadn’t been any easier on him than when he’d graduated from Peacemaker U. Yet during his risky mission into the prison system at Karma, and here on the high plains of Victoria Bravo, he felt better. He needed the action. Craved it. He hadn’t felt alive since his confirmation mission on Cetla.
Not now. He pushed the memory away. Kr’et’Socae wasn’t here. Even if he was, there were more important things on the line.
“Moving. Weapons tight and green.” Tara’s CASPer moved forward toward a group of shipping containers on the wide tarmac.
Meaning make sure it’s the enemy and light it up. Done.
Arming the CASPer’s MAC and external weapons took a millisecond. Rains withdrew a hand cannon from the mount on the mecha’s left thigh, but kept the right hand empty and cued the MAC to his eyes via the control toggles. To his left, Deathangel 25 loped out of the bay into the daylight.
With a widening grin on his face, Rains followed.
Tara ran toward the fight. She had guns in both hands, and the MAC on her right shoulder was firing rounds into the Cochkala flank. Rains sprinted, at Tara’s side, and directed his weapons fire into the fray. From what he could tell, the furry little fuckers hadn’t seen them yet.
Rains brought up the cannon in his left hand and fired. He saw Tara using her MAC to hit two Cochkala skiff-things on the end of the horseshoe-shaped line. The things, which looked like heavily armored sleds, returned fire. The vehicles’ strange, angular edges appeared to deflect the rounds and their kinetic energy. Something wasn’t right. Cochkala armor had never stood up to human MAC rounds. Based on the design of the sleds—something he didn’t remember from any of his classes on vehicle recognition—this wasn’t an ordinary Cochkala force.
He fired again, aiming the MAC at the small space where the sled’s moving turret separated from the hull. Even then, as precisely as he could aim the cannon, there was no sign of appreciable damage to the sled or the turret.
That’s impossible.
Rains aimed lower and to the rear. Tanks and other armored vehicles always had better armor in front and along the sides than in the rear or on top. As the sleds started to pivot toward the charging Victoria Forces, he targeted the rear quarter of the closest one and clenched his fist inside the CASPer’s arm. Five MAC rounds fired in rapid succession. The first went high, and the second followed. But the last three were on target and tore into the minimal armor on the rear of the sled. One of the rounds clipped something important. The rear sled detonated spectacularly. The short, main gun and turret sections separated in the explosion and tumbled to the tarmac, smoking violently.
“Aim lower, Tara! At the rear!”
“Copy,” Mason responded. The volume of fire in their direction increased threefold in a matter of seconds. More skiffs appeared. Tara darted right, and Rains followed. They took shelter behind a set of stacked shipping containers.
“We’ve got to get behind that armor,” Rains said. “That’s where they’re weakest.”
“MAC rounds were worthless from the front,” Tara said. “We’ve got to let the friendlies know. Open your comms and find their frequency.”
Rains brow furrowed. “Can’t Lucille do that?”
“She’s on the ship,” Tara replied. “I took her out of Deathangel for now.”
“Sounds like we need her back, Tara,” Mason replied.
After a long couple of seconds, Tara responded, “Lucille is on her way. Scan the frequencies until she can download. We’ve got to warn Ibson about their armor. Something’s not right.”
“Cochkala armor doesn’t hold up like that.”
“No,” Tara grunted. “I’m pretty sure that’s Jivool or Besquith armor. We’re fucked if Ibson can’t stop them.”
Rains thumbed his transmit button but kept the words to himself. If they charge in there, full frontal, a lot of folks are going to die.
* * * * *
Chapter Sixteen
Lovell City Spaceport
Victoria Bravo
In the command center, Ibson stomped up to the central command dais and grabbed his personal headset. “Tri-Vs up.”
Instantly, the three displays mounted in a horseshoe around his position lit up. On their feeds, he saw the complete situation at the airfield and in the inner city behind it. The Cochkala ship had targeted a two-block area centered on the Cartography Guild’s temporary offices in the Wandrey Complex. Fires burned in the surrounding buildings, but Watson and the civil response teams were clearing the area. The wounded Cochkala ship continued to limp toward orbit. The gate had already restricted outbound flights. They couldn’t get away unless they had their own hyperspace shunts. Regardless, the ship barely had enough power to lift off the planet much less jump. There was plenty of time to get it, too.
For now, though, the fight was on the ground. At the airfield, the landed Cochkala freighter was the beachhead. Around it were deployed two dozen angular sleds and skiffs with movable turrets. Infantry scurried around their hasty fighting positions. Behind the forward line of armor and infantry were three missile platforms. Ibson glanced at the strength displays. The flyers were all gone.
Fuck.
The lack of air power left a hole in his operations. Rath and her fliers would have been the first line of defense for such an attack. The coordinated actions of the Cochkala, combined with their missile platforms, meant they were well versed on the Victoria Forces, and they had executed their first move with deadly precision. He considered the employment of the armored forces and decided there wasn’t time for fun and games. It was time for his armored forces to do what they’d been created for half a millennium before—assault.
“Saber Six, Trogdor Six, this is Thunder Six. SITREP. Over.”
Novotny replied first. In the background of the transmission, Ibson could hear the tank’s engines and systems whining. “Thunder Six, Saber Six. We’re green across the board and leaving the revetment now. Orders?”
“Thunder Six, Trogdor Six. Holding the line. Engaged with Cochkala infantry and armor. Minimal offensive contact. Orders?”
Ibson suppressed a grin. The boys want to fight. Let’s give them one.
“Saber Six, Trogdor Six, assault the objective. I say again, assault the objective. How you do it is up to you. Punch that line. Break.” Ibson let go of the transmit button for a second and a half to prevent the enemy from finding the transmission source. “Liberty Six and Warthog Six, you’re the main effort. You’ll have Avenger Six in reserve. Once armor pierces the line, you’re on.”
Captain Hogshead was the first to respond. “Thunder Six, Warthog Six. Roger that. We’re all over it.”
“Thunder Six, Liberty Six,” Captain Alison Blake called. “We’re up and ready. Sound the charge.”
Ibson grinned. His eyes were still on the stores page. Vuong and his company of CASPers showed a red status icon—less than 50 percent of their mechas were up and running. He considered radioing but hesitated. A new voice came over the frequency.
“Thunder Six, this is Mantis Six.” Ibson clenched his jaw. Rumor was that it was Hogshead who’d talked the MinSha infantry commander into choosing her callsign. Despite the smiles and cajoling it brought in staff meetings, Lieutenant Whirr and her MinSha forces were more than ready to do what they’d promised—defend the colony. “Moving to a flanking position at the extreme east.”
Ibson turned to the center Tri-V and pulled up a graphic depiction of the area. He could see the MinSha forces moving under cover. They could get within few hundred meters of the Cochkala line without much risk of direct fire. Whirr had a plan, and Ibson nodded. It was brilliant.
“Mantis Six, roger on your intentions. Get to your assault position, and we’ll have the target all teed up for you.” Ibson grinned. “Saber Six? Trogdor Six? Once you’re in the open, you’re clear to attack.”
“Saber Six, on the roll!” Novotny replied. On the screen, the icons for the four Saber tanks created a line abreast formation with Trogdor Six, Captain Matzke. All eight of the vehicles moved forward. Ibson couldn’t watch them, though. His eyes still on the MinSha forces and the CASPer icons, he reached for the transmit button on the headset.
“CASPer elements, standby to attack. Break.” Ibson let go of the transmit button with the intent to clear the frequency for a short moment. His finger froze on the transmit button as one, two, three of the tank icons winked out. The Cochkala volume of fire approached a level he’d never seen. Smalls arms, missile platforms, and the angular skiff/sleds all raged against the assaulting armored forces. He pressed the button. “Saber Six, get the fuck out of there!”
* * *
Novotny watched as the tank on his left, Trogdor Four, and the tank on his right, Saber Two, erupted. On his own weapons station, laying heavy machine gun fire into the Cochkala vehicles, he heard his crew going through the litany of coordinated actions.
His gunner, Sergeant Moorefield, was new to the task but more than capable. The young kid had been a command and control specialist until the last battle. With combat forces needing support, he’d volunteered for the assignment and had done well through his training. With the driver, Specialist Woods, they ran through the complete targeting litany with ease.
“Driver, ten degrees right. Standby to fire,” Moorefield called.
Woods juked the tank the prescribed amount, placing the center of mass of the turret in the way of potential incoming shells, and responded instantly, “Set!”
“Firing!” Moorefield called. “On the waaaay!”
The main gun did not recoil, but the metal cap for the sleek round ejected onto the floor, and the autoloading mechanism slammed another one into the open breech. As it did, the onboard computer stated, <<The gun tube is loaded.>>
The whole thing took less than five seconds, and they were firing another round. Then another round. Like clockwork, they selected a Cochkala tank in the center of the line. The main gun flashed again, and the skiff was still there. Still firing.
What the fuck?
Novotny looked across at Curran, his communications specialist. Part of the young man’s job was to monitor the ammunition stores. “Are we firing sabot or HEAT, Moose?”
A sabot round was a dart encased by two “sabots” or shoes that held it centered in the gun tube. On firing, the shoes blasted out of the tube with the round and subsequently fell away. The round was a three-foot-long rod, tipped with depleted F11 and uranium, and harder than anything on Earth. It should have been more than enough to defeat the Cochkala sleds. A HEAT round, high explosive anti-tank, was like a shaped charge and should have had some effect.
“Sabot, sir,” Curran said.
Novotny glanced back to the front. Again, the main gun fired, and the Cochkala skiff appeared none the worse for wear. “Index HEAT! Load HEAT!”
“We don’t have any aboard. Saber Three tried that,” Moorefield yelled over his shoulder. “Nothing works!”
Novotny leaned forward and studied the skiff-things through the forward sight extension. He saw exactly what Moorefield saw. The angular leading edges of the turrets were unique and designed to bounce away almost every type of ammunition used in modern ground combat. The damned things were Besquith designed, Jeha built, and nearly impervious to anything from the front.
Time slowed. His display indicated two of his tanks had already succumbed. Dammit! He touched his intercom button. “Driver, break off the attack! Emergency gear and find cover!”
Novotny felt the tank accelerate and turn hard right, across the space Trogdor Four had occupied, in search of cover and concealment. He selected the command frequency.
“Trogdor Six!” Novotny radioed. “Break off! Break off!”
Back on his weapons station, Novotny turned his machine guns toward the Cochkala skiffs and infantry, raking fire across them as the tank raced toward salvation. Main gun firing, Moorefield kept them moving as the Cochkala rate of fire rose to something like a heavy rainfall. Thousands of impacts, both beamed weapons and traditional propellant-fired rounds, impacted the tank’s hull as it raced forward. Novotny looked outside again and saw Matzke and his crew stop their tank and allow Novotny’s remaining two tanks to pass behind them. As they did, Trogdor Six detonated with a force Novotny felt in his chest.
“Go!” Novotny screamed into the intercom. For a moment, his eyes met Curran’s. The comm specialist jumped up on his seat, swung open his hatch and began manually firing his small machine gun. Novotny grabbed his own weapons. Moorefield continued to fire, and it made him grin as he yelled, “Come on, Woods. Put that fucking hammer down and—”
* * *
The detonation of Saber Six rocked their position. Tara and Rains took turns leaning around the container stack and firing at the Cochkala forces. With the skiffs oriented on the Victoria Forces, they had an opportunity, but they couldn’t move without Lucille making a valid connection to the network. While it should have been obvious to Victoria Forces that she and Rains were friendlies, without a definitive way to communicate, there were far too many variables to consider. Tara decided it was better to wait.
“How much longer?” Rains called from Alpha One. “I’m down to seventy percent ammunition, boss.”
On her instrument panel, Tara saw that her ammunition stores were at seventy-two percent and the MAC had a temperature warning. There was also an indicator showing Lucille still had one hundred and twenty seconds of download time remaining.
“Two minutes, Rains,” she replied.
“This shit’s going to be over by then, Tara. The Cochkala are killing off our armor too fast.” Rains fumed. “We have to do something. Can we get closer to that flank?”
Tara looked around the containers, firing her hand-held machine gun as she studied the Cochkala position. There were too many forces oriented on them, and if one of the skiffs in the center pivoted a mere ten degrees toward them, it would put them at significant risk. “Not if we want to fight another day.”
“With all due respect, this mission sucks.” Rains grunted. “Damn.”
Tara laughed but didn’t respond. No shit.
She leaned out and fired again. The armored attack was fully stalled. Without flyers and with at least two-thirds of the armored force rendered useless, that left the CASPers. Whatever Ibson had up his sleeve, along with her two mechas, had to be enough to take down the Cochkala. Tara glanced at the indicator. “One minute to Lucille.”
“She’d better get this shit right, fast,” Rains said. His words devolved into a thick, spasming cough.
Tara’s brow furrowed. “You okay over there?”
“Yeah,” Rains wheezed and cleared his throat. Suddenly sounding badly congested, he said, “Let me know when to go.”
Tara nodded and risked another look around the containers. Aside from the stalled, smoking columns of armor on the wide tarmac, the scene was quiet. Across the smoky tarmac, the Cochkala ringed their ship—the classic “come and get me” tactic used by their mercenary forces when stalling for time. Hard to kill and harder to engage, their sleds gave them defensible positions and significant cover. With the flyers down and the armor stopped, the only way to penetrate their defense was painfully obvious. The Cochkala continued to lay down suppressive fire, but there was nothing returning fire, and Tara’s heart sank. She licked her suddenly dry lips and slowly pressed the transmit button.
“I think it might be down to us to do something really brave or really stupid, Rains.”
He didn’t reply for several seconds. When he did, she heard a raspy chuckle. “You know when I decided to go through with it and become a Peacemaker, Tara?”
The abruptness of his response caught her off guard. There wasn’t time for conversation, but she smiled. “Tell me.”
“About three weeks into Peacemaker U.” Rains paused as he leaned out to fire on the Cochkala. A fusillade of rounds came back at him. “There’s a simulation we did, not unlike your big Oogar shooting gallery one. Right? The whole idea is you can’t win. You can’t even compete with the stakes in play. It’s designed to test your will. To test how far you’d go and your mindset in impossible situations. I loved that simulation. You know why?”
Tara shook her head as she leaned out to fire on the Cochkala. “Because it wasn’t a test of how far you’d go?”
“Precisely.” Rains laughed. “Facing that kind of shit, with little ammunition and no support, you expect to die. You can either piss in your pants or you can do something unexpected. It might be tragic or fucking heroic. The line between those two is pretty damned thin. Sometimes you have to do the unexpected and stupid. Ready when you are.”
Tara grinned. “Roger that.”
<<Operational status achieved.>>
Tara’s heart leapt. “Lucille. Get Thunder Six on the frequency, now!”
<<Acknowledged. Three seconds.>> There was time for a deep breath. <<You are connected, Button One.>>
Tara pressed the button with her left hand. “Thunder Six, this is Deathangel 25, do you read me?”
A few seconds later, she heard Ibson’s gruff response. “I’ve got you, 25. I see your position. What are your intentions?”
Tara laughed out loud. “Something stupid or heroic. You’ve got an armored force in disarray, and your CASPers are getting ready to attack. If they waltz into that maelstrom, it’s all over for all of us. We’re not planning to die here today.”
“That makes two of us, 25,” Ibson replied. “I have CASPers preparing to charge and a MinSha infantry force moving to flank from the east.”
Directly across from us.
Tara’s mind worked quickly. “Thunder Six, standby twenty seconds.”
Looking down into her cockpit, Tara selected the Force 25 radio frequency. There was a chance they could do exactly what they intended, but it would require a lot more risk than she wanted to accept.
“Vannix? You there?”
The Veetanho replied instantly, “Roger, Tara. I’m in Molly’s cockpit and prepared to support.”
“Can you fly that thing?” Tara asked. She’d assumed Peacemakers had a vestige of flight training at their academy, but she’d never bothered to confirm it—a lapse in judgment she needed to rectify in more ways than one. If she was going to deploy with Peacemakers, she needed to know exactly what they could and could not do.
“Affirmative, Tara. I just need the control code sequences to unlock the shuttle’s flight computer.”
“Lucille?” Tara asked.
<<Codes transmitted. Peacemaker Vannix now has full control of the shuttle. I am obliged to let you know this is an opportunity for misplaced trust.>>
Tara nodded. “Not her. She’s rock solid, Lucille.”
<<I am inclined to agree,>> Lucille replied. <<I’ve given her control over all shuttle systems. How do you want to proceed?>>
“Listen closely, Lucille,” Tara replied and switched to the open frequency. “Vannix? I want you to take off and chase their buddies. That ship is still in the atmosphere at sixty kilometers. The ground forces will engage you—at least I’m counting on it for ten to fifteen seconds. Fire the cannon at them. Pick a target in the center of their mass. That will allow Rains and me to assault their position and get close enough to those skiffs to do damage. You’ve got to get up fast and punch it across the Cochkala formation. Lucille will handle defense. All you have to do is stand on the gas pedal, so to speak. You good with that?”
“Entropy, yes I am,” Vannix replied. Tara could hear the smile in her voice. “Thirty seconds to launch. Alert Thunder Six I’m executing this maneuver, please.”
Tara was already punching the frequency. “Thunder Six, this is Force 25, prepare for a diversion. My shuttle is going to launch. The second the furry fuckers lock onto it, we’re assaulting. Are your forces ready to support?”
* * * * *
Chapter Seventeen
Victoria Forces Command Center
Victoria Bravo
Combat situations came down to which side got the breaks. Terrain was always a key consideration for a commander, but in a situation where the enemy created its own terrain or, on those rare occasions where every other variable on the battlefield was equal, sometimes it came down to who got the most breaks. The Cochkala ship served as their beachhead. On the far side of the ship was the rocky, “no go” terrain of the surrounding high ground. Even if Ibson could have moved forces there, they would’ve been exposed, without cover or concealment. The Cochkala had known exactly what to do to strain his meager forces. In the first minutes of combat, before he’d even reached the command center, his flyers were wiped out by three missile platforms that were now the middle of the Cochkala semicircular position around his ship. His armored forces, which he’d thought capable of using significant speed, firepower, and shock to get through the Cochkala weapons, lay two-thirds decimated on the ground. His best commanders, Novotny and Matzke, were dead, along with their crews.
The Cochkala didn’t appear to be preparing to leave. They’d laid in their defensive position and thrown down the gauntlet. If Ibson and his forces wanted to win, they’d have to take the battle to the Cochkala. They’d managed to take away Ibson’s two best assets on paper—the flyers and the armor. With no flyers and only one platoon of tanks remaining, the bulk of the assault would be up to the CASPers.
Which is exactly what my pilots want.
Yet, he hesitated. The Cochkala weapons, especially the skiff-sleds, had proven hard to kill and capable of standing up to significant frontal firepower. They had to have a disadvantage. Most armor was weak on the top or at the rear, but he couldn’t get to them. They were in perfect position on his front door step. He fought down the anger threatening to rise and rob him of his critical faculties. There would be a chance, if they survived, for him to kick Governor Watson’s ass all the way to the mansion and back for cutting his forces for the sake of Galactic Union prestige. If they could still make it happen, and the guilds were interested in establishing offices and administrations there, they would have to provide their own security forces. They could deal with threats like the Cochkala deception and attack.
His looked at downtown Lovell City, smoking from a dozen fires. Jaw clenched, he swore he’d deal with that later. Once he figured out how to clear the Cochkala from the field he would—
“Thunder Six, this is Force 25. Prepare for a diversion. My shuttle is going to launch. The second the furry fuckers lock on to it, we’re assaulting. Are your forces ready to support?”
Ibson blinked. A diversion? With two CASPers?
He pushed the transmit button on the headset’s earpiece. “Force 25, Thunder Six. Need specifics on your intentions.”
“Wait one, 25,” Mason replied. Three seconds later, the icon for an unidentified aerial threat illuminated near the shipping containers on the west side of the airfield about two hundred meters from the Cochkala position. Transponder data turned the icon free.
“I show your shuttle moving,” Ibson said slowly. “Is that all you’ve got?”
“That’s the air support,” Mason said. “I have two CASPers ready to charge.”
Well, fuck.
Ibson looked at his forces arrayed on the Tri-V and frowned. One tank platoon, fifteen CASPers, and the MinSha infantry were in their forward positions. Two of his tank platoons, and his most experienced combat leaders, lay strewn across the tarmac in burning tanks. The Cochkala hadn’t moved, and they’d managed to hold his forces off without batting an eyelash. Force 25 wanted to fight, and his MinSha infantry were still in position.
But it’s not enough. There has to be another way. He was about to speak, to ask his commanders for recommendations, when inspiration struck.
Sonuvabitch!
“Force 25, Thunder Six. Wait one. Out.”
Fingers flying on the keyboard, he pulled up the stores and ammunition for all his units. With a quick adjustment, he retrieved the same information from the two CASPers under Mason’s command. The MinSha had moved to the eastern end of the airfield without being discovered. There were three sections of CASPers deployed in a semi-circle facing the Cochkala forces. They were in cover and protected for the moment. Mason and her wingman were positioned on the far west side. The tanks were in the hangar complex, awaiting deployment orders. The plan came together quickly.
The tanks would start the assault by lobbing indirect fire into the Cochkala position. Hammerhead Six, Captain MacFollet, would use his tanks like artillery pieces. It wasn’t going to be super effective, but it would give the Cochkala a few seconds of panic. As the rounds fell, the three CASPer sections would bound forward. Captain Blake in Liberty Six would lead the charge from her position on the left flank. Bounding forward, she could clear enough ground for Major Vuong in Avenger Six and Captain Hogshead in Warthog Six to move their sections forward. As they moved, Hammerhead Six would scream to the west, take up a supporting position behind Mason, and pepper the Cochkala forces with direct fire. They would pivot their defense to take on the CASPers and the tank threat. That would open the east side of their position just enough for Lieutenant Whirr’s infantry forces to assault and penetrate.
It will work.
It has to work.
Ibson took a deep breath and pushed the transmit button. “All stations, Thunder Six. I say again, all stations, this is Thunder Six. Here’s how we’re going to skin the rodents. Listen up. Break.
“Hammerhead Six, you’re going to play artillery. Lob high-altitude rounds into the Cochkala position. Hitting their ship is authorized, but primary targets are their ground forces, especially those missile platforms. On order, move to support Force 25 by direct fire. How copy so far?”
“Thunder Six, Hammerhead Six. Copy all. Orienting tubes now. Say when, and we’ll make it rain. Out.”
Good.
“Roger, Hammerhead Six. Next, CASPer elements, you’ll bound forward with Liberty Six in the lead. Objective is a double feint to draw the Cochkala fire and have them prepare for a synchronized attack by pivoting their defense in your direction. You’ll move forward by sections until you reach the closest shipping container cover points. Once you get there, we’ll set for the assault phase. You copy, Liberty Six?”
“Thunder Six, Liberty Six acknowledges,” Blake replied. “This one’s for our fallen.”
“Roger, Liberty Six, break.” He released the transmit button for a second and clicked it again. “Avenger Six, you have command of the field. I say again, you have command of the field. Once the CASPers move forward, I’ll focus on the breaching force.”
“Avenger Six acknowledges Thunder Six,” Vuong replied. His voice was soft. “I’ve had about enough of this shit.”
Gods, haven’t we all?
“At the assault position,” Ibson continued, “Force 25 will be the diversion along with Hammerhead Six’s tanks. Force 25 will feint toward the enemy position and get their attention. The Cochkala will again pivot their defenses, believing the CASPers are pinned down and Force 25 is the main effort. When we’re fully involved, Lieutenant Whirr, you’ll attack their weak side. How copy?”
“Thunder Six, this is Mantis Six,” Whirr replied. There was a hint of a smile in her voice. “We’re in position and ready to assault.”
Ibson nodded. “You’ve got the straw plan, everyone. Priority targets are those missile platforms, then the skiff-things. After that, we wipe the fuckers off the tarmac. No escape. No surrender. Standby to execute on my command. Thunder Six, out.”
He took a deep breath and looked at the darkened, expectant faces in the command center. A thought flashed through his mind, and he smiled.
It’s one for the money. Two for the show. Three to get ready.
Are you ready motherfuckers?
Ibson took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Force 25, you are cleared to launch your shuttle. Hammerhead Six? Once the shuttle clears the airspace, you are cleared to fire.”
* * *
Force 25
<<Tara?>>
“What is it, Lucille?”
<<I calculate a less than twenty percent chance this attack will be effective based on weapons deployment, loads, and tactical employment of forces. The CASPers in the main effort are ridiculously outgunned by the Cochkala skiffs. For this attack to succeed, the MinSha infantry have to be able to penetrate the defensive line quickly, or the Cochkala will repel them.>>
Tara nodded and watched through her external camera as the first of the high-explosive tank rounds landed on the Cochkala position like mortars, but with bigger detonations and better killing radiuses. Overall, though, they appeared to have little effect. “They have us in a tight spot, Lucille.”
<<Then why pursue this attack?>> Lucille asked. <<I do not understand Human faith at times like this.>>
Tara snorted and laughed out loud. “Sorry, Lucille. I’m not laughing at you. This isn’t about faith. This is about chance. Probability.”
<<Even so, I do not calculate a good outcome for this plan. As a matter of fact, applying probability and statistical analysis makes the situation far worse than I originally calculated. What am I missing?>>
Tara nodded. “You’ve missed a variable.”
<<Surprise?>>
“No.” Tara shook her head. “The Cochkala are expecting an attack. We’re going to give them one from a direction they aren’t expecting. That creates an opening for the MinSha.”
<<The odds of the MinSha getting into their perimeter are 1,302 to one, Tara.>>
Odds. Gods is there anything worse than hearing what your odds are? Seriously?
“Listen, Lucille. If the MinSha can get enough of their personnel close enough, they’ll disrupt the Cochkala line. Not from weapons fire or maneuvers, either. They’ll do it through fear.”
Lucille was quiet for a long moment. <<I believe I understand, Tara. The Cochkala irrationally fear the MinSha, and Colonel Ibson is betting his forces, and yours, on this fact.>>
Tara was about to reply when one of the Cochkala missile systems exploded in a violent, orange and red cloud. There was a whoop on the radio as the artillery rounds continued to fall. An attack order was imminent. Tara licked her lips and looked down into the cockpit.
“Lucille, I don’t have time to fully explain. Hell, some of this can’t be explained. That’s what faith is. I believe Ibson’s forces are going to hurt the Cochkala enough that they’re focused on the CASPers and us. That means Whirr and her forces can get inside and get to work. They won’t need a lot of time to disrupt the Cochkala. If we can synch all this, faith has served its purpose. We do what we’re asked and trust everyone else does the same. We’ll be there when we’re supposed to. If all goes well, we’ll take the field.”
<<Understood. The shuttle has cleared the field and taken minimal damage. I used the reconnaissance assets to obtain imagery of the objective. I have transmitted everything to Colonel Ibson,>> Lucille said. <<I also observed that the intended target of the attack was the Cartography Guild’s interim office. Peacemaker Vannix is landing the shuttle nearby to investigate and assist.>>
“Good kid,” Tara laughed. “Keep me posted on what she finds. Alert Ibson and Governor Watson that a Peacemaker is on the ground in Lovell City.”
<<Thunder Six acknowledges,>> Lucille replied. <<Armor rate of fire is slowing. Prepare for CASPer assault order.>>
Tara smiled. “We’re ready, Lucille. Let’s hope we catch the Cochkala with their pants down.”
<<If Cochkala wore pants, that analogy would make sense. As they don’t, I can only assume you mean the attack catches them unaware?>>
She laughed again, her stomach unclenching slightly, and the stress of the coming engagement ebbing for a moment. “Lucille? First rule of combat like this—they know we’re coming, and we know we’re attacking. Everything comes down to two things. One is our plan and the other is chance. Even with a good plan, chance is everything on the battlefield. Our job is to be there, arms open wide, when chance comes calling.”
<<And when chance falls in our favor, we kick ass?>>
“You’re getting it, Lucille. We do whatever it takes to protect ourselves and our comrades under fire. It doesn’t hurt that the Cochkala are typically terrified of the MinSha.”
Lucille was quiet for a few seconds. <<Acknowledged. There are a lot of beings who do not like insects or their larger variants.>>
The radio snapped on. “All stations, this is Thunder Six. Hold. I say again hold. Prepare for intel update. Multiple ships inbound from the gate. Standby. Thunder Six, out.”
“Now what?” Tara sighed.
Lucille responded. <<From all appearances, the Cochkala are the reconnaissance force. The main effort has arrived. Peacemaker Vannix is calling for you.>>
“Connect me, Lucille.” Tara frowned. “Stop asking me for permission. Permission is granted for all notifications, understood?”
<<Acknowledged.>>
Tara changed frequencies and pressed the transmit button with her left thumb. “Vannix? What’s going on?”
The response was barely a whisper, but it was clear and urgent. “The Cochkala didn’t make it to orbit. They’re infiltrating downtown. I’m going to need assistance—fast.”
* * *
Downtown Lovell City
Victoria Bravo
Vannix peered over the plasticrete edge of a consolidated apartment building. Six stories below, what looked like a company of sixty Cochkala infantry scampered down the avenue. From her position, she couldn’t see where they were descending the escarpment to the east of the city. Crossing the relatively shallow Swigert River would have been easy. With their ship unable to reach orbit, they’d decided to come back and do what they’d been unable to do from the ship. Two blocks from Vannix, to the northwest, a handful of fires burned. The fleeing Cochkala ship had targeted something, and the only location that made sense was the Cartography Guild’s forward relations office.
“Vannix?”
The Veentaho ground her teeth together. “What is it?”
She heard Maarg take a breath. “I’m monitoring a lot of Cochkala traffic. They’re back porcine on a local network.”
Vannix grinned. “It’s called piggy-backing. Can you break it?”
“Give me a couple of minutes,” Maarg replied. “My father warned me about Human expressions. He said they were seldom what he thought they would be.”
Vannix raised her head. The Cochkala were moving in a steady stream toward the burning buildings. “What are they after?”
“A Cartography Guild forward relations office doesn’t seem like a viable target. I’m scanning addresses and known residents. There has to be something else. That kind of office only serves as a place for the guild to conduct negotiations. According to Governor Watson’s files, a delegation is scheduled to arrive anytime in the next few days.”
Vannix blinked. “You got into the governor’s files?”
“About thirty seconds after we landed, yeah.”
Impressed, Vannix watched the Cochkala for another twenty seconds, then lowered herself back to the roof’s surface. “I’m going after them.”
“You can’t, Vannix.”
“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do, Little One.”
“Don’t call me little one,” Maarg said. “I’m about three times older than you, I just don’t show it.”
“You haven’t been off your planet since your birth. That means you are an innocent. In my vernacular, you are a little one.”
“I am larger than you, too.” Maarg snickered. Vannix clenched her jaw and hated herself for thinking that if all TriRusk were as annoying as Maarg, her ancestors’ war against them might have been justified.
“You stay on the ship.” Vannix drew her pistol from her chest holster and ensured the magazine was loaded and a round was chambered. Hanging out with Jackson had some advantages. She had learned that laser pistols could be clumsy and often failed to work as advertised in combat. The Human penchant for gunpowder, while primitive, proved to be a good thing, but that wasn’t enough for her. An XT-12 magnetic accelerator pistol was small enough for her to hold easily and still provided enough power to put down most species. Against an Oogar or an armored MinSha, it was little more than a nuisance, but for what she intended, it would work just fine.
“You need backup, Vannix.”
“Tara will send reinforcements. I have to figure out what they’re up to.”
“Let me move the shuttle closer.”
“No.” Vannix shook her head. “We’re in a good position here. Keep tapping the networks. Relay any recon information you find to me.”
She heard the TriRusk take a breath as if to respond, then pause. Vannix knew the young female was determining her best argument. She also knew the best course of action was what Vannix proposed. Finally, Maarg replied, “Roger, Vannix. I’m cueing sensors to you and will try to give you eyes along the way.”
“Right.” Vannix looked over the edge again. The Cochkala were nowhere to be seen. “Here goes nothing.”
As she readied to leap down three stories to an exposed balcony, Maarg cut into her ears. “There is a recessed fire ladder fifteen meters from your position, on the north side of the building. According to the security cameras in the area, there are no Cochkala visible.”
Not bad.
“Moving now,” Vannix replied. Sure enough, she found the control panel for a recessed fire escape ladder exactly where Maarg said. She worked the controls and the sturdy, flexible ladder descended from the corner of the building all the way to street level. Without looking, she re-holstered her pistol and scampered quickly down the ladder. At the street, she drew her weapon and recessed the ladder, noting where the controls were in case of emergency.
Always know how to get the hell out of Dodge.
She wondered if Maarg had heard that Human saying. The first time she’d heard it was at Peacemaker U, and it made little sense without historical context. Seeing Dodge City, or whatever was left of it, was something she still wanted to do if for no other reason than to tell other Peacemakers she really had gotten out of Dodge. Suppressing a smile, she darted across the empty street to a neighboring building. The front doors were secured.
“Are all the buildings locked down?”
Maarg replied a second later. “Affirmative. Appears to be SOP. I can open one if you need. I have the security grid wide open and am locking down every door I can.”
Vannix looked around. She didn’t see any threats. “I’m okay for now. Check the street to my northeast.”
“Nothing. Smoke is obscuring the end of the street four hundred meters from you. I’m working on a thermal sensor set nearby. It appears to have been partially damaged. If I can get connectivity, I can give you eyes through the smoke.”
“Moving,” Vannix replied. She knew her white fur stood out against the dark gray edge of the building, but it couldn’t be helped. Ahead of her, the dark smoke hovered a few meters above the street. Vannix crossed to the opposite side and continued forward. She noticed that the sounds of battle from the spaceport to the west had decreased to almost nothing. The urge to touch her slate and ask Tara for an update nearly overwhelmed her.
Focus!
She paused at the corner of the building, across from the first of the fires, and closed her eyes for five seconds, taking a calming breath. It worked, somewhat, and as she opened her eyes, Vannix realized she could hear loud, muted voices inside the building next to her. There was an argument taking place, and while it wasn’t very clear, one of the voices sounded distinctly Zuparti. She touched the edge of her slate, and a small, detachable microphone came free. She reached up to the bottom sill of a window protected by steel blast vanes, slipped her paw under them, and placed the microphone against the glass. The microphone picked up the conversation, and she passed it through to Maarg.
“—I do not care! We do not have the time to secure the entire vault.” The voice was Cochkala, the high-pitched squealing a dead giveaway, even without the benefit of the translator. “Our orders are clear.”
“Your orders were not to fire upon the city!”
“A distraction. Do you really think we could not hit our real targets if we wanted? Human domiciles are acceptable targets in war, Ch’tek. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“My grievance is not with non-combatants,” the Zuparti replied. “Get your target and get off this planet before you alert the entire Union to our plans. My trust in your Guild is very low, Canool. Very low indeed.”
“Says the Zuparti who tried to send a welcome present to Earth.” The Cochkala laughed. “Hardly a good move, Ch’tek.”
“Yet they held me less than three months. In the aftermath of Peepo’s little war, my sins were forgiven. Yet they don’t realize our first moves were already well in play.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Canool asked.
“You don’t have the need to know. Now, get off this planet before you call attention to us.”
Vannix retrieved the microphone and crept up to the corner of the building. She saw several Cochkala scampering toward the Cartography Guild’s office. She touched her earpiece.
“Tell me you heard all of that, Maarg.”
“Affirmative. Even recorded it. I’m working on deciphering it now.”
Vannix watched the retreating Cochkala a moment longer. “What is this building?”
“Commercial office space. The windows nearest to you are registered to...” Maarg paused. “What is the Dream World Consortium?”
Vannix lowered her chin to her chest for a moment but did not reply. Her mind raced through the possibilities. Again, she took a deep breath, and her mind cleared enough to focus on the immediate goal. “Maarg? We’ll get the rest of it later. Right now, try to find out why the Cartography Guild maintains a secure vault at a forward relations office. That should tell us who is interested in it. And, if you can, figure out what’s inside the vault before it’s too late.”
* * * * *
Chapter Eighteen
Aboard Victory Twelve
Approaching Lovell City
Altitude 228 Kilometers
“Holy shit,” Bukk blurted. “There’s been an attack on Lovell City.”
Xander sat forward in his seat and studied the Tri-V images. Fires burned in dozens of locations. From the distance, it was unclear what was burning, but Bukk’s assessment looked to be correct. “Lucille? Get on local comms and verify.”
<<Affirmative, Mister Alison,>> the computer responded. <<Gathering battle damage assessments now. There is a Cochkala ship in the forward docking port with a defensive ring of vehicles and infantry posted. Attempting to get closer video from Victoria Forces sensors now.>>
“Son of a bitch,” Xander said softly. “Can we get Tara on the horn?”
“Horn?” Bukk glanced at him, his antennae fluttering in confusion.
“Expression,” Xander shrugged. “I meant comms.”
<<Negative until we get closer,>> Lucille replied. <<I will attempt autonomously.>>
Xander cocked his head slightly. “Autonomously?”
<<With permission granted by Commander Mason,>> Lucille said. There was a hint of attitude in her voice.
“Fine by me,” Xander replied. He didn’t feel that way. The whole situation on Victoria Bravo had gone south in an instant.
“Lucille?” Bukk asked. “Forward sensors.”
“You see something?” Xander asked. Bukk sat to his right in the copilot’s seat.
“I have a negative premonition,” the Altar replied. “Something isn’t right. I feel like we’ve walked into a trap.”
Xander nodded and leaned forward to reach the control panel. “Master arm is hot. Weapons systems to standby.”
<<Acknowledged. Forward sensors detecting multiple hyperspace emergences.>>
Xander adjusted the Tri-V feed. There were two emergence signatures, but the distance was far too great for the onboard sensors to positively identify them. “Activate laser comms to the gate.”
<<Channel open.>>
“Victoria Gate control, this is Victory Twelve. Confirm emergence signatures and intent.”
“Victory Twelve, Victoria Gate. Three ships at emergence point. Unknown intentions,” the gate control officer replied. “Will relay once determination is made. This is Victoria—”
<<Significant electromagnetic interference broadcast from the lead vessel. Power signatures match a Zuul-designed gunnery frigate. It’s moving on the gate.>>
“The other two?” Bukk asked.
<<Unknown, but they have assumed a high-speed course that will allow landers to drop over Lovell City in sixteen minutes.>>
“Get me Tara as fast as you can, Lucille.”
<<Affirmative.>>
Xander looked at Bukk. “We can’t fight off those ships or their landers.”
“No, we cannot. What are your intentions?”
Xander grinned. “Tara would want us to run.”
“Yes, she would. But that isn’t your intention, is it?” Bukk replied. “We can be at the gate before that frigate arrives.”
“You read my mind, Bukk.” Xander laughed. “Lucille, lay in the fastest possible course to the gate. Modify our squawk.”
“I believe a Buma code would work best. They would certainly run from a conflict like this,” Bukk replied. His antennae bounced in amusement. “We can arrange diplomatic protection, too. Complete the deception and potentially protect the gate itself.”
“Do it,” Xander replied as Victory Twelve’s engines came online. The acceleration was enough to press him against the commander’s seat.
<<Battle damage assessment from Victoria is grim. Force 25 is undamaged, but the Victoria Forces have lost sixty percent of their armored forces and all of their flyer support. The Cochkala position at the spaceport appears strong. The second Cochkala ship crashed on the higher ground to the east, but there were reports of infiltration in downtown Lovell City. Thunder Six is assessing the situation.>>
“Thunder Six?” Xander asked.
<<The commander in chief of the Victoria Forces. His name is Ibson,>> Lucille replied. <<Update to emerging targets. We will beat the frigate to the gate by more than an hour, but it will achieve a firing position long before we get there.>>
Xander nodded. “Bukk?”
“Fifteen seconds.” The Altar pushed a series of buttons and brought up the ship’s identification beacon. “We are now squawking a Buma diplomatic emergency code. That should give our enemies a little pause.”
“A little is all we need. If we can slow them down from up here, we might buy enough time for the cavalry to arrive,” Xander replied. “Boost for the gate, Lucille. Best course and speed.”
Let’s hope it’s not too late.
* * *
Emergence Point
Victoria Bravo
Regaa instinctively released her clenched foreclaws and let her vision return to normal as the Dauntless Cloud emerged from hyperspace. With a glance at the command station’s Tri-V displays, the MinSha commander confirmed the weather on the dayside of Victoria Bravo was exactly as she’d hoped—a bright, clear day for her landers to drop out of the sky. Long range sensors could not determine damage, but the signals they received confirmed that the Cochkala had done exactly as ordered. Regaa watched her gunnery frigate, Strong Arm, turn toward the distant gate and apply full thrust. It would be more than an hour before Strong Arm could get there, but a precise firing solution was only a few minutes away. With their facility targeted, the gate master would do as they always did and capitulate. Nothing would leave the system without Regaa’s approval. Everything in the system was hers. The near silence on her bridge alarmed her. She leaned forward and stabbed the master alarm button—what Humans called general quarters. Before her officers could react, she growled, “Status report.”
Having only dealt with all-MinSha crews for the bulk of her career, Regaa could not get over the presence of so many species on a MinSha vessel. Her executive officer, at least by duty position if not authority, was a Jivool with an unpronounceable name. She’d taken to calling the large, brown male Vaahn which, loosely translated, meant ‘large furry thing’ in MinSha. If he’d known or suspected what it meant, Vaahn had never said. He was a professional mercenary and knew when to follow orders.
“Three ships emerged on schedule. Strong Arm has initiated movement to secure the gate. Noble Spear remains on our left flank.” The Jivool’s voice was deep and oozed calm. “Initiating pre-landing operations. All crews standing by at their positions. Landing forces are fifteen percent prepared for launch.”
Regaa nodded. “Launch the CI satellites.”
“Thirty seconds to launch. Orbital coordinates set,” Vaahn replied. CI satellites were nothing more than communications and imagery nodes that could be fired directly at the planet. As they raced toward the surface at set intervals, the first satellite would capture imagery and return it via the trailing satellites, and it would process and relay communications frequencies in most of the known, usable bands. Within a few minutes, she would have decent imagery of the objective, and she would be in communication with her ground forces well in advance of her landing forces’ arrival.
“Launch when ready. I want the earliest possible communications window,” Regaa said. Raising her voice, the commander barked, “The rest of you get your units prepared. Any delay in the attack will be reported to Kr’et’Socae.”
The crew gained energy performing their tasks, and while they did not act like MinSha warriors, the surge of emotion in their actions and the purpose in their step satisfied Regaa. They were mercenaries, after all, and the only thing that motivated them better than credits was fear of their immediate commander and General Peepo. Regaa looked at her mission timer. Kr’et’Socae would be there soon. His presence was not, however, necessary to carry out her orders. As she watched the second phase of her forces prepare for invasion, a different plan formed in her mind. She knew it was risky, but there was nothing immediately stopping her and her loose collection of forces. They were the types of mercenaries who would fight hard for the opportunity to pillage a vibrant world.
“Vaahn?” she asked, her antennae bobbing in genuine curiosity. “Ensure the forward units understand that spoils are authorized.”
The Jivool stared at her for a moment. Regaa knew the thoughts racing through his mind started and ended with Kr’et’Socae. He’d not left them specific instructions to the contrary, and since the mercenaries, to her knowledge, weren’t receiving more than typical pay from this fear-induced mission, allowing them to reap the spoils of war provided a powerful incentive. “You will provide a portion for our efforts?”
Regaa kept her antennae from shaking with laughter. Faced with the probability of significant profit, away from the oversight of their commander, he’d proposed a cut for the leaders. So much for the fear of Kr’et’Socae.
“Relay a standard minimal percentage to them.” A two percent cut from all captured supplies and equipment would be more than enough for her and Vaahn’s command compensation.
The Jivool’s maw widened to show his teeth, a horrifying expression of satisfaction. “And when Kr’et’Socae arrives?”
Regaa consulted her master timetable. The Equiri was at least two days away. They’d complete operations on Victoria Bravo within twelve hours, at worst, and jump forward to a place of her choosing, under the guise of chasing Human survivors. That would give her time, and an acceptable forward location, to fence the stolen property and pad her credit accounts. Running from Kr’et’Socae wasn’t possible. The Equiri’s reputation for finding the unfound preceded him. Yet, if she collected and banked her funds, there was little he could do about her order to pillage the planet.
“When Kr’et’Socae arrives, he will find this planet defeated, its citizenry dead, and its tenable property collected. He will understand what we have done, and why.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Vaahn asked. His question wasn’t entirely innocent. His black eyes glimmered in amusement as if daring her to answer flippantly. Testing her.
Regaa narrowed her compound eye covering slightly and brought her antennae to rigid attention. “I am in command of this mission, Vaahn. The success of our forces is all that matters. If success comes because our forces decimated this planet in pursuit of their own riches, so be it. These Humans possess nothing special. Even their powered armor suits are primitive in their design and asinine in their employment. They are children inside of their toys.”
Vaahn gestured at his display. “What of the Buma ship? The one broadcasting a diplomatic code? It will arrive at the gate before the Strong Arm.”
“Let it go,” Regaa said. “They are not part of this, and whatever they intend to do at the gate will not matter once we arrive. If they attempt to intercept the Strong Arm, clear the weaponeers to destroy it. Diplomacy has no place where Humans are concerned.”
The Jivool grinned. “Your final orders, commander?”
Regaa turned and pointed to her Tri-V. “Assault speed. As fast as the ships can handle. Prepare suborbital targeting on their command and control nodes and give the landing craft the drop order as early as possible.”
Vaahn nodded approvingly. “Permission to engage at maximum effective range?”
“Affirmative.” Regaa let her antennae dip in appreciation. “I want them stamped out in minutes. The Humans believe they can war? We will teach them how to war on our terms.”
* * *
Command Center—Victoria Forces
Victoria Bravo
Tanks made poor artillery pieces. By design, a tank round carried as much kinetic energy as possible into a relatively small impact point on an enemy target. Even high-explosive anti-tank (HEAT) rounds were little more than high-speed, shaped charges carrying lots of force into a small space. Artillery rounds, ideally, burst in a wide ellipse with significant force and an abundance of shrapnel designed to kill, maim, and burn everything in the larger area. Modern artillery rounds could be “flown” toward a target, thereby increasing their accuracy. Traditional artillery pieces still used laser designation when possible, and with the Cochkala missile systems having swatted his aerial platforms from the sky, Ibson made the decision to ground his aerial assets until the two remaining missile platforms could be eliminated.
Those platforms, however, stood eight hundred meters from his command post, behind multiple rows of shipping containers, a semicircular position of enemy armored skiffs, and a supporting infantry battalion. The avenues of approach through the shipping containers were kill zones. Jumping over them would expose the advancing CASPers to direct fire. They were looking at a slaughter unless they could shoot, move, and communicate better than they ever had.
“Thunder Six, Hammerhead Six, first salvo away, prepping second salvo,” MacFollett called. “Shot out.”
Ibson nodded. The plan called for four salvos. Each round would arc up more than 3,000 meters and drop onto the Cochkala position. Timed ten seconds apart, the intent was simple. Get them to put their heads down, then keep them down long enough for the CASPers to move out from their protected positions and establish their attack corridors.
“Keep firing, Mac,” Ibson replied. He swiveled to look at the Tri-V bank displaying his forces. He keyed on the CASPer of Captain Allison Blake, Liberty Six. She’d been the second in command to Lieutenant Colonel Tirr of the MinSha when they’d defended Lovell City a few weeks earlier. The young leader had come a long way, and there was no one else he wanted to lead the initial attack.
“Liberty Six, Thunder Six, on your shoulder,” Ibson called. He’d linked his terminal so he could watch her camera systems and monitor the attack’s progress virtually.
“Thought I smelled something,” Blake replied.
Ibson laughed. The kid was feisty. A good match for her tactical capabilities. “Standby to move.”
“On the third, roger.”
“Thunder Six, Hammerhead Six, third salvo prepared. Shot out.”
Ibson felt the tanks firing their rounds from the hangar complex six hundred meters away. “Go, Liberty Six.”
“Liberty Six on the move!” Blake replied. Ibson watched her leap from behind the command center, land effortlessly on the tarmac in front of it, and race toward the smoking hulk of Saber Six in the center of her attack corridor. On the tactical display to Ibson’s right, four icons blinked on. A split second later, their callsigns and personal data appeared on the screen. Liberty One, piloted by Sergeant Blackard, took up a solitary position to Blake’s left. To her right were Sergeant First Class Mata in Liberty Three and Specialist Conly in Liberty Seven. They ran forward, jumping over the hulk of Saber Six just as the third salvo of tank-fired pseudo-artillery slammed into the Cochkala position.
Perfect timing. Ibson nodded to himself and tried to relax, but watching Blake and her forces bounding across open space caused every muscle in his body to tense. Watching over Blake’s shoulder didn’t help. The jostling movement and the sense of speed made Ibson’s adrenaline flow, almost to the point of forgetting the plan.
“Salvo four, shot out!” MacFollett called. He’d violated radio protocols, but Ibson brushed it aside. Everyone knew who was firing the artillery and what the last salvo meant.
Ibson reached for the transmit button but heard a familiar voice drawl, “Thunder 6, Warthog Six. Preparing to move.”
“Good hunting, Hawg Six.”
“Bring the cavalry right behind us, will ya?” Hogshead replied.
The view on Blake’s cameras jumped hard to the right. A host of small flashes appeared on the feed.
“Liberty Six taking fire!” Blake called. From her camera feeds, Ibson watched Blackard cut in front of his team leader, shielding her for a split second as they moved. Darting side-to-side wasn’t something taught at the CASPer schools on Earth, but they’d implemented the moves as part of their training. Anything that could be done to confuse an enemy or to avoid fire was a technique worth attempting.
Blackard’s CASPer stumbled forward. Weapons continuing to fire, the pilot recovered and came up with his MAC firing at the center of the Cochkala position. The first line of shipping containers, their first assault position, was two hundred meters away.
Inside Liberty Six, a warning alarm sounded. Ibson turned to the tactical display. Liberty Seven’s icon turned red, then gray. The mecha was down, and Specialist Conly was dead.
“Warthog Six on the roll!” Hogshead whooped into the frequency. Ibson’s eyes, however, stayed with Blake and her deteriorating situation. Blackard’s CASPer staggered backward as a Cochkala missile sheared off the mecha’s right arm and MAC. The young pilot brought up his left arm with its handheld cannon and kept moving forward, though much more slowly. Medical data showed he was badly wounded.
“Get out of there!” Ibson said to himself. He pushed the transmit button. “Warthog Six,” Ibson yelled, “cover Liberty Six at your nine o’clock. Get them out of there.”
“Moving,” Hogshead replied.
Ibson looked up as Blake’s feed shorted out. Her CASPer fell face forward onto the tarmac and slid to a stop. The icons for Liberty One and Liberty Six disappeared. Liberty Three’s was yellow and stopped. Ibson pulled up the command and control cameras around the airfield and saw the CASPer lying on its left side, its back toward the Cochkala position. The cockpit opened, and the dark-haired, young woman crawled out and curled up on the ground behind the CASPer.
“Hawg Six, where are you?” Ibson called. “Got a fallen angel, repeat fallen angel. Liberty Three.”
“Twenty seconds, Thunder Six,” Hogshead replied. “We’ll get her. You get those fuckers off our airfield.”
Ibson leaned forward in his chair. “Avenger Six, that’s your sign. Move. Force 25? Standby to attack from your position with Hammerhead Six in trail.”
Tara Mason’s voice was calm and steady. “Roger, Thunder Six. Force 25 prepared to move. Monitoring the situation downtown. Peacemaker needs assistance.”
Not now.
“Understand, Force 25. Her situation is not critical at this time.”
“Copy, Thunder Six,” Mason replied. Her response was so curt, Ibson wondered if she was going to disobey orders and go after the Veetanho Peacemaker. He watched the two CASPer icons for a long moment, but they didn’t move.
Good.
Ibson looked back at the tactical display. Hogshead and his team of CASPers had reached Mata and pushed forward to a hasty assault position, effectively drawing the Cochkala fire away from the downed pilot.
“Thunder Six, request immediate evac. Liberty Three is hurt badly. She won’t make it without an immediate medevac,” Hogshead replied. “I couldn’t get her vitals, but she’s conscious and bleeding from multiple wounds on her chest and abdomen. You’ve got to get her out of here.”
Ibson scanned the Cochkala position and saw the missile platforms searching for targets and firing on them. Aware that Avenger Six bounding forward might draw the Cochkala fire, he considered ordering a dropship evacuation. He shook his head. The Cochkala would kill it as quickly as they’d killed his flyers.
“Thunder Six, this is Mako One Three.” On his table of organization and equipment were two dropships specifically setup and crewed for personnel evacuation. Lieutenant Becky Stallings was the section’s commander and one hell of a pilot.
“Negative, Mako One Three. You’re not cleared to launch. It’s too dangerous.”
“Thunder Six, Mako One Three. We’re not flying, and we’re already on our way,” Stallings replied. “Tell Hogshead to keep those fuckers’ heads down so we can get our fallen angel out of there, over.”
“You got it, Mako One Three,” Ibson replied. He looked out the window toward the crew hangers.
What are they doing?
* * * * *
Chapter Nineteen
Dropship Mako 13
Victoria Bravo
Watching Liberty Six go down, and her wingmen falter and collapse, Becky Stallings gripped the dropship’s controls and tried not to cry. Her tears weren’t from sorrow. After the first defense of Victoria Bravo, they all knew another attack would come. It was a matter of time. Fury filled her. Alison Blake was one of her best and oldest friends. Now, she and two other good pilots were dead, but their wingman was still alive. That mattered.
“Launch checklist,” she said over the intercom.
There was no response. Stallings whipped her head to the right and stared at her frozen copilot. “Carter?”
Carter turned. His mouth hung slightly open, and there was confusion in his eyes. The bright, young pilot hadn’t seen much warfare close up. As a medevac crew, they often came in after the conflict or behind friendly lines. Watching people die seemed much further away than it really was. Seeing the tanks and the CASPers fall in front of them hurt deeply. Stallings knew from experience.
“Ma’am?” Carter finally managed to stammer.
“Launch checklist,” she replied. Carter looked at the checklist mounted on his kneeboard, then back at her.
“We’re grounded.”
“Fuck that,” Stallings replied. “We can—”
“We won’t last ten seconds!” Carter replied. The confusion in his eyes was gone. His comment came from rationality, not fear. “The flyers couldn’t evade those missile systems, Becky. We can’t expect to get out of the hangar, much less rescue Liberty Three.”
Stallings clenched her jaw and brushed her long, red hair from her face. “We can’t just sit here.”
“I’m not saying there’s nothing we can do. But we can’t go out there in this ship.”
She squinted. “What are you talking about?”
A new voice came over the intercom. Vattakanavich, the youngster they’d nicknamed Alphabet, spoke quickly. “There’s a cargo skiff eighty meters from the rear deck. I can grab it.”
Stallings turned on the rear camera system and watched the picture resolve on her forward, multifunction display. The skiff was long and rectangular, and it operated on wheels. It had an empty mount for a motorized forklift that had just enough of a lip to cover the driver’s position immediately behind it, sunk between the wheels. The remainder of the skiff was empty.
“There’s no cover for you, Alphabet.”
“We load that container on the middle of the skiff and it protects both you and me. But you won’t be able to see. Carter can guide you. We just have to get that thing loaded fast.”
“You’ve never driven a forklift,” Stallings replied.
Carter spoke softly. “I have. I worked these docks as a teenager, remember?”
Carter’s family had arrived on the first transports to Victoria Bravo twenty years earlier, and his father had been the spaceport’s initial commander. He’d grown up around the facility and knew it better than anyone. Stallings nodded.
This might actually work.
“How fast can you get it loaded and strapped down?”
“A minute, tops.” Carter grinned. His bright blue eyes and tight smile showed confidence. “Tell Thunder Six what we’re doing so no one shoots us.”
“Way ahead of you, buddy.” Stallings jerked a thumb in the direction of the rear deck. “Take Alphabet and go. I’m on my way.”
“We can do it, Becky.” Carter’s smile faltered.
There was an unasked question on his lips. While not much younger than she, Carter hadn’t been with Victoria Forces more than a couple of years and only had the defense of Victoria Bravo under his belt. Stallings had come to Victoria after a decent career in Earth’s mercenary forces, but CASPer pilots tended to get all the good contracts. While dropship pilots were necessary, the common opinion was that anyone could drive a flying box. It wasn’t a matter of ability, it was a matter of trust. Being a good “stick and rudder” pilot wasn’t of much use inside powered armor. It was easier to drop a Human inside a suit, give them a weapon, and send them out to die. Dropship pilots couldn’t be trusted because they weren’t CASPer pilots, and that was bullshit.
“I trust you, Carter,” Stallings said. “Get that thing ready to go. Mako One Three is going on a mission, together, and we’re going to bring that angel home. Got me?”
Carter’s grin returned. “Loud and clear, Boss.”
“Move out,” Stallings replied and immediately shut down the dropship. By the time she turned off the cameras, Carter and Alphabet had already loaded the container and were strapping it in place. Flipping the switches and control mechanisms from memory, Stallings keyed her radio to the command frequency and waited for a break in the flurry of updates. When one came, she pressed her transmit button.
“Thunder Six, this is Mako One Three.”
He’s going to say no.
Ibson’s voice came back sharp and direct. “Negative, Mako One Three. You’re not cleared to launch. It’s too dangerous.”
“Thunder Six, Mako One Three. We’re not flying, and we’re already on our way.” Stallings replied. “Tell Hogshead to keep those fuckers’ heads down so we can get our fallen angel out of there, over.”
Stallings knew from the delay that Ibson was trying to figure out what they were doing. As a commander, he was as good as they came, and he knew the score. A wounded pilot needed to be rescued and, against whatever the odds were, she had a mission to perform.
Ibson’s voice was softer as he replied, “You got it, Mako One Three.”
Stallings crawled out of her command seat, hesitated for a moment, and looked back as if seeing her cockpit for the first time. She’d never recovered a fallen angel in a truck, and she wouldn’t want to do it again, even if they were successful.
You got this.
She nodded to herself and climbed down the crew ladder toward the dropship’s empty bay and open rear deck. At the ramp, she detached two combat rifles from their strapdown points. Carter and Alphabet had boarded the skiff which now held two containers instead of one. Stallings wanted to slap herself. They needed cover going and returning. With a container forward of the cockpit, immediately behind the hasty firing position Carter occupied, and a container behind the cockpit, there was enough space for Alphabet and the wounded pilot. She handed a rifle to Alphabet.
“Take this, just in case.”
“Roger that.” Alphabet climbed aboard the skiff as Stallings moved forward a half-dozen steps and handed the second rifle to Carter.
“Thanks, boss,” Carter said. “I’m your eyes going out. Once we’re there, I’ll provide covering fire. Hopefully Thunder Six can work some magic.”
Stallings nodded and slipped her earpiece into her ear. “Warthog Six, Mako One Three, over.”
“We’re ready for whatever you’re going to try, Mako.”
“We’re on our way. Keep them down,” Stallings replied as she jumped aboard the skiff, powered it up, and shifted the heavy vehicle into gear. There wasn’t a speedometer, and it accelerated slower than an electric cart, but it would have to do. “Thunder Six, Mako One Three is on the roll.”
Over the whining of the skiff’s engine, she heard gunfire. Hogshead and the rest of the forward forces laid down an impressive curtain. The skiff pushed through the open hangar door, and she tried to remember how long the vehicle was before she turned hard right. She turned and heard a squeal of metal from the canister raking across the hangar doors.
“Dammit!”
She heard Alphabet laugh over her shoulder, and it broke her tension. With the accelerator floored, the vehicle continued lurching forward.
“Boss, bring us ten degrees right.” Carter was her eyes. “Guess our speed is 20 klicks.”
Gods, we’re crawling. She turned the wheel slightly to the right. Carter’s response was immediate.
“Centered on the target. Alphabet, I’m bringing us in on the target’s far right. She’ll be off the left side.”
“Got it,” Alphabet replied. “Left side cleared and ready.”
Stallings felt a flush of pride. She couldn’t see Carter, but they were driving a cargo skiff loaded with containers in an insane, but necessary, attempt to rescue a pilot. The vehicle and speed didn’t matter. The need for crew coordination was exactly the same as if they were aboard their ship, racing into a hot landing zone. She looked up as a bright blue bolt of something tore through the forward container and sprayed the trailing container with hot shrapnel.
Another bolt hit. Then another.
“Hawg Six, pin them down!” Stallings yelled. Letting go of the transmit button, she added in frustration. “Go faster! Godsdamnit, go faster!”
“Two hundred meters,” Carter said. “We’re taking heavy fire up here.”
“No shit,” Stallings grunted. “Are we in the open lane?”
“Not yet.”
Well, shit.
“We’re crossing into open space in ten seconds,” Carter replied. “I’m going head down as much as I can and still guide you in, Becky. Five seconds to danger zone, fifteen seconds to target at this speed.”
“Stay low, Carter,” Stallings replied. “Things are about to go to shit.”
Carter didn’t respond, which was just as well. She counted down mentally.
Open space in five, four, three, two, one.
* * *
Victoria Forces Forward Command Post
Victoria Bravo
“All stations, this is Thunder Six. Hold in place, I repeat, hold in place and lay covering fire for fallen angel recovery. Break.” He released the transmit button for a second. The intent was as old as radio communications—break up the signal so it could not be tracked or jammed. The Cochkala didn’t seem to be jamming anything of significance in the electromagnetic spectrum, but old habits die hard. “Maintain suppressive fire. Hammerhead Six, you are clear to continue transit to Force 25’s sector. Acknowledge, over.”
MacFollett’s response was immediate. “Hammerhead Six, acknowledges. In position in three mikes, Thunder Six.”
Ibson nodded but did not respond. The forward command post doubled as a communications bunker and was dark and tight. A skeleton crew of him and six operators watched the entire battlespace over the airfield. A remote camera from the top of the control tower to the southeast of the bunker was pointed at the fires burning in the downtown area.
A new voice filled his earpiece accompanied by a series of three beeps indicating a reserved civilian frequency. “Ibson? What’s the plan? Why have your forces stopped advancing?”
Watson.
“Governor, we have a fallen angel on the battle space, and forward forces have encountered heavy losses. We’re lost two tank platoons already and—”
“To the Cochkala?”
Ibson bit his bottom lip and forced himself to take a deep, calming breath. “Yes, sir. We lost all flyers as well.”
“You’ve got to hit them harder, Ibson. Clear them off this planet before our guild representatives arrive. Is that clear?”
“Governor,” he paused for another breath, this time with his eyes closed. “My forces are fighting this battle. If you’d like to make a contribution to this effort, have your security forces investigate the incursion downtown. Peacemaker Vannix reported a battalion of Cochkala infantry entering the city.”
“I’m well aware of that, Colonel,” Watson replied with a sneer. “I am moving in that direction with two squads.”
Ibson blinked. A part of him was proud his friend, and the former commander of the Victoria Forces, had come out from behind his desk. The cushy lifestyle of a diplomat didn’t seem to fit the career soldier no matter how much he tried to make it appear otherwise. Ibson’s stomach, however, curled in on itself at the thought of the provincial governor leading a security team into a potential combat situation. “Sir, I cannot recommend you do that. Request you fall back and let your teams handle the situation.”
“Request denied,” Watson replied. “You can’t spare any forces, and I have the assets to investigate and engage them before they can establish a position that places our citizens in danger.”
Fine.
Ibson waited a second before replying. “Understood, sir. Be advised Peacemaker Vannix is in the area, investigating. Recommend you get in contact with her.”
“Let me be clear, Commander Ibson. My team is headed downtown to kill those little bastards. I don’t care what they’re doing. They’ve targeted civilians, and they will die. Every single one of them. If that little Veetanho Peacemaker gets in the way or tries to get them to surrender, I will not be responsible for the consequences of her actions.”
What the fuck?
“Sir, you can’t threaten the life of a Peacemaker in the performance of their duties.”
Watson shouted into the channel. “And you cannot question my authority in this situation, Colonel. You have your orders, and if you fail to follow them, death at the hands of the Cochkala will be too good for you.”
Ibson clenched his fist and jabbed the transmit button. “What the fuck happened to you, Brian? You’ve clearly lost your military bearing, as well as your sense of honor, since becoming governor. You think you can waltz into a combat situation, with two squads of unprotected infantry, and take down a battalion of Cochkala? Never mind that they’ve displayed more advanced technology than anything we’ve seen from a similar force. You think you’re going to make a damned difference in this fight? Go right ahead, but do not threaten a Peacemaker or anybody else that’s trying to help us.”
“You know what your problem is, Jamie? What it always was? You care too much. You’re not a leader. You can’t disengage yourself from the people on your right and left. A leader understands hard decisions must be made. I thought you could do that.”
Fuck you, sir. Ibson kept his calm, barely, and replied, “My forces are recovering a downed CASPer pilot. When they’ve got her off the field, the attack recommences.”
“Noted. Open a communications channel to the entire force.”
“For what?”
“Don’t question my orders again, Colonel. Is that clear?”
Ibson clenched his teeth. “Yes, sir.”
“Open a channel to all radios in the force and the civilian warning frequencies,” Watson ordered. “Our people need to be reminded who is in charge, and that we will prevail.”
“This is a waste of time and resources, sir, and it’s a dangerous use of the communications system.”
“If you’d applied our resources earlier, this situation wouldn’t have happened,” Watson rebuked. “Now, make that connection happen immediately. When I resolve the downtown situation, I will be at your headquarters and will relieve you.”
You think you can do better, fine.
Ibson pointed at the communications officer. “Make the connections.”
Five seconds later, the young, dark-skinned woman replied with a thumbs-up. “Connections are live. The governor is connected and broadcasting.”
Ibson, the population of Lovell City, and the collected Victoria Forces heard Governor Watson softly clear his throat and speak what were supposed to be familiar, calming words. “My fellow Victorians.”
* * *
Dauntless Cloud
Above Victoria
A shrill beep alerted Regaa to a change in the situation. She looked at Vaahn. “Status report.”
“Tracking a powerful transmission over multiple communications frequencies in the Human UHF band,” Vaahn replied. “I have a position fix. The transmission emanates from an instrumentation bunker near the spaceport’s runways. I believe it could be a forward command post.”
Regaa nodded. “Watch the transmission. Ensure it’s something valuable. If it persists, target it. How long until our first landing craft are within optical bombing range?”
“They will cross the aerial bombardment threshold in forty-five seconds, coming out of the sun with the projected landing point near the target.”
“Perfect,” Regaa said. “Can you intercept the transmission?”
“Working on that now,” Vaahn replied. Five seconds passed. Regaa watched the Jivool press a series of buttons, then a Human voice came through their speakers. She engaged a translation program.
“—we stand together, and we will defeat this foe. Until further notice, I have assumed command of Victoria Forces and will work to eradicate the threat at our spaceport and the incursion downtown in the vicinity of Webb Square. All citizens are urged to remain sheltered in place and—”
Regaa disengaged the communication. “Kill that signal source. We stamp out their leadership, and the Humans will fold.”
Vaahn tapped his command console. “Orders sent to the lead landing craft. They are thirty seconds from release. Shall we speed up the attack? If we land at those coordinates, we will have the Human infantry caught between our forces. In a vise, they will not last long.”
Regaa studied the display. “Are we certain the Humans have deployed all their assets?”
“Negative, Commander.”
Regaa’s eyes snapped to Vaahn. He’d called her commander for the first time. The honorific sounded good, and she relished it from a Jivool. “Then speed up the attack, Vaahn. While they are tactically paused and unsure of themselves, we shall seal their death notices.”
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty
Mako 13
Victoria Bravo
At the count of sixteen, the disabled CASPers of Liberty platoon came into view. Laser bolts and conventional rounds tore through the containers framing the open cockpit of the cargo skiff as Stallings swung the front wheel hard to the left, blocking the collapsed hull of Liberty Three. Staff Sergeant Mata lay curled on her side against the shattered machine. Her eyes were open, and she raised her head as the skiff slammed to a stop.
“Go, Alphabet!” Stallings called. “Carter, you okay up there?”
The flurry of rounds impacting the skiff made it hard to hear his response. “Hanging in there, Becky. Get us out of here as fast as you can.”
Stallings looked to her left. Alphabet had one arm under Mata’s right shoulder, but the wounded pilot couldn’t get her legs under her. “Carter, you’re gonna have to help him!”
“Moving.”
A few seconds later, she caught sight of Carter. Her copilot bled from a significant wound to one shoulder and a host of smaller shrapnel wounds. Blood ran down the left side of his face from under his combat helmet.
Whether it was adrenaline or ability, Carter and Vattakanavich lifted Mata and somehow jumped aboard the skiff’s middle section. Mata moaned loudly enough for Stallings to clearly hear her above the rounds impacting the skiff. The protected engine roared as Stallings slammed the accelerator as far forward as it would go.
The skiff lurched and sped backward.
Five seconds to cover.
Four.
Three.
WHAMM!
The container in front of Stallings erupted. What felt like a flurry of bee stings hit her exposed arms, chest, and head. She looked down and saw numerous holes in her coveralls. Slowly, the ragged edges of some turned black. Cold crept into her body despite the warm morning sun shining through the high, ragged clouds. Fingers numb, she felt her arms get heavy and threaten to drop to her sides. Realization dawned.
“I’m hit,” she croaked and turned her head toward Carter and Alphabet. The young pararescueman kept working on the injured pilot and did not see her. The skiff slowed, and Carter turned to her.
“Becky?”
“I’m...I’m hit, Carter.” The heavy fire abated as the skiff found cover.
Carter scrambled toward her. Stallings felt her left side go entirely numb, and as she slid off the seat, her foot came off the accelerator.
She felt Carter’s hands on her shoulders. “No! Stay with me!”
Stallings looked down at her chest, then struggled mightily to look up at her friend and copilot. “I’m sorry, Mike.”
“Becky?”
Stallings looked up at the sun and wished she could surf the thick clouds of Earth one final time. But it was okay. Everything was going to be okay. Her eyes were heavy. Carter reached into her coveralls, using the crew extraction handle woven into the back and around her legs. He lifted her from the cockpit.
“Alphabet! Help me!” Carter yelled. Together, he and Vattakanavich moved her next to the injured, but still conscious, Mata. A fresh burst of rounds clattered against and through the container. She saw Alphabet wince as he knelt by Mata.
Stallings lay on her side. The young CASPer pilot reached out a trembling hand and took hers. As Carter got the skiff moving again, she could hear Alphabet crying. More rounds struck the container. She felt another sting in her back but paid it no mind. Alphabet fell forward protectively over the young pilot. Proud, Stallings locked eyes with Sergeant Mata and tried to smile as the darkness welcomed her.
* * *
Warthog Six
Victoria Bravo
Captain Chris Hogshead watched the skiff start moving again. He jabbed his transmitter. “Guidons, Hawg Six. We’re pressing forward now. By sections, to the container stack to the east. Bravo section, go. Alpha section, covering fire. Now!”
The two CASPers to his far right fired their jumpjets and leapt forward. The apex of their jump barely cleared the containers and drew a high volume of fire from the dug-in Cochkala for a split second before they landed behind another stack two hundred meters away.
“Bravo section clear and moving. Alpha section, clear to bound,” his section leader, Yarbrough replied.
Hogshead didn’t wait. “Alpha section, on me!”
He cleared the containers and barely felt a round impact the Mk 7. When the CASPer touched down, Hogshead ran forward with his wingman to his immediate left. Ahead, he saw Bravo section take up a position against the shipping containers. Laser bolts tore at the mottled wall of goods. Several of the containers smoldered and burned as high-power lasers cut through them, attempting to target the CASPers.
Hogshead looked over his right shoulder as they ran. “Avenger Six, Hawg Six, where in the hell are you?”
As if on cue, he saw six CASPers leap over a stack of containers on the far-right flank. Vuong replied, “Have eyes on you, Hawg Six. Closing the gap now.”
“Roger, we’ll time the attack with you and Force Two Five.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Vuong replied. “Switching to command.”
Vuong intended to relay the attack data to Ibson. By SOP, Hogshead did the same. As he switched to the frequency, he heard Governor Watson speaking. He jabbed the transmission button repeatedly without success. The Governor prattled on about duty and honor.
Hogshead flipped to the emergency frequency in time to hear Vuong say, “Thunder Six, Avenger Six on emergency channel. Avenger Six has the field. Standby for attack.”
“Avenger Six, Thunder Six, you are—”
KA-WHAMM! KA-WHAMM!
The massive explosions shook the ground around Hogshead and toppled more than a few containers from their precarious perch atop the stacks.
Hogshead brought his CASPer to a stop, tuned back to the north, and saw an immense cloud roiling upward. He heard a multitude of smaller explosions. The forward command post was gone. He looked for the skiff.
“Guidons, Hawg Six. Stay in position and be ready to move with Avenger Six.” He ran back toward Mako 13. “Mako One Three, Warthog Six.”
There was no response.
“Avenger Six, got a fallen angel to recover. Will rejoin directly,” Hogshead said and ran as fast as his CASPer would go.
* * *
Mako 13
Victoria Bravo
A stack of containers fell across the path of the Mako One Three cargo skiff. Carter kept the accelerator pinned to the floor and didn’t see the containers until the forward end of the skiff collided with them. The impact threw him out of the cockpit, into the forward container. He took the impact on his combat helmet, but still saw stars in the immediate aftershock.
“Fuck!”
He turned his head, slowly and painfully, to look at Mata and Alphabet. The young pararescueman lay on top of the young pilot. Stallings had flown forward and impacted the container. No one was moving.
Carter climbed across the skiff and rolled Stallings over. His friend’s face was pale, and her unblinking eyes stared across an incomprehensible distance. She was dead. He fought a sudden tightness in his chest and turned. Mata looked up at him, her eyes wide but blinking. She was alive.
“Alphabet?”
The young man didn’t respond. Carter knelt and shook his friend. He tried to feel for a pulse, but couldn’t get his fingers in the proper position.
Mata spoke in little more than a whisper. “He laid down on me to protect me.”
“Paul?” Carter said again, shaking harder. “Alphabet, you with me?”
He rolled the young man away from Mata’s injured chest and saw that his friend’s eyes were open and unblinking. A severe shrapnel wound on the right side of Alphabet’s neck told the story.
“He saved me,” Mata wheezed.
Carter’s vision swam with hot tears. As they streamed down his face, he crawled over to Mata and held her hand. He’d always known the day could come. Flying with Becky Stallings and Alphabet were the best times of his young life. They’d shared a simple creed—so others may live. They’d said it was something men and women with Alphabet’s job a hundred years earlier had said, or something like that. People who knew the cost of war was measured in Human lives. People who, when given the choice, would sacrifice themselves so others could live.
Carter looked down at the young pilot. He’d never seen her before, at least not up close. Her olive skin was pale, and she was hurt. She needed him, and he wasn’t going to let her down. “Let’s get you out of here.”
“Can you do it yourself?”
Before he could respond, he heard the unmistakable sound of an approaching CASPer. A Mk 7 appeared next to the skiff. The mecha placed its MAC into safe mode, pointing it at the sky, and holstered the hand cannons.
“Let’s get you guys outta here, huh?” a voice drawled over the CASPer’s external speakers. “There’s another wave of these fuckers landing. We gotta go. Like right now.”
Carter shook his head and smiled at her. He wiped his tears on his sleeve. There would be time for grief later. For the moment, there was another brother in arms ready to do whatever it took. He slipped his arms under her and prepared to lift her. His face next to hers, he said, “I’ve got you, Mata. I’ve got you.”
“Can you get her up?”
“Yeah.” Carter hefted Mata into his arms and turned toward the CASPer. The mecha’s arms were outstretched like a cradle, and he heard the pilot say, “I’ll carry you back to the main hanger.”
Holding Mata under her shoulders and knees, Carter climbed off the skiff, into the arms of the waiting CASPer.
“Might look funny, but it’ll do,” the pilot drawled.
Carter read the name stenciled on the mecha’s cockpit rail. Hogshead. Warthog Six. He recognized the name and snorted. “Becky always said you were an asshole.”
“Becky always said lovable asshole. Don’t think I ain’t going to remind you of this every time I see you.”
Carter clutched Mata to his chest. “If we don’t make it, you won’t get that chance.”
Hogshead laughed. “You ever hear of Fiddler’s Green? Son, I’m gonna razz your ass for eternity. Hang on tight.”
* * *
Deathangel 25
Victoria
<<Confirmed. Thunder Six is offline. Remote cameras confirm the forward command post has been destroyed.>>
Tara closed her eyes and forced herself not to cry, even in the closed space of her cockpit. “Track Colonel Ibson.”
<<Negative signature. Intelligence reports he was in the command center. It is a total loss, Tara.>>
Tara frowned. She glanced through her camera feeds as if she could feel Jackson Rains looking at her from the cockpit of Alpha One. The screen on her forward left instrument panel showed a small tactical layout. Six enemy dropships were descending to the north of the shattered command complex as if to touch down on the spaceport’s main runway. When they did, the enemy ships would have the CASPers and remaining armor forces pinned against the Cochkala beachhead.
“Time to landing?”
<<Inbound forces will be fully down and capable of operations in one hundred and fifty-nine seconds.>>
Shit.
“Tara?” Rains called. “The Cochkala skiffs are moving forward.”
She leaned around the container she’d been using for cover. Using the CASPer’s cameras, it took less than a heartbeat to confirm what the Peacemaker had seen. The enemy appeared to be moving toward the stalled CASPers. Avenger Six continued to move forward slowly, and the elements under the command of Warthog Six paused as he completed the fallen angel recovery.
Gutsy move, she thought with a grin. From what she could see, he’d already delivered the downed pilot to the main hangar. He’d be back with his unit in a moment, and the attack could continue. Except Avenger Six wasn’t pushing forward. Tara turned back to the north and scanned for the armor elements of Hammerhead Six. The first tank appeared, crossing an avenue of fire. Its main gun fired six quick rounds into the Cochkala position as it traversed the narrow kill zone. A few rounds and laser bolts hit the tank but did little damage to the angular hull and turret.
“Force Two Five, Hammerhead Six. Have you in sight.” MacFollett’s voice was firm and confident. He was in position and ready. With the CASPers in the middle, her and the armor on the right, and the MinSha on the left, they were well placed for a possible attack on the Cochkala position. However, a frontal attack against the Cochkala beachhead would be suicide.
“Force Two Five, this is Avenger Six. I have negative sight on the objective. Combat relays are down.”
Tara frowned. “Lucille, can you get them back?”
<<Negative. The forward command post owned the feeds. There is nothing to tap into or reroute.>>
Tara leaned around the containers again and saw the Cochkala skiffs rolling forward, expanding their position. The two missile platforms and the surrounding infantry forces remained in place.
“We’ve got to cut off the Cochkala before they press forward and push the CASPers back into the waiting gun tubes of the enemy reinforcements.”
<<What about Peacemaker Vannix?>>
Tara blinked. “Is she in danger?”
<<I monitored a transmission between Governor Watson and Colonel Ibson that referenced her situation. The governor is leading security forces into the area, and the probability is high he will eliminate the wrong targets.>>
Including Vannix. Dammit.
“Get me the MinSha infantry commander.”
<<Connected. The callsign is Mantis Six.>>
Really? Tara snorted and pressed the transmit button. “Mantis Six, this is Deathangel Two Five, over.”
The response was immediate. “Mantis Six, over.”
“Mantis Six, are you in attack position?”
“Affirmative, Deathangel Two Five. What are your intentions?” The MinSha’s voice was clipped and cold. “You are broadcasting on a command frequency.”
Tara stabbed the radio controls. “Governor Watson? Governor Watson, this is Tara Mason. Do you copy?”
<<All relays to the governor and his security team appear down, Tara.>>
“Then who’s in charge of this shit?”
<<That would appear to be the question at hand.>>
Tara felt her stomach cave in on itself and her anger rising. Avenger Six was blind. The CASPers were about to be pinned down. Vannix was in danger from friendly as well as enemy forces, and no one on the battlefield had a clue how to defeat the incoming landers.
You have to.
Tara jammed her eyes shut and swung her head viciously from side to side. No. I’m not ready for this!
You don’t have a choice.
The voice was Kurrang’s, and it steeled her resolve.
“Tara?” Rains called. “You okay over there?”
Tara opened her eyes and slipped her hands back down into the CASPer’s arm holes. Her fingers grabbed the controls, and she reached for the recessed radio transmit button under her left pinky. As she thought about what to say, an old, familiar voice bubbled up in her memory.
The universe doesn’t care if you live or die, Mason. Only you can change that.
Shit.
Tara took a deep breath and pressed the transmit button. “All Victoria Forces elements, this is Force Two Five Actual, Commander Tara Mason. Thunder Six is down, and your governor is offline. I am taking command of the battle space at this time. I repeat, I am taking command of the battle space at this time. Break.”
She released the switch and glanced at the operational display. A plan quickly formed. “Hammerhead Six, continue your movement to my position. Avenger and Warthog elements standby to attack. Mantis Six, break contact and join up with Peacemaker Vannix downtown. Any remaining elements fall in on Avenger Six. We’re going to take these assholes down once and for all. Acknowledge, over.”
“Avenger Six, standing by. Over.”
“Hammerhead Six, at your position in fifteen seconds, over.”
“Mantis Six, moving out, over.”
“Warthog Six, moving to rejoin and standing by, Two Five Actual.”
Tara spun toward the oncoming friendly tanks. Behind them, descending out of the sun were six dropships. They were a mix of classes and sizes, which meant one thing. Mercs. Fighting mercenaries had certain advantages and disadvantages. The Victoria Forces were a somewhat regular force—meaning they possessed standard operating procedures, common techniques, and a solid chain of command. Other mercenary companies often had no plan except to shoot, move, and communicate. If she could take away their communications, she could isolate them and pick them off one at a time.
“Lucille? Can you tap into the terminal’s communications network? See what the mercenaries are using for voice and data comms?”
<<Affirmative. Do you intend to directly interfere with the spaceport’s communications in an effort to jam the enemy? Spaceports and their communications architectures are protected by—>>
“I know, Lucille, but I’m executing the office I’ve been deputized to fill. Take over the network, identify their comms systems, and knock them out.”
<<Affirmative. Estimated time to full integration is two minutes.>>
Hammerhead Six and three other assault tanks arrived with half of their gun tubes pointed at the landing dropships. The six dropships came out of the clouds and spread out, set to land and deploy their contents in groups of three. She could see their plan in her head. The closest three ships would sweep the Cochkala flank clear, bringing Force Two Five and the tanks into the center of the fight. The other three dropships would join the attack and hit them hard. They wanted to pin the Victoria Forces down and wipe them out. There wasn’t going to be a surrender. There weren’t going to be terms. It was a death dance, pure and simple.
The multifunction display on her right changed from her ammunition storage status, a worrisome forty percent, to a zoomed-out command display. Tapping into the spaceport’s communications system allowed her a wide-angle look at the friendly and enemy forces. The red icons for the landing ships blinked as they continued their descent.
“Lucille? Altitude of the landers?”
<<The lowest is 5,000 meters above ground level,>> Lucille reported. <<I have successfully integrated with the spaceport. Working electromagnetic interference now. Estimated completion is eighty-two seconds.>>
Tara studied the display for a few seconds, and a plan formed. “Warthog Six, Deathangel Two Five, pull your CASPers back to the hangar and execute Mantis Six’s mission. You copy?”
Hogshead yelped. “Yes, ma’am. Warthog elements are on the move.”
The Cochkala couldn’t see them. If the CASPers were observed, the Cochkala might think they were withdrawing or trying to flank the three landers closest to the Victoria Forces compound to the north. Sending Hogshead on an end-around would give them time to flank the Cochkala while she worked on the other part of the plan.
“Avenger Six, move your elements to my position. Let them see you moving.”
Vuong’s voice was calm and steady. “Understand, Deathangel Two Five. Moving. Out.”
Tara spun and looked at Rains. “Jackson? You’re not going to like this.”
The Peacemaker laughed. “Try me, boss.”
“You and Avenger Six are going to act like you’re massing forces. I want the Cochkala concerned that you’re going to attack their western flank, so they pivot their defense. That will give Hogshead a chance to get on the opposite side and do just that. You with me?”
“Hold out and thin them out as much as possible,” Rains said. “We can move at will?”
“Whatever you want, just keep them focused on you.”
“What about you?” he asked. Tara had already turned toward the approaching tanks.
Some of the tanks had massive scars in their forward armor. She set her jaw. “We’re going to pick a fight with the landers. Try to knock them out before they get all the way down.”
Rains laughed in her ears. “Hell yes, Tara. Take it to them. I’ve got this side of the fight.”
A new voice cut in, “Deathangel Two Five, this is...um...I don’t have a call sign, but I’ve got three tanks and one beat up Mk 6 with a somewhat qualified operator at the main hangar complex.”
Tara blinked. “Lucille? Scan it.”
<<Radio signal propagating from the Victoria Forces compound. There are three tank signatures visible. I cannot locate the CASPer, but it may be too close to the tanks for the signature to separate.>>
The male voice sounded young, scared, and determined. Tara depressed the transmit button. “Okay, last calling station you are designated Lightning Six. Standby. All other elements, you have your orders. Execute them now. I say again, execute your orders now. Break.” Tara quickly released and re-pressed the radio transmit button. “We don’t have a lot of time, folks, but here’s how we’re going to fight this fight.”
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-One
Lovell City
Victoria
Vannix found cover behind a large concrete platform housing a rectangular garden ten meters long and five meters wide. The raised structure was tall enough for her to kneel at one corner without worrying about being observed by the Cochkala forces massing down the block.
“You’re not going to like what I found,” Maarg called over her earpiece.
“About what?” Vannix leaned forward and saw the Cochkala infantry ringing a building, and a squad of five, including an officer, entering a street-level office.
“The Dream World Consortium. Their latest news features all discussed the implication of fraud during an operation on Araf involving a Human Peacemaker. Ring any bells?”
Gods.
“Peacemaker Francis,” Vannix replied. “They probably aren’t very happy about her.”
“Or her father,” Maarg added. “The official mission report states Intergalactic Haulers showed up and cleared the field. The Dream World Consortium had hired two separate mercenary companies to work with two colonies to try and eradicate the Altar colony. Then Peacemaker Francis stepped in. We have to assume the action here isn’t coincidental.”
Vannix blinked and shook her head. “Why?”
“Looks like the Cochkala are raiding a Cartography Guild forward operation. During a typical deployment of a forward office, the mappers send out their own servers and equipment to establish operations. Until they are actively plugged into a planet’s GalNet hub, they are securely held and guarded. Once plugged in, the servers are protected by Galactic Union protocols because they establish guild-to-guild communications.”
“That’s what they’re here for.” Vannix sighed. “The whole thing at the spaceport is a feint.”
“Looks like it,” Maarg said. “A pretty expensive one. Who would send a bunch of mercenaries to do something like this when their real target is the—”
“Peepo.” Vannix frowned. “Their real target is Jessica’s father. They’re looking for clues, and if they get their paws on a Cartography Guild server, they have the known galaxy at their fingertips. Any tip they get gives them a huge advantage. Gods!”
Weapons fire rang out. Vannix peered around the planter and saw the Cochkala trading fire with something inside the building. “There are six additional landers hitting the spaceport now.”
“What’s in orbit?” Vannix asked. “Two or three large cruisers?”
Maarg hummed tonelessly for a moment. “Two. They’ll be in position to recover forces in thirty minutes or so.”
“Just enough time for them to grab a server, move to the airfield, and return to orbit.” Vannix wanted to spit. “Any update on reinforcements?”
“Hang on, I see some signatures behind me,” Maarg replied. “MinSha infantry. They’re broadcasting on Victoria Forces frequencies. Standby and here we—”
“Peacemaker Vannix, this is Mantis Six, do you read?”
Mantis Six? Have Humans not learned that some words have negative connotations, despite their attempts at humor? Vannix shook the thought away and replied. “Mantis Six, this is Peacemaker Vannix. What are your intentions?”
“We are under orders to support you,” the voice replied. “I am Lieutenant Whirr, and I have a total of ten soldiers. We are moving to your position from your five o’clock at two hundred meters.”
Maarg jumped into the conversation. “Confirmed. That’s them.”
The sound of weapons fire reached a crescendo, then halted. Echoes of the blasts reverberated through the buildings as an eerie silence blanketed Vannix and the surrounding block.
“I’m moving in,” she radioed Maarg.
“I think you should wait,” Maarg replied. “Being a Peacemaker is not going to protect you here.”
Vannix thought about it. “Whirr is two hundred meters behind me. I’ll create a diversion and—”
“And what? Tell them to drop their weapons and surrender to you?” Maarg laughed. “If they want that server badly enough to violate a few longstanding guild agreements to get it, do you think they’ll stop just because you’re there?”
“One hundred meters. We have sensor data on your position, Vannix,” Whirr said.
They’ll be here in thirty seconds or less. Good.
Vannix watched the Cochkala swarming out of the shattered building’s facade. Six of them carried what looked like a heavy, oversized footlocker. “That must be the server.”
“Copy, but I can’t get any data from it. It’s inert,” Maarg replied. “What are you going to do?”
Yeah, what am I going to do?
“They have to get it off planet, right?”
“One would think so,” Maarg replied.
Vannix nodded. “The other ship is down. Is it a total loss?”
“Unknown.”
She did the math quickly. The Cochkala infantry had two choices: run back to their downed ship and attempt orbit or commandeer one of the landers at the airfield. A group of Cochkala appeared in the distance driving a stolen large-wheeled commercial skiff. They got the skiff to the center of the building. One Cochkala, its fur bright brown in the sunlight, pointed and gestured at the surrounding soldiers.
At least we know who is in charge now.
As she watched, the infantry formed up around the skiff where they placed the server case and a guard of six armed soldiers. She noted the orientation of the skiff and the infantry. A move to the west meant they were headed for the airfield.
She heard the distinctive, muted clicking of MinSha claws on the street behind her. Vannix turned and saw them approaching quickly. The MinSha were exceptionally trained and unbelievably capable warriors. That the Human force here had defeated them and convinced them to become allies was nothing short of remarkable.
A large female, wearing a bandolier over one armored shoulder and green laser shields over her compound eyes, approached, hunched, her carapace nearly at ground level. She crawled up to Vannix and tapped a foreclaw to her chest.
“Peacemaker Vannix, I am Whirr.”
Vannix nodded. “Well met.”
“Well met. Have you ascertained their objective?”
“I think so. They’ve taken a large case from the Cartography Guild’s forward office and loaded it aboard that commercial skiff.”
Whirr raised up carefully and looked over the planter for a good ten seconds. Returning to her kneeling position, she looked at Vannix. “Two companies, maybe a little more. Light weapons and a few anti-armor cannons. Nothing terrible. What do you want to do?”
“See where they’re headed and get in front of them,” Vannix said. “An ambush.”
Whirr’s antennae vibrated with approval. “I like what you are thinking, Peacemaker. We just have to ascertain which route they are taking.”
“Yes, to what ship.”
Whirr looked at her and shook her head. “There is only one option. They aren’t getting off the planet in their larger ships.”
Vannix nodded. “You’ve come to a conclusion?”
“These Cochkala are the main effort, and the enemy will try to collect them shortly.” Whirr’s antennae stood straight up on her head. “They need to be stopped before any more of my friends die. We are with you, Peacemaker. Stand Victoria.”
Understanding washed over her. Whirr and her soldiers were what remained of the MinSha force Chinayl had sent to eradicate the Human settlements on the outer rim. Through the benevolence of the Humans, not just Jessica Francis, the MinSha soldiers were now an integral part of the Victoria Forces. In the days since their defeat, they had trained, integrated, and become one with those fighting and dying at the spaceport. Whirr wanted to get back to them, and Vannix knew why. Soldiers care most about other soldiers.
Vannix looked at Whirr. “I have an idea, Whirr.”
The MinSha’s antennae waggled in curiosity. “I trust it is a good one?”
“Considering the source?” Vannix grinned. “It’s something those assholes aren’t going to expect.”
Whirr motioned to her soldiers. The warriors silently joined them at the structure as Vannix watched the Cochkala and their stolen skiff move west toward the spaceport. Two roads ran all the way to the restricted area markers encircling the hangars and out buildings. Driving the Cochkala onto one road and channelizing them into a kill zone was the best course of action.
“Maarg?” Vannix called on the radio. “Can you fly the shuttle?”
There was silence on the channel for five seconds. “What do you have in mind?”
Vannix laughed quietly. “Something Tara and our friends would call death from above. Can you do it?”
“That sounds terrible,” the TriRusk responded. “I believe the phrase is something like I wouldn’t miss it for the planet?”
“Close enough,” Vannix grinned. “Close enough.”
* * *
Aboard the Storm Obsidian
Hyperspace
“You have wasted enough of my time, Peacemaker.” Kr’et’Socae stood menacingly over the fallen form. In the darkness, his imposing figure blended with the shadows. The power of his voice echoed off the hull as he adjusted the shock whip in his forehand. “What does Jackson Rains know?”
The MinSha lay motionless on her side in the cold, dark room. He knew she was breathing and responding to torture the way Peacemakers were taught. The room’s cold temperature and dry air were effective weapons. Reynah wouldn’t last much longer before the truth spilled out of her. Her disgrace in following the Mercenary Guild’s plans and those of her warden, Calx, would get her removed from the rolls of the Peacemaker Guild if she hadn’t been already. It wouldn’t matter. Reynah would not leave his ship alive, even if she told him everything he needed to know and more.
Kr’et’Socae flipped the shock whip at Reynah’s exposed abdomen. A blue arc snapped from the whip to the unprotected flesh. Reynah yelped, flinched, and rolled away from the shock. It was the most she’d moved in the last hour. He smiled. Patience was something learned in solitary confinement and easily adapted to any situation. He maintained control. She knew what he sought, and given time, she would talk.
He listened to her breathe and smirked at her effort. Her time was almost done. He flicked the whip a second time, adjusting the sparking ends so they touched the sensitive flesh of her underbelly. Reynah snapped up awkwardly and rolled hard onto her back, grunting in a deep, guttural way he’d never heard before.
“Nnnghh!” Reynah flopped onto her back. “He knows nothing!”
“Where did he go?”
“They jumped for Araf.” Reynah wheezed. “You know this.”
“Then what don’t I know?” Kr’et’Socae waved the whip in front of the MinSha’s face again. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Calx...”
His ears flicked. “What did you say?”
“Warden...Calx...” Reynah drew a long, hitching breath. “She ordered him tagged.”
What?
“Tagging a Peacemaker is against the laws of the Union.” He clenched his jaw at the abominable decision. There were reasons, certainly. Calx’s decision would not only result in criminal prosecution, but it would give him an advantage. Should the operations at Victoria Bravo fail, he could find Jackson Rains. All Rains had to do was step off a ship at a gate or on a planet, and he would be recognized by security platforms. His presence would be reported immediately to the Information Guild.
“She didn’t care.” Reynah collapsed back into the straps holding her down. “Calx did whatever she wanted. She marked the Peacemaker and secured the code. I have it on my slate.”
Kr’et’Socae spun and consulted a small Tri-V display. Sixteen hours from emergence and facing a choice he hadn’t expected, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Not a cleansing or focusing breath, just a breath. He did so again, letting the stale air of the ship’s cabin fill his lungs to capacity before exhaling it. He relished the sensation. The Peacemakers wanted him to control every aspect of his life from breathing to ethics. They believed he could find a way to calm others in any situation.
They had been wrong.
He’d tried to calm the godsdamned GenSha. They wouldn’t listen. Anxiety turned to fear. Fear turned to disillusionment. Disillusionment turned to distrust. Distrust meant no one would listen to anything other than their fears. Their anger. Their outrage at the smallest grievance. Their incessant cries for justice and restitution. He tried to negotiate on their behalf, but the bovine species kept returning to the table with new demands. They became irrational, believing the elSha meant to cause them harm. The elSha delivered technology designed to monitor agricultural fields with minimal intrusions. The GenSha couldn’t leave their fields alone, tromping through them multiple times each day, weeding, watering, cultivating, and fertilizing. Their excrement covered the fields and poisoned the sensitive crops.
The elSha attempted to tell them, then attempted to fix the problem with technology and chemistry, but the GenSha grew convinced they were being deceitful. They caught him alone, after the negotiations finished on the third day. He’d eaten a dinner of fresh fruits and vegetables provided by the elSha. He much preferred what the GenSha brought, but the local produce wasn’t bad. The sun had set not long before, and he’d decided to forego additional contract study and rest. Four GenSha he’d never seen before decided that wasn’t possible. As he walked down a packed dirt thoroughfare near a thousand-acre field of something akin to corn, they’d come around a corner and blocked his path.
“Reenaaga,” the leader said. Spineless shit for brains. Their intentions were clear, and away from the negotiation table, he had no way of recording the event as part of his discussion. He’d gotten lazy, and the four GenSha seemed determined to make him pay for it. He watched them spread out. He couldn’t see a weapon, but he knew from experience the weapon he couldn’t see was the one meant for him.
He’d reared up to his full height, stared at them one by one, and said, “Stand down.”
They charged and his instincts took over. He fought well, dropping three to the ground with minor injuries and devastated pride. The fourth wasn’t moving. As the others struggled to sit, Kr’et’Socae leaned down and shook it.
Nothing happened.
“Get up and go home,” he’d said as he rolled the GenSha to the left. The young male’s eyes were still and cold. Foam bubbled from one side of his mouth, and his black, swollen tongue lolled from the other side. Classic, self-induced poisoning was Kr’et’Socae’s immediate analysis. But the GenSha coroner said it was blunt force trauma and excessive force. Kr’et’Socae had followed the protocols to the letter, recusing himself from the negotiations, calling for support from the Peacemaker Guild, and placing himself before the GenSha. He was incarcerated for two weeks, which was enough time for report of the incident to reach his guild and for them to respond. He’d waited, certain of his innocence, ready to move on to the next assignment.
An official inquiry was launched and overseen by the Selector himself. Hak-Chet took less than an hour to interview him, then less than that to deliberate over the evidence before arresting Kr’et’Socae for murder of an innocent. They took his badge, his pride, and his life’s work and sent him to prison. An Enforcer, the Selector said, should know better than to fight against an untrained innocent. He’d argued self-defense, but to no avail. He’d ignored the most important tenet for an Enforcer—any force applied can be deadly. When it came to light that he’d received funds for several years, primarily from the Mercenary Guild, to resolve disputes in their favor, it was enough to lock him away in disgrace.
Reynah would not know that disgrace. She would not know the shame of being led by her former peers into the secure wing of the prison on Kleve. She would not face their ire. Unlike him, she would never escape. Because she would never arrive at the prison.
Kr’et’Socae looked at the time remaining display one final time and pulled his sidearm from the holster slung over his right hip. He walked back to Reynah and pointed the barrel at her head.
“Anything else you want to tell me?”
The MinSha stared up at him for three long seconds, her mouth working silently. She spoke softly. “There is nothing to be said to you.”
“Because I am a disgrace?” Kr’et’Socae laughed.
“Because you do not understand what happens around you.”
He blinked. “Meaning what, exactly? I do the Mercenary Guild’s bidding, and I make more credits than needed to be forgotten?”
“You will forever walk, looking over your shoulder.” Reynah wheezed. “Guild Master Rsach will ensure—”
“Your Guild Master is weak and pathetic!” Kr’et’Socae said. “I could easily defeat your entire guild.”
Reynah glared at him. “Then do it.”
He laughed. “Tell me where they are, and I might.”
“No.”
“The Mercenary Guild will find them. As soon as Peepo squashes the resistance of the remaining Human mercenary companies, a new order can be established.”
“The Mercenary Guild wants the Humans, Kr’et’Socae,” Reynah said. “Not you. They do not care about you, and they will give you nothing in return for your betrayals.”
“I do not wish them to,” he replied and pulled the trigger three times.
Reynah slumped to the floor as the Equiri stepped over her corpse toward the inner hatch. Sealing it, he engaged the cabin’s exterior cargo door and exposed the space to vacuum. Decompression swept the MinSha’s body into the void of hyperspace. He did not watch Reynah’s body disappear. As soon as it was done, he closed the cargo door and secured the ship for its final hours in transit. When he arrived, there would be much to do he had not prepared for. Ransacking every Cartography Guild office and confronting the system administration was unnecessary with the tagging of Jackson Rains. As long as Rains did not have a nanite scan before leaving Victoria Bravo, Kr’et’Socae could find him anywhere in the civilized galaxy, with one exception. He checked Reynah’s slate and easily found the code and the encrypted location history of Jackson Rains’ travels. Confident in his advantage, the disgraced Enforcer allowed himself a moment of repose.
Sitting at the command console of his ship, Kr’et’Socae looked at the GalNet’s archived pages for the Information Guild on Weqq and smiled. He’d never intended to go to Victoria. If Regaa was successful, Thraff knew the next phase of the operation well enough to take command and begin the chase. If Regaa failed, Thraff would do what was necessary to secure their prime objective and leave Regaa and her collected mercenaries to their fate. They were nothing but a distraction for the Victoria Forces to focus on while his operatives hit their target and ran. Thraff knew what to do, and Kr’et’Socae’s trusted him to initiate the next phase of the operation. After all, deception was the root of all warfare.
Either way, an open conflict was no place for a disavowed Enforcer. Better he maintained his position in the background where the eyes of the galaxy could not find him. There were plenty of others he could pay to fight his battles. He would orchestrate them from afar and work to accomplish his goals at the same time. He was calm and patient. There would be a time for action, very soon. For a long time, he wondered if Guild Master Rsach knew the meaning of the word anxiety. By the time Kr’et’Socae’s mission was complete, the Peacemakers would know far worse than anxiety.
They would know misery.
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-Two
Hammerhead 6
Victoria Bravo
“Hammerhead Six, this is Deathangel Two Five, on direct.”
Ian MacFollett keyed the direct laser comm system and locked onto the signal. Tara Mason, the commander of Force Two Five, had taken command of the field. “Deathangel Two Five, Hammerhead Six. I thought Avenger Six had the field, over?”
“Thunder Six is dead, Hammerhead Six. Avenger Six has the forward area under control, but if we’re going to survive this day, you and I have to make quick work of three landers,” Mason replied. “Are you with me?”
Listening to the curt, direct command voice, MacFollett found himself nodding long before he spoke. “Hammerhead Six is with you, Two Five. Orders?”
“Check the sky, bearing two six five from your position.”
She was obviously waiting for him to do it, so MacFollett opened the commander’s hatch and stood on the seat. Turning to the west, he looked up into the wispy, whitish-gray clouds filtering across the sky and saw the three landers. Their type and size weren’t immediately clear. He could see their descent engines firing and guessed they were about three thousand meters up, preparing for a high-speed combat landing.
“Copy, Two Five. I’ve got visual on the targets. What’s your plan?”
“I want your elements to swing west and hit them before they hit the ground,” Mason replied. “Have to assume they’ve got sub-orbital munitions based on their destruction of the forward command post.”
MacFollett gritted his teeth. She does know tanks typically have the weakest armor on top, right?
He saw the attack unfold quickly in his mind. Within three seconds, he pressed the transmit button with his thumb. “Deathangel Two Five, Hammerhead Six. Understand. Moving now. Request MAC cover from Avenger Six at max range.”
Mason didn’t respond for a few seconds. He knew she was doing the math and looking at the dispersion of forces on the field. Avenger Six and his three CASPers could fire MAC rounds into the path of the descending landers. If Vuong could maneuver a CASPer closer, they might be able to disable any visible weapon platforms and allow the tanks to get close enough to drive their attack home.
“Hammerhead Six, you are clear to coordinate with Avenger Six. You have three minutes to execute this attack before I need Avenger Six on this side of the field,” Mason called. “Deathangel Two Five, out.”
Three minutes.
Shit.
“Avenger Six, Hammerhead Six, over?”
“Hammerhead Six, be advised I’m moving two CASPers to your flank. Standby for direct fire,” Vuong called. “Do you read?”
MacFollett allowed himself a half smirk. “Roger, Avenger Six. Hammerhead Six copies, break.”
He changed to his platoon network and tied Avenger Six into the group for command and control purposes. Satisfied, he re-keyed the microphone. “Hammerheads, Avenger Six is on the line and providing fire support. Standby to move, gear three, bearing two seven zero with gun tubes high. Aerial targets descending. We’re not going to let them hit the ground. Avenger Six, engage at max distance and keep firing until lift and shift order.”
“Avenger Six, acknowledged. Good hunting, Hammerheads.”
MacFollett lowered himself into the turret and tapped his gunner on the helmet. “Index sabot.”
His gunner, Sergeant Crowe, gave a thumbs-up in response and said, “We have thirty-two rounds aboard, sir.”
“Target weapons pods and engines,” MacFollett said as he swung the hatch closed above his head. “Once I give the order, you are on your own—fire and adjust, Crowe.”
“Copy, sir.”
MacFollett tapped his C2 display and selected the four tanks in his platoon. “Hammerheads, pivot in place. Tubes up. Aerial targets inbound. Bravo section,” he indicated Hammerheads Three and Four, “take the southernmost lander. Two, you have the center vehicle. Six has the northern most. Concentrate on weapons pods and engines. They took out Thunder Six, so be ready to move if they start dropping ordnance. Weapons free. Knock them out of the sky.”
No sooner had he looked up than Crowe locked the gun tube onto the northernmost lander and fired. The tank lurched as the sabot round fired. The electromagnetic railgun was the grandfather of the CASPer’s MAC, and while the weapon wouldn’t cause the hundred-ton tank to lurch, the carefully prepared sabot rounds would.
MacFollett glanced at the targeting relay on his Tri-V. The targeting reticle locked onto one of two winglets on the squat, bullet shaped lander. He didn’t recognize the design, but the winglets descending from the top of the cylindrical hull reminded him of an old helicopter loaded with weapons almost to the point of collapse. The first sabot round penetrated the armor under the winglet. Exiting in a spray of molten metal just above the winglet’s root, the round flew into the Victoria sky, and the lander continued to descend.
The tank lurched again. And again. Crowe adjusted the aim of each round carefully, working them closer and closer to the wing-root as the lander’s weapons pylons came online, spewing fire at the ground near them. Dirt erupted around the Hammerhead elements.
MacFollett jabbed his transmit button. “Hammerheads, move out!”
The four tanks raced toward the landers, firing their guns. The southernmost lander, targeted by two of his tanks, shook from multiple explosions. A shattered winglet flew through the sky. No more than a second later, the lander exploded and careened toward the spaceport’s landing strips on the valley floor.
A cheer went up, but MacFollett cut it off. “Shift fire! Shift fire!”
The center lander squared its weapons pylons toward the Hammerheads to MacFollett’s left. He watched the lander, no more than three hundred meters off the surface, rake fire across the exposed CASPers. Avengers One and Three erupted in flames, staggered, and fell face first onto the tarmac.
“Hammerhead Four on the break!”
MacFollett whipped his head to the left and saw the tank on the extreme flank rush forward at full power, firing sabot rounds into the engine assembly on the center lander. Gleason what are you doing?
He fired six rounds in rapid succession, and the fifth and sixth hit their targets within milliseconds of each other. The landers were built according to an unwritten rule of spacecraft development—fuels must remain separate for as long as possible. Two propulsive chemicals mixed and detonated in the same heartbeat. The lander disintegrated in mid-flight, scattering rubble and wreckage across the tarmac.
“Shift fire!” MacFollett looked at the remaining lander, the one Crowe had been unable to bring down. Wounded and smoking, the one-winged lander squared on his tank. “Knock it down, Crowe!”
The lander’s remaining weapons pylon fired. A heavy laser tore into the front, left armor plating. Another ripped across the main gun tube and neatly severed it. He watched the red-hot metal fall away as the lander dropped to two hundred meters. Rounds pockmarked it, but it kept firing.
“Avenger Six moving in!”
MacFollett turned and saw Hammerhead Two detonate. Hammerhead Three, farther down the line, smoked from several impact points but kept firing. The tank’s hull and treads on one side were collapsed. It wouldn’t move again. Behind them, the two remaining CASPers from Avenger platoon raced forward. They were close enough for MacFollett to feel the thump-thump-thump of the MACs in his chest, despite the armor around him.
Warnings sounded. Crowe was already moving toward the hatch. The wounded tank sat motionless, its engine silent. Its driver, Specialist Garrison, was dead. There was nothing else they could do.
“Go!” MacFollett shoved Crowe toward the secondary hatch. He stood in his seat and swung open the commander’s hatch. As he looked up, the enemy lander centered its pylons on him. There was a flash, and he had time for a single thought.
Oh shit.
* * *
Aboard Victory Twelve
Victoria Gate
“The gunnery frigate continues it course and speed,” Bukk said quietly. “They are far inside a shooting solution, Xander.”
Xander glanced at the exterior camera view on his center screen. The frigate was little more than a speck of light in the distance, but from their angle, he could see a distant glow from their engines. “They’re maintaining a steady acceleration. They’ll have to re-orient to decelerate and dock, if that’s their intention.”
“Their present course and speed don’t suggest anything with a tactical advantage. They are not intending to ram the gate, nor do they appear ready to fire on it.”
It’s a scare tactic.
Xander frowned. “They want to keep us guessing, Bukk. They want the gate master panicking and ready to give them the keys to the galaxy.”
“Fear is quite the motivator for the Sumatozou,” Bukk replied with a clack of his mandibles. “The gate has been silent since the frigate and the two troop ships entered Victoria space.”
The two cruisers were in line abreast formation, in high orbit above Victoria. Xander did the math in his head and realized they were in a nearly geostationary orbit above Lovell City and holding their position with little use of fuel. From a command and control perspective, they had the clear advantage. Distance, however, was their enemy. Being some forty thousand kilometers above the planet’s surface, any reinforcements or weaponry they launched were subject to defeat.
“Has anything left those ships aside from the first wave?”
Bukk leaned over the console and studied a display. “Negative. I assumed they would have launched a second wave.”
“Unless they don’t have one,” Xander said. “Or they’re waiting for something to emerge from hyperspace.”
“That thought did cross my mind.” Bukk’s antennae sagged. “We have no way of knowing when a ship is about to emerge, do we?”
“Lucille?”
<<Negative.>>
“The gate controls outbound traffic,” Xander mused. “They can do nothing about inbound traffic.”
“But once a spacecraft is in the system, it cannot leave without passing through a gate.”
Xander nodded. “Unless it has its own shunts.”
“Which means?”
<<Any ship the adversaries are expecting does not have hyperspace shunts. They have decided to seize the gate. From a tactical perspective, that is wise.>>
Xander smiled. “But it tips their hand. We know they can’t leave the system.”
“And if the Cartography Guild knows that,” Bukk replied, his antenna bobbing in understanding, “and they are really coming here to establish Victoria Bravo as one of their forward offices, they can hold the adversary force here indefinitely.”
<<Unless the enemy assaults the gate,>> Lucille added. <<The frigate is designed to spark fear. Any trailing ships are meant to push the gate master into capitulation.>>
Xander laughed. “And that’s where we come in.”
Bukk pointed a foreclaw at the Tri-V. “We arrive at the gate first, discuss the situation with the gate master over short range direct laser, then play the waiting game.”
“With one exception.”
<<If the attack on Victoria Bravo is successful prior to the arrival of follow-on forces, the gate master allows Victory Twelve to depart and report on the situation. A good plan.>>
Xander looked at Bukk. “My dad always told us to have a way out of every situation, if possible.”
“That implies our forces on the ground will perish.”
Xander shook his head. “I’m not implying anything, Bukk. We have to be prepared for any eventuality. If we’re not thinking ahead, everything the Peacemaker Guild wanted us to do dies right here. Whatever they wanted Snowman for dies here, too. This is bigger than Tara and our friends on the surface.”
Bukk nodded thoughtfully, his head and upper abdomen moving rigidly together. “I understand. What do you plan to tell the gate master?”
“I’m not telling the gate master anything, my friend.” Xander smiled again. “You are.”
“And once I’ve told them whatever it is you think I should?”
Xander pointed at Victoria Bravo. “We help our friends as best we can. Lucille, do you have a situation report from the ground?”
<<There are two primary engagement areas at present. The main fight against the Cochkala and the additional landers has the full attention of the commander on the field, which I believe is Tara.>>
“Tara is in command of the field?”
<<Colonel Ibson is presumed dead and Governor Watson is out of communications. He is attempting to engage forces in the secondary engagement area.>>
Bukk leaned forward. “The secondary engagement area appears to be a two-block radius in downtown Lovell City. Images from the surface cameras indicate the Cochkala targeted a Cartography Guild forward office. Think of it as a diplomatic office. They take their time creating new governments, but when they find a viable location, they go ahead and establish a forward base of operations. The Victoria system is somewhere they want to be. From here they can expand a few gates down the arm of the galaxy. It is a wise move. A profitable one for the government and the citizens.”
“Except when the citizens are at war.”
“Once a guild comes in, most everyone, including the mercenaries, back off. You would call it a...gentlemen’s club?”
Xander guffawed. “No, no, no. A gentlemen’s club is an upscale place where...”
“I meant an accord of some type,” Bukk replied. “Not a place of ill repute.”
“A gentlemen’s agreement.” Xander dabbed at his eyes.
“I do not understand Human sayings and colloquialisms,” Bukk replied. “Even translated into Altar, the things you say sometimes do not make sense. It is a good thing your actions are equally insane at times, lest one think you were simply daft.”
Xander grinned at the Altar, his friend. “You don’t really think we aren’t all daft, do you?”
Bukk’s mandibles parted and his antenna waggled with laughter. “Only the ones I seem to hang out with.”
“You have no idea, mate,” Xander said. He squinted at Bukk and exaggeratedly studied the Altar. “What would an Altar representative to the Cartography Guild wear for a diplomatic meeting?”
Bukk made a gurgling sound Xander realized was laughter. “You do recognize, my friend, I’ve never worn raiment of any form in my life?”
“That didn’t answer my question, Bukk.”
Bukk nodded. “I was afraid you were going to say that, Xander.”
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lovell City
Victoria
Vannix crept down the side street toward one of the main thoroughfares. Moving south, she couldn’t see the MinSha infantry completing their ambush setup a hundred meters or so to her west. Whirr’s hasty plan called for them to channel the Cochkala down the southernmost thoroughfare, a narrow corridor numbered 34. So far, under sporadic fire from a handful of snipers placed along the route, the Cochkala were scampering quickly down 34, into the heart of the kill zone.
As she moved to close off their escape route, Vannix tapped her headset and whispered, “Maarg? Are you still watching them?”
The TriRusk’s response came back immediately. “Yes. I can see you, too.”
Fear raced down her spine. “Can they see me?”
“Relax, Peacemaker. You’re out of their field of view and, honestly, small enough that they can’t see you with all the deserted skiffs and autocars laying around.” Maarg laughed softly. “You are clear to close off their exit. I recommend the commercial skiff to your ten o’clock at forty meters or so for your firing position.”
Vannix raised her head, sniffing the wind for threats, and saw the extra-long commercial skiff sitting in the street at a thirty-degree angle to the thoroughfare. Behind its massive wheels, she would be invisible until it was too late for the Cochkala. Impressed, she tapped her headset. “Nice call. Moving now.”
She took her time, not wanting to draw sensitive Cochkala eyes with her movement nor wanting to make any sound above the distant rumbling of battle. The airfield seemed re-engaged and, though she was curious, Vannix resisted the urge to radio Tara for information. She could see the battle in her mind. The dropships were key. The enemy expected the wave of landers to take the field. If the remaining Victoria Forces could defeat them quickly, the Cochkala position would collapse in on itself, and they would retreat. The landers were also critically important to the Cochkala infantry she was tailing. Without the landers, they had no way off the planet with their sensitive cargo. If they could be stopped here, it wouldn’t matter. But if she and Whirr’s infantry failed, the Cochkala might get away with the Cartography Guild’s server and the information it contained. The Mercenary Guild would have the upper hand in the search for Snowman.
A whisper from Whirr in her headset shook Vannix out of her thoughts. “Standby.”
The first Cochkala had entered the kill zone. Given their speed, it would be thirty seconds or so until their main complement reached the center. Once there, Whirr and her forces would cut loose. Provided there were less cover and concealment positions in the kill zone than at Vannix’s position, it would be fast work.
Vannix looked at her wrist slate and tried to estimate when she would hear weapons fire. The plan depended on precise timing. If it was too early, the Cochkala could escape to the south through a narrow barricade guarded by only one MinSha.
Twenty seconds, Vannix estimated. She could have received a video feed from Maarg using the local closed-circuit systems and traffic cameras, but she hadn’t thought about it seriously. Depending on the type of sensors the Cochkala had, too much bandwidth on one frequency would—
WHAMM!!
Vannix looked up. The sound of a missile detonation washed over her. Smoke and dust rose near the kill zone.
Whirr’s voice came over the headset. “Contact! Enemy element to the south!”
Vannix ran. She leapt over a stalled autocar and sprinted to the south, rounding the corner of the city block with her weapon trained on the street. The Cochkala behind her were firing. Down the vacant street, she saw a concentration of fire near the narrow barricade. She wasn’t going to make it in time. The lone MinSha wasn’t going to hold against a battalion of Cochkala.
“Ergaa is down. Ergaa is down. Cochkala escaping to the south to join their friends,” Whirr yelled.
Vannix kept moving. “Maarg? What have you got?”
“I don’t see any more Cochkala to the south. I can’t make out anything specific in the feeds, but there is something in front of you.”
“Get Molly in the air. Keep your eyes on the Cochkala,” Vannix said.
“Copy that.”
She swept the street with her eyes. Cochkala poured down the alley and into the street about two hundred meters ahead. As they entered the street, seeking cover where available, a fusillade of weapons fire erupted from the south side.
What the—
A Human figure stood, behind cover, shouldering a rifle. After firing three rounds, the man ducked.
“Maarg, I have Humans on the south side of the street.”
“Working on it!”
Vannix ran across the street, found cover, and continued toward the Humans. The Cochkala filled the area and brought withering fire. As they did, they continued moving to the west toward the airfield. They were getting away.
Vannix tapped her headset twice. “Lucille? Lucille, do you read?”
<<Affirmative, Peacemaker Vannix.>>
“I have unknown Humans compromising our kill zone.”
<<They are radio silent and not broadcasting. I can see them through Maarg’s monitored feeds, but I cannot contact them.>>
Shit.
Vannix ground her lower jaw. “Moving to intercept. They’re fucking up this entire operation.”
<<Affirmative. I have let Tara know about the situation. She is unable to provide forces.>>
“Whirr? Hit the Cochkala with everything you have. Try to get in front of them and stop them from getting to the airfield,” Vannix yelled and sprinted toward the Humans. She watched two of them stand and get cut down quickly by coordinated fire from the Cochkala.
“I see two Humans in a covered position on the far side of the next street,” Maarg said. “There’s one near you, but I cannot discern what it is doing.”
Vannix stopped behind a skiff and watched for a few seconds. The two Humans on the far side of the street continued to fire. Bursts from the Cochkala guns caused clouds of dust and debris from the building behind the Human position. Vannix couldn’t see anything except the muzzle flashes from the Humans’ weapons between exchanges.
“Cease fire!” she yelled, but the Humans couldn’t hear her. They were fifty meters away and decisively engaged, and even if they heard her, they would ignore her.
I have to do this myself.
With a deep breath, she rose to a crouch and ran toward the Human position. The Cochkala continued to fire, but their move to the west had almost taken them out of range. The Humans were not challenging them or attempting to move. To her left, she could see Whirr’s infantry pursuing the Cochkala down the barricade. Inexplicably, the Humans targeted the MinSha.
Vannix darted forward waving her left arm. “Stop! Cease fire! Cease—”
A flash of heat caught her in the upper right chest. Vannix spun and slammed to the pavement. Through the sudden shock and disorientation, pain blossomed. She rolled onto her side, staring at the Humans who stared back in horror.
At least they stopped firing.
She saw boots approaching. A Human in dark coveralls knelt next to her.
“Oh, shit,” she heard the Human male say. Hands appeared, and she was carefully rolled onto her back. She stared up into the ashen face of Governor Watson. He’d been the one under cover. Behind his boots, she saw a missile launcher. In a heartbeat, she knew his team had assumed that Ergaa was an enemy, and they’d tried to close off the barricade with a missile attack. Instead of stopping the Cochkala, the stupid bastard and his team had let them escape.
“Vannix?” Maarg screamed in her ear. “Vannix?”
She tried to answer, but her mouth and tongue wouldn’t respond. In a detached way, she felt Watson trying to treat her wound. His hands were frantic.
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” he muttered. “I didn’t see you. I didn’t...Hang on, Peacemaker. Hang on.”
She nodded but felt her limbs growing cold.
“Medic!” Watson screamed. “Get me a medic now!”
She heard more voices. Faces appeared above her—human and MinSha. Vannix couldn’t make them out, so she looked past them. She heard Maarg in her ear, then it sounded like Jackson and Tara, but it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered except what she could see. What she could make out in the blurry haze.
The hazy, azure sky of Victoria was visible between the low buildings and the planted trees marking the sides of the streets. The sky was a color she’d only seen on Human-centric planets, and while it wasn’t Home, it was comforting nonetheless. Sunlight caught the high, wispy clouds, and she saw a minuscule prism in the sky. The rainbow made her smile.
Watson continued to work. His words were lost to her as her hearing faltered, and she heard the frantic beating of her heart. Maarg screamed in her ear. Something about hanging on. Vannix tried. She tried to stay. To stay in her life, but the blue called to her. Sunlight came through the shadows of the branches overhead and warmed her face.
Vannix smiled into the sun and closed her eyes. Warmth surrounded her, and it was good.
So good.
* * *
Main Spaceport
Victoria Bravo
Tara froze in her CASPer. “Say again, Maarg?”
“Vannix is down. I’m moving there, but I can’t find a spot to land the shuttle,” Maarg replied. “Whirr reports she’s critically injured and in need of medical treatment immediately. But I can’t get the shuttle close enough.”
Tara glanced at Rains who rested his back against the shipping container they’d used for cover and holstered his left-hand cannon. “I’m going after her,” he said.
“No, you’re not.”
“She’s hurt, Tara. We’ve got to get her off the field!” Rains moved in the direction of the city.
Tara stepped forward, grabbed his left shoulder and pinned him against the container. “We hold the line, Rains.”
“She’s a Peacemaker! We have to get her to safety,” Rains said. “She’s a part of this team. Or doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
A fresh wave of rage coursed through her veins, but she bit it back. She clenched the fingers of her right hand, her free hand, and forced herself to let them go. With a deep sigh, she replied, “More than you know.”
She saw Rains stiffen, then relax inside his suit as realization dawned. They were out of position. Too far away. If anything was to be done for Peacemaker Vannix, his partner and Tara’s friend, the two of them would not be the ones to do it. “She’d want us here, taking the field,” he said and sagged slightly forward.
“She would,” Tara replied as she glanced at her command and control display. There had to be a way to keep the fight going, clear the landers from the field, and get Vannix to safety.
“We can’t get there,” Rains said. He drew the left-hand cannon and leaned out from behind the container. He fired his MAC twice, then returned to cover unscathed. “Can we pull anyone off?”
“We’re decisively engaged,” Tara said. The unspoken part of her thought that it might be too late for Vannix. She knew Rains could hear it in her voice. “Maybe the MinSha can get her out of there in time.”
As if on cue, she heard Whirr’s voice on the command channel. “Deathangel 25, this is Mantis Six. SITREP follows, over.”
Tara suddenly smiled. The MinSha lieutenant had only been embedded with the Human forces for a month, but she had the protocols and procedures down. “Mantis Six, send it.”
“Peacemaker Vannix is down. Without medevac, she won’t make it. I have two killed and two minor injuries. Break.” Tara waited for Whirr to continue. “Be advised the ambush failed. I repeat, the Cochkala infantry have escaped to the west. Over.”
Gods!
“Mantis Six, I copy the ambush failed. Where are the Cochkala now? Over.”
“Unknown. They appear to have entered a conduit system. We are downloading a map now. Break.” Whirr stopped. “Deathangel 25, be advised. Peacemaker Vannix is down because of friendly fire. Over.”
“What?” Tara yelped. “Who is responsible?”
“Deathangel 25, Mantis Six. Governor Watson and his security force hit my security personnel. When Vannix tried to intervene and salvage the operation, she was shot at point blank range by the governor.”
Rains came through on a private channel. “I’m going to kill that motherfucker.”
My sentiments exactly. Tara shook her head.
“Understand, Mantis Six. Can you evacuate your casualties? Over.”
“My soldiers, yes. Their wounds are not critical. Without immediate medical attention, Peacemaker Vannix will not survive,” Whirr replied. “Your shuttle cannot land. The city is too tight for extraction via air.”
Tara zoomed in on her command display. There was a park some eight hundred meters to the southwest of Whirr. As far as potential landing zones, it was the best available. She was about to ask how fast the MinSha could cover that distance when she noticed a single CASPer icon moving toward the city from a position near the Victoria Forces main hangar.
Hogshead. I can’t get a ship to Vannix, but I can get her to a ship!
“Lucille, get me Hawg Six.”
<<Hawg Six is moving at extreme speed. He may be unable to talk,>> Lucille replied. <<Channel created.>>
“Hawg Six, Deathangel Two Five, what are you doing, over?”
The gruff drawl came back with a chuckle. “I thought that was pretty obvious, Two Five.”
Tara snorted. Hogshead had already pulled Liberty Three and Mako One Three off the field. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re shirking. You’re not half the asshole Ibson said you were.”
“Good thing, Two Five,” Hogshead replied. “Have Mantis Six move to the intersection fifty meters to her west. I’ll meet them there in eighty seconds.”
<<At his current speed, Hawg Six will run out of jumpjet fuel on his way back to the hangar complex.>>
“Lucille, are there still dropships capable of making the run?”
<<Mako One Three suffered significant crew loss, but the dropship, itself, is ready for flight. I cannot find any other capable ship.>>
“Get them online. Whatever it takes,” Tara replied and switched back to the command frequency. “Hawg Six, I’m sending medevac behind you. Get the Peacemaker to the park eight hundred meters from Whirr’s position, azimuth is two three zero. You copy?”
“Loud and clear, Deathangel Two Five,” Hogshead replied. “I’ll have the Peacemaker there directly.”
Frustration collected in her limbs. Tara stepped around Rains, leveled her hand cannons at the Cochkala and squeezed off a three-second burst. As good as it felt to fire at the enemy instead of wrangling her forces, Tara pulled back quickly. They still had a chance to stop the Cochkala, but they had to move now.
Like right fucking now.
Tara looked at the command display and selected the new icon, Lightning Six.
What in the hell am I going to do with you?
She pressed the transmit button. “Lightning Six, this is Deathangel Two Five. What’s your status, and who do you have with you?”
The young man’s voice came back quickly. “Deathangel Two Five, Lightning Six, say again?”
“I want to know who you are, who you have with you, and whether you’re ready to end this fight, kid,” Tara growled. “Are you with me or not?”
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-Four
Victoria Forces Hangar Complex
Victoria Bravo
Drew Morris looked at the empty space inside the Titan reconnaissance tank where the commander’s independent monitoring system should have been. The tank he’d boarded with his friends, Manny Herrera in the gunner’s seat, Yeung Kim in the communications position, and Kareem Reece in the driver’s seat, had been a hangar queen used for spare parts until recently. Morris was a mechanic by trade, as were his friends, but they knew more than a little about the vehicles in their care. He considered his response to Commander Mason’s question before tapping a switch on the back of his mechanic’s ear protection.
“Yes, ma’am. We’re with you, Deathangel 25. I have eleven folks under my command, and we’re prepared to assist with one Titan, two Avengers, and a Mk 6 CASPer.”
Mason’s reply came back immediately. “You’re not in any of the documentation I have from the Victoria Forces, Lightning Six.”
“You want me to forward you a personnel data form, Deathangel 25?”
“Answer my question, kid.”
Fine.
“I’m Drew Morris, intermediate mechanic and assistant armorer. Ten of my people are junior mechanics on the maintenance team. We have seventy rounds of tank ammunition between us and whatever machine gun ammo we could scrounge when this shit went south. We’re not going to sit back in the hangar and die.”
For two seconds, there was no response. “You’ve got ten people in hangar queens?”
“It’s all I could get on short notice, 25,” Morris deadpanned. “We’re prepared to move out on your command. We can shoot, move, and communicate.”
“Lightning Six, against my better judgment, you’re cleared to attack. Stay as far east as you can, and try not to let the Cochkala see you.”
Morris peeked out of the commander’s hatch. “I think we can do that, Deathangel Two Five.”
“Move out, Lightning Six.”
Morris exhaled and looked at Kim across the breech of the main gun to his left. “Get me the team on a common frequency.”
“Channel two.” Kim gave him a thumbs-up. “Working to patch command through, too.”
“Don’t bother,” Morris replied. “As long as we’ve got comms with Deathangel Two Five, we’re good.”
“Copy.”
“Manny? We set?”
“Gun’s loaded, boss. Have twenty rounds aboard. We gave the others 30 each. It’s all sabot. The guns aren’t boresighted, but if we put the tube on a target, we should be able to kill it,” Herrera answered.
“Reece?”
“We’re up. I don’t have third gear, but I can make it work,” Reece replied.
Morris nodded and pressed the channel button. “Lightning elements, this is Lightning Six. Move out on me. Keep a spread and haul ass across the open space to the terminal. We’re going to the east side of it. Deathangel Two Five has us covered. Move out.”
“Lightning Seven, roger.” His wingman, Rachel Edwards, replied from her Avenger tank. She’d be the middle of their line formation.
“Lightning Eight, moving.” Lionel Dewberry’s Avenger would bring up the rear.
Morris pulled the oblong commander’s hatch closed as Reece fired up the massive twin turbine engines, and the Titan lurched forward. The acceleration pushed Morris back in his seat as the tank raced through the open door of the main hangar complex. “Orient the gun!”
Herrera swung the gun tube hard to the right in the general direction of the Cochkala position. The main gun and forward, coaxially-mounted machine gun displays changed to show the battle-ravaged spaceport flying past. Hulks of burning armor were visible in the distance, both tanks and CASPers.
CASPers! Shit!
“Araceli? Araceli, where are you?”
“Your left flank, Lightning Six. Next time, try not to forget me.” Araceli Signes wasn’t a member of the Victoria Forces. She was two weeks shy of her eighteenth birthday. Her father was one of the forward area controllers who was likely dead in the rubble of the command post. She’d been a fixture around the maintenance hangars for years because her mother, Isabella, had been the maintenance master for the armor section until her death from a rare, untreatable cancer eighteen months earlier. Araceli hated tanks, but loved powered-armor suits. She’d jumped into the old, damaged Mk 6 without a second thought, and not even Governor Watson could stop her. Morris loved her like a sister and allowing her to charge into battle with inferior equipment and very little training seemed like a stupid idea.
On his display, he watched Araceli launch the CASPer into the sky. At her apex, some thirty meters above them, she fired six quick rounds from the MAC on her right shoulder. He grinned. She knew what she was doing.
“Looking good, Lightning Nine.”
“Copy. Move your ass. Danger area ahead. They’ll be able to see you,” Signes responded. “They’re maybe fifteen seconds away.”
“Reece? Floor that sonuvabitch,” Morris said. “Manny, take out anything firing at us.”
Ten seconds.
This wasn’t your best idea, Drew.
Not by a long shot.
Five seconds.
“Let ‘er buck!” Herrera screamed. A series of flashes from the scattered infantry and skiffs meant rounds were headed in their direction.
“Open fire!” Morris grabbed the controls for his exterior gun and aimed the cannons at the Cochkala. As he squeezed the trigger, he heard a scream from inside the tank. He realized the scream was his, and he let it come. Being out of the maintenance bay and in the fight felt better than it should have, if only for a few seconds.
* * *
Main Aviation Hangar Complex
Victoria Bravo
“Mako One Three, this is Deathangel Two Five. Fallen angel. I repeat, fallen angel.”
Carter blinked at the radio headset dangling over his left shoulder. He grabbed it and pulled it over his ear as the voice came again.
“Mako One Three, this is Deathangel Two Five. I show your systems operational and ready. I have a fallen angel to retrieve. Over.”
Carter shook his head. “Mako One Three is down. My primary pilot and PJ are dead.”
“You’ve got an aircraft, Thirteen. I’ve got a badly wounded Peacemaker. If she’s going to make it, I have to have you.”
Carter nodded and stood. The word Peacemaker grabbed his complete and undivided attention. He glanced at the aircraft, knowing what he had to do. Mako One Three sat forty meters away. Despite the shrapnel wounds to his arms and legs, he started to jog. “Mako Thirteen is moving.”
“Hey!”
Carter kept moving. As he maneuvered through the triage area, he caught the eye of Sergeant Mata. Her color had returned, and she was sitting on a cot. He smiled at her.
“Hey! Sir!”
Carter turned and watched the young medic, Doc, running toward him. “What is it?”
“Where are you going? You shouldn’t be moving.”
Carter tapped his earpiece. “Fallen angel. There’s a wounded Peacemaker on the field. I’m going to get her.”
“You don’t have a copilot,” Doc said. “Or a PJ.”
“I’m going out there, man,” Carter replied. He saw Mata stand. Nanites had taken care of most of her shrapnel wounds. Her skin was pale, but there was determination in her eyes.
“I’m coming with you,” she said. “You need another set of eyes in that cockpit.”
He wanted to argue, but the young woman’s voice was firm. There was a hint of a smile on her lips, and he decided he liked it. In fact, if he was flying to his death, he’d like to see her face as he drifted away. “You ever flown anything before?”
“Seems like a good time to learn, sir.”
Carter grinned and started walking. Mata took his arm.
“Godsdammit!” Doc exclaimed behind them. Carter looked over his shoulder as the young medic raced through the sea of wounded and dying lying on litters across the hangar floor.
“You sure this is a good idea, sir?” Mata asked.
“My name is Mike.”
“My name is Irene. My friends call me Reenee.”
“Works for me, Reenee,” Carter said. Adrenaline numbed the pain in his legs. He moved faster, but Mata couldn’t match his speed. They stayed together. As they reached the dropship, he helped her onto the ladder.
“Wait for me!”
Carter turned back and saw Doc running toward them wearing an unbuckled pararescue helmet and carrying a large medical supply bag. The young medic closed the distance quickly and climbed aboard. “You sure about this, kid?”
Doc nodded. “We have a Peacemaker to get off the field, sir. Let’s do this.”
Inside the dropship, Carter climbed into the forward cockpit section and found Mata in the righthand seat. His seat. He shook it off and dropped into the left one. Pictures of Becky Stalling’s nieces and nephews smiled at him.
This one’s for you, Becky. You, too, Alphabet.
“Everybody, strap in,” Carter said. “We’re going low and fast.”
“Exterior doors closed and combat ready,” Doc called.
“You a trained PJ, Doc?”
“Negative, sir,” Doc said. “But Alphabet was one of my friends. I can fake my way through this if you can.”
Carter laughed and saw Mata smiling at him. “Standby for launch.”
Mata tugged on her shoulder straps. He watched her studying the instrument panel, and he knew she was trying to be as helpful as she could.
“Be my eyes, Reenee. Watch the right side of the ship from the nose to as far back as you can see.”
She nodded, and he grabbed the flight controls. The built-in multifunction displays came online, and he saw Warthog Six moving toward the downtown area.
“Deathangel Two Five, this is Mako One Three. Have eyes on Warthog Six and am prepared for launch.”
“Standby fifteen seconds, Mako One Three. You’re going to need what cover we can provide unless you can stay as low as a CASPer until you clear the airfield.”
Carter nodded. “I’ve got that, Deathangel. Keep their heads down for twenty seconds and we’re clear to the LZ.”
“Ten seconds, Mako One Three.”
Carter counted down in his head, wriggling his hands on the controls and adjusting his body to the seat. Outside, he felt the deep, thundering vibrations of distant weapons fire.
“Mako One Three, launch!”
Carter applied thrust to the engines, brought the vehicle a meter off the deck, and edged the nose forward. “Mako One Three is on the roll!”
“Good luck, One Three. Deathangel Two Five is clear.” Mason’s voice dropped off the frequency. It was just as well. Carter couldn’t hear anything as he pushed the throttle further forward and accelerated away from the hangar in a blast of jet wash, nearly tearing the hanger doors off as Mako One Three raced east.
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-Five
Deathangel Two Five
Victoria Bravo
There’s nothing more you can do for Vannix, Tara. Get your head back in the fight.
She blinked as the thought raced through her head. Watching the icons for Mako One Three and Warthog Six move into the city, she’d forgotten the battle at hand. Using her HOTAS derived controls for the Mk 8, Tara scrolled her display back to the main battle area without having to remove her hands from the CASPer’s main controls. Hands On Throttle And Stick revolutionized combat aircraft a few hundred years before and continued to impact how humans fought complex machines. The three remaining landers, immediately to the north of the main hangar complex, were executing their final landing sequences. Avenger 6 and the two remaining Hammerheads, reduced to stationary artillery pieces but still spewing fire, remained decisively engaged.
“Lucille, damage assessment on the landers.”
<<The lander closest to the center of the airfield has sustained engine damage and will not make it to the airport. The center lander continues to lay suppressive fire on the Avenger elements despite weapons pod damage. The easternmost lander continues to drift toward the city at a rate of two hundred meters per minute.>>
“It’s waiting for something.”
<<Concur.>>
Tara reeled from the flash of realization. “The Cochkala infantry! Whirr reported they went into the tunnels under the city. The lander is their way out.”
Lucille didn’t respond immediately. Tara scrolled the screen back to the Cochkala ship at the spaceport and saw the infantry and skiffs withdrawing into the loading bays. Under normal circumstances, Lucille would have noticed and reported the action. The restrictions had to be responsible for her not doing so.
“Lucille? Analyze the Cochkala defensive position.”
<<The Cochkala are slowly re-boarding their ship for departure. I do not detect propulsion system pre-starts; the ship appears to be running on internal power only. This is a standard departure sequence.>>
“How long have you been monitoring this situation?”
<<Since the inception of the battle, Tara.>>
Gods!
“Why haven’t you reported it, Lucille? This is the kind of shit I need to know!”
<<My ability to autonomously analyze and report has been curtailed to your precise, time-defined operations. This follows the conditions entered via creator privileges on Araf,>> Lucille replied. <<As we discussed with notifications and permissions, my ability to analyze and report to you must be clearly articulated.>>
“Throw all that out,” Tara grunted. She’d have to deal with the consequences later and, if Lucille got too far ahead of things, Tara believed she could shut her down again. “Just like the reporting permissions. I want you to do the job you were programmed for, even with the new restrictions in place.”
<<That means I may violate those rules in the performance of our mission objectives.>>
Tara snorted. “Ever heard the expression there is an exception for every rule, Lucille?”
<<Affirmative.>>
“Take it to heart,” Tara said. “Patch me through to Avenger Six and watch that ship. The minute they pull those missile skiffs in, I expect them to prepare for launch. We’ll have a really tiny window.”
<<Unless they sacrifice the skiffs to cover their escape.>>
I hadn’t thought of that.
<<Avenger Six is online.>>
“Avenger Six, Deathangel 25.”
“Copy, 25. We’re maintaining rate of fire.” Vuong sounded like he was ordering coffee instead of leading the remaining CASPers. “Standing by to attack.”
Tara paused. With the Cochkala main position preparing to retreat and launch, was there any point in attacking the landers? Was there anything of value inside them or were they a ruse?
The icon for the westernmost lander flickered. Tara turned and looked. She saw smoke billowing, and the vehicle wobbled. She heard Rains in her earpiece.
“What are you thinking, boss? We can’t sit here.”
No, we can’t.
The Cochkala are thinking the same thing. Their main effort is not what we think it is.
“You’re right,” she replied. “On me.”
Using her jumpjets, Tara bounded to the north toward the hangar complex and the descending landers. She landed, then did it again, cutting slightly to her right toward the remaining Hammerheads. The stranded tanks were far enough from the landers that any weapons fire they took was easily defeated by their armor. The tanks continued to fire into the remaining landers. As she approached Hammerhead 4, the gunner fired, raising a cloud of dust and debris around the tank. On the end of the sabot round was a tracer. The tracer, usually a type of phosphorus or some other brightly burning chemical, allowed Tara to see the round as it raced through the sky and tore into the westernmost lander’s engines. The vehicle exploded a millisecond later, strewing debris over a wide area of the spaceport.
Tara heard Vuong’s voice on the radio. He seemed slightly more emotional than usual. “Victoria elements, coordinate fire on the center lander. Leave the eastern one until we determine its intentions. We’ll give them enough rope to hang themselves. Avenger Six, out.”
The CASPers and the Hammerheads fired on the center lander. The enemy pilots tried to outmaneuver the incoming rounds, then brought their weapons to bear. Tara flinched as Hammerhead Three’s external missile system detonated in a small, powerful explosion, shaking the ground and almost causing her to stumble. Jumping by reflex, Tara saw Hammerhead Four, which had been ten meters or so from its wingman, flipped on its roof. There were life signs inside the tank and no sign of a vehicle fire. They could wait.
“We gotta keep going, Tara. They’ll be okay if we can get that lander down!” Rains yelled.
He was right. Under the concentrated fire of the remaining CASPers, the landers couldn’t last forever. But without the tanks’ heavy ammunition suppressing the enemy fire, the Cochkala and their friends had the advantage. That had to stop. She had to make a choice. They had to eliminate the landers, or they had to destroy the Cochkala ship before it left the ground.
As a young mercenary, she’d known the concept of fighting the lesser of two evils. Understanding it, however, took her near death experience with Death On Tracks. She’d raced through their training program at an unbelievable pace. Shooting, moving, and communicating—the actions of the armor leader—came easily to her. Two missions into her career with the unit, she’d become a section leader, operating opposite the track of her platoon sergeant, Sergeant First Class Petrovich. The crazy Russian bastard sat her down one night during a hyperspace transit with a bottle of vodka and a notepad. He drew a rectangle on the center of the page. Inside the rectangle, he drew an oval, a standard military graphic for an armored force. On top of the rectangle, he drew three dots. A platoon.
Above the rectangle, he drew two diamonds for the enemy forces. He filled one diamond with two crossed lines and placed the Roman numeral III over the top—an infantry regiment. He placed an oval inside the other and drew II for an armor battalion. He pointed to the rectangle.
“This you.” Petrovich grinned. “Standard load, fully ready and trained.”
She nodded and sipped vodka from the dirty shot glass he’d set in front of her. She tapped the rectangle. “This is me.”
“Da. These,” he tapped the two diamonds, “your enemy. Which one do you attack?”
“Neither,” Tara had answered. “Either one is suicide.”
“You have no choice. You have to attack. To die not moving is to die without honor.” Petrovich tossed back his fourth shot. “You must attack. No choice. Which one?”
Tara remembered squinting at him. “What do you mean? Either way I die. A mercenary is supposed to leave the field to return another day. That’s what you’ve taught me from day one.”
“Correct.” Petrovich smiled at her. “But there will come day when you must choose. Either way—no win. What to do?”
Tara had frowned and looked at the options. An infantry regiment or an armored battalion against her armor platoon. Four tanks versus eighteen tanks or four tanks versus a hundred soldiers with light weapons. She’d tapped the infantry regiment. “This one.”
“Why? There are more of them.” Petrovich grinned savagely at her. She knew the look all too well. He wanted her to reconsider. She shook her head.
“No. Infantry versus tanks? I have the advantage despite their numbers.”
Petrovich grunted, retrieved the bottle of vodka from the floor and poured himself another shot. After he did, he carefully filled her glass to the lip and set the bottle quietly on the table. He raised his glass to her and waited until she picked up hers and clinked it against his.
“You learn valuable lesson, Tara.” Petrovich grinned at her. “When time comes, pick the lesser of two evils. When you can’t win, that may give the only chance you have.”
Tara nodded at the memory. Sergeant First Class Petrovich had done just as he’d advised and charged into what he thought was the lesser of two evils. He’d paid the price that day, as had the rest of the company, except for her. The orders from her company commander had been explicit.
Remain as the reserve until I tell you to move. Fail to do that, and the artillery will hammer your ass into oblivion.
She hadn’t moved. She’d done exactly what they’d ordered, even when she knew she should have attacked behind Petrovich. It would have been suicide, but it should have happened, because it might have changed the outcome. Now, looking at her tactical displays, Tara knew what had to be done. If today was the day she found herself in that clearing, halfway down the road to hell, so be it. She’d buy Petrovich a round or two for eternity.
“On me, Rains,” Tara called and jumped. “Avenger Six, Deathangel 25. Knock the central lander down. Force 25 is going for the eastern lander before he can get his prize. Do whatever you need to. But knock that fucker out of the sky.”
“Avenger Six acknowledges. Out.”
Tara glanced over her shoulder at Rains who followed behind in perfect flanking position. “Jackson? You’re not going to like this, but it’s the best plan I’ve got.”
She heard the young Peacemaker laugh. “Then I’m all in, boss. Let’s take it to these fuckers once and for all.”
* * *
Victory Twelve
Approaching Victoria Gate
“Will you remind me of the purpose of this exercise?” Bukk tugged absently at the yellow scarf slung over his shoulder. They’d found it in the bottom of Tara’s personal footlocker, and as much as Bukk regretted going through her things, he regretted going along with Xander’s plan more. “You can’t possibly expect the gate master to fall for this.”
Xander slapped a magazine into a standard carbine. In the microgravity, with his feet tucked into hand holds, he knew he appeared inverted to the Altar. He grinned, but Bukk’s expression didn’t change, and his antennae didn’t waver. He sighed. “It’s a chance we have to take. If Watson’s government really has reached out to the Cartography Guild to establish a commercial zone, it’s our best chance to close the gate to these assholes.”
“And if they have shunts?”
Xander frowned. “Lucille? Any evidence the frigate or the two capital ships have hyperspace shunts?”
<<Until they are powered up, there is no way to tell at this distance, Xander.>>
“Then we have to take the chance the gate master will believe you’re a messenger from the guild.”
“The gate master has the transponder of this ship. He knows who it is registered to and, presumably, what we are doing in his space,” Bukk replied.
“Even so, he doesn’t know who is onboard,” Xander replied. “All you have to do is get the gate master to stall.”
“I maintain it would be simpler to ask than attempt a ruse like this. This is an unnecessary risk to diplomatic relations.”
Xander snorted. “Deception is one of the core tenets of warfare. Remember, those bastards brought war here. We have to stop them.”
Bukk’s antennae finally bobbed. “Even a few minutes can make a difference. Am I correct in that assumption?”
“Yes,” Xander replied. “I’m not saying our deception is something honorable. I know that’s important to you, Bukk. But right now, what matters is stopping those bastards from leaving the system. The gate master is the only person capable of doing that.”
“I understand,” Bukk replied. “But what happens if the ruse fails, and the frigate opens fire on the gate, trying to coerce the gate master into opening it?”
“It could happen, but we have to try.” There really wasn’t more he could say. In the history of stupid ideas, Xander knew his plan was high on the list. Tara would never allow it, but for whatever reason, Bukk believed in it enough to follow along.
<<Autodocking sequence initiated. The gate master is present in the connected passageway as requested.>>
“Thanks, Lucille.” Xander grinned over his shoulder at Bukk. “You look great. This is going to work. I’ll introduce you formally and let you take over.”
Bulk nodded, one foreclaw over his chestplate in respect. “I will do my best.”
“Thank you, my friend.”
The Altar’s antennae waved in surprise. “I am honored to be considered your friend, Xander Alison. You share many qualities with your little brother whom I respected greatly. I believe he would be proud of you if he were here.”
For a moment, Xander felt a surge of unfamiliar emotion. He’d gone to Araf to find his little brother’s remains, and he’d accomplished his mission without grieving for his loss. Like their mother, Xander hadn’t wanted Hex or his other siblings to join a mercenary outfit. But he knew why Hex did, and it wasn’t for the credits as everyone outside the mercenary cohort believed. He’d supposedly done it for excitement, for challenge, and to see the galaxy. Xander knew better now. Having seen the camaraderie between the soldiers, regardless of their race or species, Xander knew that soldiers fought for and with each other. They loved each other on a level no one else understood. Xander hadn’t until he met Tara and Force 25. That they considered him a friend and a part of the team gave him a feeling of pride he hadn’t had since seeing his little brother almost ace his VOWS many years earlier.
“Thank you, Bukk,” Xander replied and quickly flipped out of the footholds and aligned himself with the airlock. A few seconds later, Victory Twelve’s docking mechanism locked on the gate, and the airlock pressurized. Gravity, at least some, returned in a flash. The adjustment of bodily fluids made him dizzy for a moment, but Xander blinked it away and lowered his rifle to a ready position, hoping he looked like an armed guard.
The inner airlock opened, followed three seconds later by the outer hatch. A Sumatozou, its trunk waving slowly from right to left, stood there with its massive hands clasped in front of it. It spoked in a voice which sounded like a trumpet. The translator picked up its words and relayed them with minimal delay. “I am Gate Master Ella’Chi. How may I be of service to you?”
Xander took a deep breath. “May I introduce—”
Bukk brushed him aside and stepped forward. Xander noticed the Altar was no longer wearing the scarf as a sash. “Honored Ella’Chi, I am Bukk of the Altar, assigned to Force Two Five on a classified mission directed by the Peacemaker Guild.”
“Well met, Bukk. We are aware of you, this ship, and your mission. How can we assist the Peacemaker Guild?”
“This is not guild matter, yet. But, all transits out of the gate must be stopped immediately.”
The Sumatozou nodded solemnly. “We have been prepared since receiving intelligence from Peacemaker Kurrang several weeks ago. We are ready to execute our part of this operation to the best of our ability.”
Xander recovered his faculties enough to step forward. “What?”
“Oh, I see.” The Sumatozou laughed, a deep rumbling sound. “You are unaware of the next phase of this operation?”
“What are you talking about?” Xander asked. “Those bastards are getting ready to threaten you so that you’ll let them escape. You’re saying you’re ready for them? You’re going to fight them off?”
“Not us,” the Sumatozou replied.
<<There are multiple signatures appearing behind Victoria Alpha. Due to the electromagnetic field over the planet, I cannot ascertain vehicle type or intent.>>
Bukk turned to Xander. “It appears we’ve been caught with our shirts down.”
“Pants.” Xander shook his head. “The expression is caught with our pants down. I get the feeling Kurrang expected something to happen and called in the reinforcements in case we failed.”
The Sumatozou shook its head. “You are mistaken, Mister Alison. Peacemaker Kurrang expected success, but he wanted to dominate the enemy, not merely defeat them.”
Xander blinked. “But he said your guild was limiting their Blue Flights.”
“That was the direction from my guild master, yes. The situation has changed. Our guild has been targeted by emissaries from the Mercenary Guild. I have recommended that all constraints on the Peacemakers be withdrawn immediately.”
<<There is a power fluctuation from the gunnery frigate.>>
“Are they charging weapons?” Xander asked.
<<Negative. The power signature matches recessed hyperspace shunts deploying. The frigate will jump in thirty seconds.>>
“Bring the cannon about, Lucille. Prepare to engage.”
“Given the proximity of the frigate to the gate, you must not fire. If you destroy that ship as it powers up its shunt, you could damage or destroy the gate. I am afraid you’ll have to let them go,” the gate master said. “I am sorry, Mister Alison.”
Xander fumed but understood. “We have no idea where they’re going.”
“No, but we will know when they get there. We will share that information with you. Of course, we cannot deliver that information to you immediately.”
Which means it won’t matter. By the time we know where they went, they’ll be gone. Xander clenched his jaw tightly and tried to refrain from an emotional outburst. Worse, if those arriving ships are not friendly, this whole situation could implode around us.
When Bukk spoke, Xander gasped in complete surprise.
“Well, shit,” the Altar said.
<<The ships at Victoria Alpha are emerging from the planet’s electromagnetic field at high speed. There are two. Deciphering transponders now.>>
Xander looked at Bukk and shrugged. The Altar tried to replicate the move, but his upper abdomen was not as flexible as a Human’s shoulders. The resulting movement looked painful. Xander knew, though, that his friend felt the exact same emotions and frustration. The eerie premonition that all hell was about to break loose was nothing new. What bothered Xander Alison was that he could do nothing to stop whatever was coming.
God help us if they aren’t friendlies.
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-Six
Avenger Six
Victoria Bravo
Major Vuong, in his Mk 7 CASPer, stepped out from his concealed position and fired four, quick MAC rounds at the closest lander—the one that had been in the center at the Victoria Spaceport. Four of the enemy’s landers had been destroyed before the forces inside deployed behind the Victoria position. The two remaining landers had taken more damage than the others, but still flew. His target looked exactly like the others, while the one hovering to the east did not. The Earth-bound forces of his grandfather’s had regularly been taught vehicle recognition. With the expansion of the galaxy and Earth’s inclusion in the Galactic Union, more vehicles, ships, and craft appeared than could be easily quantified, classified, and identified so that Humans could recognize them from a distance. Five of the landers had been bullet-shaped. The sixth was a more typical type of landing craft—a wide, stocky rectangle with multiple winglets on each side of the wide, armored fuselage for weaponry. Four winglets were visible, and each bristled with armament. The lander pivoted in mid-flight as Vuong watched. He didn’t have to guess at the lander’s target. He noticed it wasn’t Cochkala made, nor was it completely invulnerable. It was simply something else they had to face down.
“Lightning Six, Avenger Six. Enemy air to your six o’clock. Evasive action.”
“Copy!” Lightning Six’s voice seemed about two octaves higher than it had been. Vuong tried not to grin as he pressed his radio transmit button. “Hammerheads and Avengers. Synchronized fire in ten seconds. Avenger Six will designate the target.”
One by one his elements checked in with simple acknowledgments. Vuong listened, but he really wasn’t paying attention to them. He knew the litany like the back of his hand. He listened for familiar voices and—
Wait.
“Hammerhead Three, this is Avenger Six.”
“Avenger Six, be advised Hammerhead Three is heavily damaged and firing off the boresight only. No precise targeting, over.”
Vuong frowned. Loss of voice communication wasn’t a showstopper, as the saying went, but it did complicate things. “Understood, Three. Keep them firing as long as possible.”
“We’re ignoring gun tube heat warnings, Avenger Six. We’re going to ignore them until we’re dead in the water.”
“Copy.” Vuong saw the central lander smoking from recent impacts. Where it burns, it dies. Using the sighting reticle, Vuong aimed his MAC at the damaged area. Working quickly, he transmitted the targeting data to his vehicles. “This is Avenger Six, target is lit. Standby to fire.”
His platoon’s standard operating procedure was to initiate fire on a shared target within six seconds. Since the Hammerheads were attached to his element out of necessity, he gave them four extra seconds before locking on the target and firing.
“Avenger Six, up on the guns.” Vuong fired a burst of three MAC rounds at the lower hull of the lander. Within a heartbeat, multiple rounds slammed into the designated impact point. The lander shuddered. Vuong maintained his position, brought his MAC back up, and fired two, quick, three round bursts before ducking back into cover. Rounds impacted the ground around him. The distant lander’s range was far better than the others’.
Who are these guys? Where did they get that ship?
“Avenger Six, Hammerhead Three. Splash one!” Vuong risked a look and saw the lander spiraling out of control, heading for a very hard impact with the surface. He didn’t watch the descent. With his targeting computer still active, Vuong aimed at the last lander. According to a quick burst of his laser rangefinder, the lander was outside the maximum effective range of every weapon on his CASPer except the MAC. He glanced down at his ammunition stores information and frowned deeply.
Eleven rounds.
It wasn’t enough for him to make a difference. He designated the target and selected the command frequency. “All stations, all stations, this is Avenger Six. Target is designated. All available weapons lock and fire on this target immediately.”
He switched back to his company’s frequency. “Avengers, we have to get closer to the target to do any real damage. Standby to bound. Avenger Two, you are with me. Bravo team provides covering fire. Five seconds.”
“Ready, Six,” Avenger Three called. Wooden was the most experienced of the three Avengers despite his youth. The kid from Georgia had a quiet, still demeanor that resonated with Vuong and the other kids. They looked up to him.
Three seconds.
Vuong looked at his tactical display and identified his destination. Where the taxiways from the spaceport’s active runway rolled uphill toward the terminal, there was a culvert deep enough to hide his section. He took a deep breath and ensured his CASPer’s mechanisms were free. Running and jumping in the powered suits was never as easy as the recruiting videos made it seem.
“Avenger Six is on the move. Let’s go, Two!”
“Moving!”
Vuong didn’t look back. Either Gannon was going to be there, or he wasn’t. The youngest, most inexperienced CASPer pilot was motivated as hell, but he was awkward and clumsy in the powered mechas. Rounds of cannon fire and hypervelocity accelerated slugs slammed into the ground around him. Vuong squeezed his hands into fists and jumped. While the Mk 7 climbed, he brought his MAC up. The control mechanism automatically locked onto his last target. He raised his right fist, squeezed his palm, and fired four rounds before he reached the apex of his leap.
On the descent, he fired three additional rounds before turning his attention to the landing site just short of the culvert. He kept his CASPer under exquisite control as he landed, then he ran forward to cover. As he turned his back to the higher ground, he saw Gannon easily slide into place next to him.
“Set,” Gannon called.
“Bravo team, clear to bound. Two, up with me.” Vuong looked at the ground behind them. Moving forward two meters would provide considerable cover yet still enable them to fire small arms at the target. Vuong reached down and snapped his arms tight, looking for the mounts for the hand cannons attached to the Mk 7’s thighs. He withdrew the guns from their holsters and brought them up, noting with satisfaction that Gannon had done the same.
“You ready, Gannon?”
“Semper paratus, sir.”
Vuong smiled. The kid just might get it after all. “Bravo team, bound! Covering fire!”
They stepped out together, spinning to their right in unison. As Vuong centered his hand cannons and squeezed the triggers to fire short, controlled bursts, he saw movement. Both his Bravo elements, Avengers 3 and 4, bounded toward a culvert about one hundred meters to the north. Behind them, moving forward at breakneck speed, came a Mk 6 CASPer and a gleaming Mk 8.
“Avenger Six, Deathangel Two Five, closing through on your six.”
“Copy, Deathangel Two Five. I have visual. Clear to traverse,” Vuong replied. “Has Lightning Six cleared the area?”
“Negative, Avenger Six. We’ve got to keep that gunship occupied and—”
WHAMM!
The impact jolted Vuong, and he flung himself into the relative cover of the slope. Loose dirt slid into the culvert from the shoulder of the taxiway above them. Across the thirty-meter concrete pathway, a black cloud rose.
“Avenger Three, you with me?”
His ears filled with static, and Vuong swore under his breath.
“Standby, Two. We’re on the attack.”
“Sir?” Gannon asked. “We’re down two CASPers and—”
“No, you’re not.” He recognized the voice of Tara Mason. “Avenger Six, Deathangel Two Five closing on your five o’clock. Maintain covering fire. We’ll be there in ten seconds.”
“On it,” Vuong replied. He charged his hand cannons and armed his MAC. “Let’s go, kid!”
They stepped out and saw the remaining lander edging slightly to the south and east as if it were following something. As they did, the lander pilots oriented the nose back on the center of the Victoria Forces. Continuous fire from the weapons pylons hammered various targets. The icons for Avenger Three, Avenger Four, and Hammerhead Four dropped off his command and control display. Vuong locked his MAC onto a pylon bearing a swiveling globe that was firing some type of laser. He fired four rounds at the weapon and grunted in satisfaction as the third round tore the weapon apart. A spectacular secondary explosion ripped what was left of the pylon from the lander’s blocky fuselage.
“Hit that bastard, Two.”
“Firing!” Gannon replied. Vuong watched the youngster fire at the scar where the lander’s pylon had torn away. The softer, less protected underside of the winglet immediately flared and smoked.
“Nice shooting, Avenger Six,” Mason said. He saw a scarred, white and gray Mk 6 fly toward the lander, followed by Mason’s sleek, distinctive Mk 8. Eyes back on the lander, Vuong watched the ship descend quickly, as if diving toward a spot halfway between the spaceport’s perimeter fencing and the city.
There wasn’t anything there, except for the water treatment facility. Why would they want—
Shit!
“Deathangel Two Five, they’re heading for the water system.”
“Affirmative, Avenger Six. Standby to bound. We’ve got to find a way to get there before they do, or this whole thing is over.”
* * *
Lovell City
Victoria Bravo
From the jostling and urgent voices, Vannix knew the MinSha infantry were moving her. She opened her eyes and blinked several times, attempting to focus. Buildings, trees, and blue sky became visible. Vannix attempted to raise her head, but she was too weak. Four MinSha were carrying her on a makeshift litter—one at each corner. The strong, female warriors easily handled her comparatively light body, and she felt like she might fly off the stretcher as they ran.
“Here,” she heard one of them say. The MinSha at her right shoulder turned to the others. “Center. Steady. Lower.”
They set the litter on the ground a moment later, and Vannix’s strained sense of equilibrium returned. She blinked again as the MinSha leaned over her. She recognized Lieutenant Whirr and nodded.
“What...what are you doing?”
“Administering a stabilizer and getting you out of here, Peacemaker,” Whirr replied. “Evacuation is on the way.”
“Where are the Cochkala?” Vannix wheezed. Her chest and arms hurt as though a million burning fleas had burrowed themselves in her fur. She barely felt the sting of the hypodermic needle in her thigh. “Where did they go?”
“They’re in the water system under the city. We think they’re moving to rejoin their ship or one of the landers.” Whirr nodded. “Before you say anything, I’ve dispatched a squad to find them, and we’re getting maps of the tunnels from Governor Watson and his men.”
Vannix shook her head feebly. “Leave me here—go get them.”
“No,” Whirr replied. Her antennae bobbed to one side in concern. “You are my primary effort, Peacemaker. There is a fallen angel operation underway to retrieve you. The rest of the battle is not your concern. Please, rest. Try to remain still and breathe as normally as you can.”
Vannix licked her dry mouth and chops. Through her whiskers, she felt a change in the wind. Through the ground, she felt a clomping in the distance. It came again, but closer. The third time, she jerked and tried to find the source. She looked up and saw a Mk 7 CASPer bearing the markings of the Victoria Forces landing in the middle of the intersection. As it landed and stabilized, she saw WARTHOG SIX painted on the front of the CASPer, below a crude nose art drawing of a wild boar from Earth holding a lightning bolt in one hand and raising a…middle finger with the other.
The CASPers external speaker came on. “Bring her here. Lift her into my arms.”
Whirr and the other MinSha picked up the litter and ran to the CASPer. The MinSha leaned down to Vannix. “I am afraid this is going to hurt, Peacemaker. There is no other way.”
Vannix looked up at the faceless CASPer, then back at Whirr. She gritted her teeth. “Do it.”
“On three,” Whirr said. On the count of two, she and one of the other MinSha grasped the Veetanho Peacemaker under the shoulders, picked her up, and settled her in Whirr’s arms. With one forearm under Vannix’s shoulders and the other under her legs, Whirr climbed onto the backs of two of her warriors and nestled her into the outstretched arms of the CASPer.
“Got her!” she heard the CASPer’s pilot call. “Clear to jump.”
Vannix watched Whirr and the others step back, grab their long rifles from the ground, and scatter toward the tunnels to the west. She looked at the dull gray metal of the CASPer’s cockpit and wished she could see the pilot’s face. His name was stenciled on the cockpit rail—Captain Chris Hogshead.
“I’ve got you, Peacemaker. Hold tight,” Hogshead said over the external speaker. “This is going to be a bumpy ride.”
She started to respond when Hogshead ran forward. The damned CASPers were faster and more balanced than she’d believed from the simulations. Granted, her anatomy wouldn’t allow her to pilot one, so everything she’d done was simulated, but she was fascinated by the difference in movement. She heard a whine coming from the CASPer and knew the pilot was preparing to fire the jumpjets. Turning her head, she saw a six-story building standing in the way. Hogshead didn’t slow down.
“Uppa we go!” Hogshead yelled and planted both feet. As the jumpjets fired, Vannix gaped in shock as they quickly shot past the building. In a heartbeat, she saw the roof below them, then the far side of the building as the CASPer flew.
Smiling, Vannix strained to see the battlefield in the distance. The lander Whirr had spoken of appeared to be descending over the city’s water plant. There were two CASPers closing in on it. No, more than that. She watched them take cover, then fire as two more CASPers took their place. Vannix recognized Alpha One and Deathangel Two Five.
Tara and Jackson.
She watched them until Warthog Six began descending. They landed, and she felt the CASPer reach running speed much faster than she expected. Hogshead ducked down two streets, then raced west toward the spaceport. Over the speaker, she heard him on the radio. “Mako One Three, I have the angel. Repeat, I have the angel. Need a landing zone update, over.”
A Human male’s voice came over the frequency. That Hogshead had left the speaker on so she could hear was considerate but disconcerting. She wanted to be there with them, and that want was enough to keep her clinging to consciousness.
“Hawg Six, head for the water plant. There’s open area to the north that should be wide enough for extraction on the move.”
Vannix looked at the CASPer’s faceless cockpit. She said, “No! That’s where the Cochkala are headed.”
Hogshead couldn’t hear her over the exterior sounds. “Copy, One Three. Headed that direction.”
Vannix raised a hand and waved it in front of the cockpit. “No! Stop!”
“Hang on, Peacemaker. We’ll be there in twenty seconds. Uppa we go!” He leapt again, jostling Vannix. The pain took her breath away. Vannix saw the water plant appear as they descended. In the distance, the bounding CASPers continued to chase the lander, and a dropship flew toward them at an impossibly low altitude.
All this for me.
For the first time she could remember, emotion welled up, and a sob threatened to escape her throat. Eyes glistening with tears, Vannix wrapped her arms around her chest, then absently reached down with her left paw to the holster on her hip. Her sidearm was still there, loaded and ready.
The feel of it was enough to steel her resolve. She would have time for tears later, gods willing. If not, she would be in death’s pleasant meadow, surrounded by her friends. She could imagine no greater feeling of love. Movement caught her eye, and Vannix tensed.
Across the plant, beyond the four empty, rectangular basins used to catch and filter water for consumption, Vannix saw four large pipes leading out of the raised berm at the spaceport’s eastern end. The pipes were spaced about a meter apart with lush green grass between them. Out of the far-left pipe, six Cochkala infantry emerged. Another six followed. Vannix rolled her head toward the CASPer’s cockpit and pointed.
“Got ‘em,” Hogshead replied. She heard him on the radio. “All stations, this is Hawg Six. I’ve got Cochkala infantry in the tunnels at the water plant.”
The Cochkala sighted them as they descended toward the outer fence line of the plant, and small arms fire arced up at them. Rounds whizzed past Vannix’s head, and a few ricocheted off the CASPer’s frame. Hogshead braced for impact and moved quickly once the CASPer’s feet touched down on a spot of ground lower than the surrounding terrain. He knelt and set Vannix gingerly on the turf.
“Stay low, Peacemaker.” Hogshead stood up, and the volume of fire from the pipes increased tenfold. He stepped over her and brought up both of the Mk 7’s hand cannons. Vannix looked to her right and saw the dropship approaching, its nose pitched down low, and its engine wash creating a cloud of dust and debris that curled up behind it like an angel’s wings.
She heard Hogshead calling the dropship on the radio. “Mako One Three, Hawg Six. In position. The LZ is hot.”
She couldn’t make out the muted response from the dropship’s pilot, but it sounded suspiciously like, “No shit.”
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Aboard Mako 13
Victoria Bravo
Carter swung the dropship from side to side, presenting the enemy forces with a moving target that was, in theory, harder to hit than one flying straight and true. The controls felt light in his hands. His connection with his aircraft was strong enough to allay the pain in his limbs and the fatigue trying to settle into his body and mind. At one with the controls, Carter kept his focus on the hovering enemy lander and the forces spilling from the tunnels at the water plant. The lander had the advantages of a higher position and a tactically superior angle. They could hit Mako 13s fuselage from the side and above rather than the armored underside. Carter knew his only advantage was speed. Maneuverability at low altitude didn’t matter. He needed to carry as much speed as possible into the extraction and get in and out of the landing zone as quickly as possible.
“Eyes on the target. Left thirty degrees,” Mata called. Carter glanced to the left and immediately saw the Mk 7 CASPer protecting the Peacemaker’s position.
“Got it,” Carter said and mashed the radio transmit button under his left thumb. “Hawg Six, Mako One Three, moving to intercept.”
“Taking heavy fire,” Hogshead replied. The transmission was static-filled and sporadic. Carter knew they’d both taken fire to their communications platforms. Nothing about the extraction was going to be easy.
That’s why they pay us the big bucks. Carter snorted. Let’s do this.
“Copy, Hawg Six,” Carter said. “We’re taking fire from the lander at your three o’clock.”
“I see that fucker.” Hogshead replied. Carter watched the CASPer turn. A flurry of MAC rounds pulsed from the CASPer’s shoulder mounted weapon. “He’s starting to descend.”
The closer the lander got to the ground, the closer he was to retrieving the infantry forces pinned down by Hogshead and to bringing his weapons to bear on the lone CASPer. Without so much as a sidearm aboard Mako 13, there was nothing Carter could do to provide firepower.
He shook off the thought. “Doc? Twenty seconds. Standby to open the door.”
“On it,” the young medic replied. Carter realized he didn’t know the kid’s name. He slowed the dropship, brought up the nose, and started to pivot when Mata yelped into the intercom.
“Friendlies! Friendlies incoming from our eight o’clock.”
There was a quick burst of static. “One Three, this is Lightning Six inbound. Over.”
Carter looked and saw three older tanks speeding toward the spaceport’s fence line. A battle-damaged Mk 6 CASPer bounded along behind them. He recognized the vehicles instantly.
Who brought out the hangar queens? Can they fight?
“Lightning Six, take some heat off us,” Carter called. “We’re going in.”
“Breaching the field now, Mako One Three. Here we come!”
* * *
Drew Morris drove the tank into the perimeter fence and broke through the three-meter-tall barricade. Meant to stop native fauna from running into the spaceport and disrupting operations, the fence was no match for an eighty-ton vehicle moving at fifty kilometers per hour. As they passed through the fence, the ground sloped steeply down toward the waste water plant. The gun tube rested at a thirty-degree angle to the right and was centered on the enemy in the exhaust pipes. Within a heartbeat, Morris heard the distinct high-pitched sounds of small arms fire hitting the tank’s armor.
“Contact, front right!” he called.
Herrera responded instantly. “Identified!”
“Fire!”
“On the way!” Herrera squeezed the trigger, and the tank rocked with the powerful thump of the electromagnetic rail gun. The sabot round impacted the slope near the pipes but did little damage.
“Shit!” Morris slapped Herrera’s helmet from behind. “Hit them again!”
“Loading,” Herrera said. The standard response time for the autoloader, according to the maintenance documentation, was three seconds. Morris looked at the machine gun controls for a split second. They didn’t appear to have a whole lot of rounds available. He looked outside again and froze. The Cochkala clustered in a small group as they erected a tripod. Atop the tripod was a missile launcher.
“Evasive action!” Morris called. “Going right!”
He didn’t look behind them as Reece snapped the tank into a forty-five degree turn to the right and continued charging across the face of the embankment at high speed. The Cochkala fired a missile. He watched it track through the space behind him. Morris spun in his seat and saw the missile impact Lightning 8 at the junction between the hull and the turret. The explosion tore the turret loose and flung it into the sky.
Dewberry. Morris blinked back sudden tears. One of his friends from basic training and two of the greenest kids in the Victoria Forces were dead.
Because of me.
This was a stupid idea, Drew.
The radio crackled. “Lightning Six, Lightning Seven, turning in.”
Morris looked back at the other tank which was charging into the teeth of the Cochkala attack. What are you doing, Rachel?
No sooner had the thought crossed his mind, then Morris understood. The Cochkala might have an anti-armor missile system, but it was large and cumbersome, and took time to load. By the time they reloaded the weapon, Rachel Edwards and her crew would be on top of them.
Morris saw Mako 13 making its final approach to the downed Peacemaker. “Reece, catch up to the others. Give it everything you can.”
“On it!”
“Manny, keep firing. Keep their heads down long enough for Mako Thirteen to get clear.”
“Steel on target, boss.”
Morris looked at Corporal Kim. Her eyes were wide and scared. “Kim? Get me Deathangel Two Five on private.”
The young man didn’t move.
“Kim!” The kid blinked which Morris thought was a good sign. “Get me Deathangel Two Five on a private circuit.”
“Yes, sir.”
Morris wanted to say he wasn’t a sir. He’d never thought about becoming an officer. He was perfectly happy to be a—
The Cochkala fired another missile. For a second, he thought it might be headed for his tank. Then he realized it was aimed at Mako 13.
* * *
Hogshead backed up slowly, using his rear cameras to ensure he didn’t inadvertently step on the injured Peacemaker. A Cochkala missile tore into the front armor of one of the tanks and its turret flew off. The tank ground to a halt on the embankment, its right side facing the Cochkala position. The second tank continued forward, firing. There was little incoming fire at his position, and there wasn’t going to be a better time.
“Now, Mako One Three!” He spun, picked up Vannix as gingerly as he could, and walked forward. The dropship’s rear door was open, and Hogshead saw one of the young medics crouching behind a personnel shield built into the vehicle’s frame. He raised Vannix up high on the CASPer’s chest and jumped two quick steps forward as the dropship hovered.
“Stay behind me,” he called over the speakers to the medic. The kid with glasses flashed him a thumbs-up in response. As Hogshead approached the deck, the medic ran out to meet him. There was nothing he could do as the kid pulled the Peacemaker to his chest, extricating her from his arms. Hogshead watched the kid carry Vannix into the rear bay. Once they were clear of the hatchway, he pressed his radio button.
“Mako One Three, angel is aboard. Secure your rear door!”
The dropship’s door slammed shut. He could feel the vibration of its engines as it accelerated away. Hogshead turned around and saw smoke pouring from the barely moving Lightning tank. Beyond it, the Cochkala fired another missile.
There was no mistaking its path. Hogshead estimated the trajectory as best he could and took two steps before leaping into the missile’s path. Using his jumpjets to hover for a fraction of a second, he brought up his hand cannons and targeted the supersonic white flash screaming toward him.
Within seconds, both weapons displayed barrel temperature warnings. He kept firing, laying down a wall of ammunition across the oncoming missile’s path, with the silly hope he could take it out before the inevitable. It wasn’t going to work.
Low ammunition warnings sounded. Hogshead kept firing.
Ain’t gonna matter anyway.
Eyes on the missile, Hogshead stopped firing and vented his MAC’s heat sink with the touch of a button. The missile jerked as it locked onto the hottest thing in the sky, other than Victoria’s sun. Hogshead grinned and screamed, “Stand Victoria, assholes!”
A half second later, the missile impacted the cockpit section of the Mk 7 CASPer and tore it—and its pilot—into microscopic debris that rained down on the rear deck of the dropship and the waste water treatment plant.
* * *
Deathangel 25
Victoria Bravo
Tara clenched her jaw as she watched Hogshead’s sacrifice. Mako One Three, with Vannix aboard, raced away from the battle. The enemy fired sporadically at it. She and Rains were two hundred meters away from the stalled vehicle of Lightning Six.
“Deathangel Two Five, Lightning Nine.”
Tara saw the icon appear on her display. An old Mk 6 CASPer that had clearly seen better days was preparing to charge the enemy lander from a brilliant position.
“Lightning Nine, I’ve got visual on you. Stay there,” Tara responded. She switched frequencies. “Jackson, you okay over there?”
“Yeah,” he replied. She heard him cough immediately after responding and frowned.
“Lucille? Tap Rains’ vitals.”
<<Peacemaker Rains has an accelerated heartbeat, dangerously high blood pressure, and a core temperature of 102 degrees Fahrenheit.>>
“Can you cool him down?”
<<His bio-monitoring systems are at maximum. Something is very wrong.>>
No shit.
“Deathangel Two Five, I have a clear lane,” Lightning Nine called. She sounded young. Really young.
“Stay there until I tell you to move, is that clear?”
The pilot replied with two microphone clicks. Tara decided that was good enough. The young pilot was pissed off, full of fight, and didn’t want to say anything else. She was exactly the kind of person Tara had been years before.
“Tara?” Rains asked. His voice was little more than a whisper. “I can’t make it. I’m sick.”
Another voice cut in. “Deathangel Two Five, Lightning Six. We’re evacuating now. The Cochkala have entered another tunnel. I think they’re going to surface under the lander.”
“Copy, Lightning Six. Get your people together and get back to the hangar,” Tara replied. “Strong work today.”
“Copy Deathangel Two Five. Lightning Six, off the net.”
Tara wanted to smile. She wanted to give them a compliment for being much better than a group of mechanics should have. They’d harassed the Cochkala long enough to get Vannix off the field. She glanced at her icons and saw that Mako One Three had almost reached the hangar. She also saw indications that the Cochkala ship the enemy had used as a beachhead was preparing to launch. There was nothing she could do about it.
The enemy lander wasn’t hovering. It was continuing down the slope toward the pipes, firing at the wounded tanks. Enraged, she ran forward. “You bastards!”
“Tara...”
<<Peacemaker Rains is down.>>
She knew he hadn’t taken fire. He was simply too ill to move. “Is he stable and behind cover?”
<<For the moment, yes.>>
That was good enough. Tara kept running forward as the lander dropped to the level of the waste water treatment plant. They were going to scoop up the Cochkala and return them to their ship as it launched.
“Lucille, is the mothership’s cargo hold open?”
<<Affirmative. They are preparing for an aerial docking.>>
“Thought so,” Tara said. “Standby to override my jumpjets. I want as much thrust as they’re rated for plus ten percent.”
<<Five seconds.>>
Tara pressed forward, running faster than she ever had in the Mk 8. As the enemy lander started to rise, she saw Lucille’s jumpjet indicator flash rapidly in green. “Max jump!”
She leapt into the air with more thrust than she’d ever used. As quickly as the acceleration came, it was gone, and the CASPer arced silently through the air toward a landing point atop the enemy lander’s fuselage. There, the lander’s weapons pylons would be useless for self-defense. She would have the tactical advantage and could damage or destroy them before they reached the mothership.
I’m not letting you bastards have whatever you want so badly!
Tara watched the ship turn toward the east and begin to climb. Her landing point shifted quickly toward the rear of the lander. Four seconds. Three seconds. Two seconds.
As she fell rapidly toward the lander, Tara holstered her cannons and reached up with the mighty hands of the mecha. Catching the starboard main engine, she quickly levered the mecha up onto the rear deck. She stood slowly. The lander picked up speed. The Cochkala mother ship was already airborne and heading over the eastern escarpment at high speed. Bracing against the rising wind, Tara studied the top of the vehicle. Like most tactical craft, it was armored more on the bottom, sides, and front than it was on the top. The top was a soft target. She quickly found the communications antenna complex and tore it away with a couple of MAC rounds.
“Lucille, deploy ECM package.”
<<Jamming is active on all known frequencies,>> Lucille replied. <<The lander’s rate of climb is increasing. You should destroy what you can and jump off within the next twenty seconds.>>
It’s not destroy what I can. It’s bring them down.
Tara walked toward the main engines. “Analyze the target, Lucille. Full penetration of the fuel cells.”
A targeting reticle appeared three meters away. Tara braced against the wind and moved closer, aiming the MAC at the indicated spot. “Got it.”
Tara took aim as her instrumentation failed. There was a burst of static in her ears. The optical systems continued to operate, but her communications, radar, and countermeasures systems were gone. “Lucille?”
There was no response.
Aside from the cameras, the only thing operating on the CASPer’s instrument panel was a radiation meter. She saw the indicator move upward.
They’re jamming me. As long as she kept the cockpit closed, the CASPer’s armor would protect her from harm. The power of the interference, though, was enough to completely short out her fire control system. Tara adjusted the placement of her hand in the CASPer’s right arm and fingered the manual firing switch. In a traditional tank, a secondary firing system often generated some type of electrical charge to ignite the round and propel it out of the chamber. For a rail gun, even a small one like a MAC, there had to be a power source for the thing to work. The suit had power, but there was too much interference. Tara looked at the engines and stomped toward one. As she unholstered her hand cannons, she picked a spot near one of the bell-shaped nozzles that indicated a reaction control system. If the vehicle had RCS, it was capable of orbital operations. The engineering side of her brain took over. Reaction control systems typically used smaller quantities of hypergolic fuels—two separate fuels that reacted when introduced to each other. Tara aimed her cannons at the nozzle and let loose a long, sustained burst.
The nozzle exploded, and the dropship wobbled. She lost her footing. Sliding across the top of the fuselage, Tara tried to latch onto the surface, but she couldn’t. She tumbled, hitting the upper deck hard with the mecha’s right shoulder before rolling off into open space.
She glanced at the barometric altimeter. 16,000 meters.
Gods, that thing was moving! As she tumbled, she saw the lander racing to meet the Cochkala mother ship. She couldn’t watch for long. She heard a distinct whine as her systems initialized now that she was away from the lander. The instrument panel came online seconds later, and the laser altimeter, far more accurate than the barometric one, showed 11,000 meters and falling.
Tara flattened the CASPer out into a neutral body position. Arms and legs out to catch air, torso angled up slightly, she stabilized the mecha quickly.
10,000 meters.
Watching her systems come online, Tara realized the irony of the situation and smiled. Once the story of her jump at the CASPer school got out, the typical response had been that she was lucky and she’d never be able to do it again. They said it was luck, not skill.
Time to prove them wrong.
Her multifunction displays came online. Tara scrolled quickly to her fuel status and frowned. It wasn’t optimal, at least according to what she remembered from the Mk 5 jump, but it might work. She heard a squeal in her ears, and the communications system come online. Lucille was there, too.
<<Tara, this freefall is unrecoverable.>>
“I’ve got this, Lucille.” Tara flexed her fingers. “I did it once, I can do it again.”
<<Tara, you have far less fuel than you did with the Mk 5 and a CASPer that is twenty-two percent heavier. This mecha is fully armed and has an active fuel cell. The Mk 5 jump was battery only. Given the speed at impact, a fuel cell will rupture and likely detonate, killing you instantly.>>
“You’re saying I can’t do this. That I was just lucky.” Tara clenched her fists in anger.
8,000 meters.
<<Negative. You did something which cannot be replicated in this situation and maybe never again,>> Lucille replied. <<There has to be another course of action.>>
Tara looked through the cameras. Lovell City was out of view, hidden behind the massive escarpment and wide canyon valley the Swigert River had been carving out of the terrain for a few millennia. What looked like the staked plains of the American southwest, the llano estacado, stretched out in all directions.
<<You have reached terminal velocity.>>
Tara glanced at the instrument panel. CASPers weren’t meant to fly, so there was no indicator of how fast she was falling or how long it would take her to fall the remaining 6,500 meters to Victoria’s surface. There had to be something, anything, she could do. She’d done something in the Mk 5 that worked. Was there a similar system aboard the—
“Deathangel Two Five, this is Mako Thirteen. Have you in sight. Standby for rendezvous.”
What?
“Deathangel Two Five, do you copy?”
“I’ve got you, One Three.” She checked her cameras. “I don’t see you.”
“Your six o’clock, low, moving fast. Get ready for a little jolt. We’re going to come up underneath you.”
4,000 meters.
Tara adjusted the CASPer’s position and saw them underneath her, very close, and rising. “Mako Thirteen, did you deliver the Peacemaker?”
“She’s stable, Two Five, and Peacemaker Rains is being retrieved now. Get ready. When we take your air, you’re going to fall onto our fuselage.”
“Copy,” Tara replied. Sweat formed on her brow and her palms felt slick. “Ready.”
<<Autogyros are open. Joints set to maximum internal recovery.>>
Mako One Three boosted under her, and the air resistance Tara felt dropped precipitously. She pitched forward and fell. The cockpit of her CASPer impacted the top of the dropship’s fuselage so hard her head bounced off the cockpit wall, and she saw stars. She thrust the mecha’s hands forward with a stabbing motion. Her right arm bounced harmlessly off the fuselage, but her left pushed through a soft spot in the skin. Tara clenched her arm as if trying to hug the dropship to her chest. Her fall abated. Mako One Three slowed, then dropped vertically toward the ground 2,000 meters below.
“We’ve got you, Two Five. Hang on.”
<<I cannot lock the arm, Tara. You have to keep it pinned,>> Lucille said. <<Searching for another spot for the right arm.>>
Tara didn’t speak. Holding the fuselage tight, she caught sight of the Cochkala mothership high above them, boosting for orbit. She couldn’t see the lander. Perhaps she hadn’t—
An orange and brown explosion rocked the Cochkala ship. The massive vehicle strained to climb, its nose pitched far up as the rear of the ship detonated multiple times. For a moment, the long, gray shape seemed frozen in space.
Then it fell.
<<The lander exploded during capture. The larger ship was catastrophically damaged.>>
Tara watched the ship fall to the ground, where the remainder detonated soundlessly. She heard Lucille tell her to punch the fuselage with her right arm. She did, and she felt the CASPer’s hand push through. The arm was locked in place. She was safe. Lucille told her all of this, but Tara wasn’t paying attention. Tears filled her eyes, and she sobbed from a combination of relief and adrenaline. She sobbed for the lives lost. She cried as she waited to hear whether more forces were on the way to wipe them out, but nothing came. The radios were silent, leaving Tara Mason alone in the cockpit of her CASPer, but for the first time, not alone in her fight.
They stood together.
We stood.
The thought brought a new rush of emotion. Pride, loss, and elation mixed with the salty tears running down her cheeks. Tara was still crying when Mako 13 touched down in the desert, and the crew silently waited for her to disengage from the fuselage for the trip back to Lovell City.
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Victoria System Gate
Victoria System LaGrange Point Five
One moment the gunnery frigate was on course, heading for the gate, and the next moment, it was gone. As it jumped into hyperspace, two additional enemy ships came about and pushed out of orbit. Sensors showed that they were using their power cores to charge hyperspace shunts. They were leaving, and there was nothing Victory Twelve or the gate master could do about it.
Xander bit his bottom lip and fought off a rolling wave of anger. These bastards had it all planned, didn’t they? Hit us hard and run.
<<I have noticed a modulation change in the transponders for both vessels.>>
Xander turned to the gate master. “What does that mean?”
“They’re likely changing their transponder code. It’s not uncommon for mercenary forces that fail a contract to do so.”
“A common practice is for the transponder to feed an emergency error at the instant of transmission,” Bukk said. He spoke while looking through the porthole at the ships turning for deep space. “When they transition, they dump the old transponder signal—sometimes the whole system—in hyperspace. They select a new code from their system, likely something falsely registered with the help of the Merchant Guild, and when they re-emerge, they’re broadcasting a new signal.”
“Isn’t that traceable?”
The gate master sighed. “No. The Merchant Guild doesn’t bother tracking them because they make a significant amount of credits through illegal sales and the guild’s silence.”
“We won’t find them again,” Xander stated. There was no question in his mind. A pursuit would be a wild goose chase.
“Maybe we will,” Bukk replied. A warning chime sounded from the gate’s control board. Xander saw two green, triangular icons appear at the emergence point.
The gate master trumpeted. “Autolock on transponders. Initiating communications procedures in twenty seconds.
“It takes that long to talk to them?” Xander asked.
“No,” the gate master replied. He took a deep breath, and his dark gray ears twitched. “It takes that long to translate, process, and return a signal.”
Xander turned back to the porthole. He couldn’t see the new arrivals in the void, but they were there somewhere. After a minute, he glanced back at the command screen to verify their position. They came into view a moment later silhouetted against the brown and green disk of Victoria Bravo. Nothing appeared to be happening.
“They should be replying, shouldn’t they?” he whispered to Bukk. “Why aren’t they responding?”
Bukk’s antennae bobbed in the Altar approximation of a shrug. “Maybe they are collecting intelligence on the situation. Trying to ascertain what they’ve jumped into before initiating whatever operations they intend to?”
“Or identifying firing solutions,” Xander said softly.
“That is a distinct possibility,” Bukk replied.
Xander nodded but said nothing. All they could do was wait.
* * *
Aboard the Dauntless Cloud
Above Victoria Bravo
Regaa fumed on the command bridge but said nothing. The entire attack was a stunning failure. Not only had the forces on the planet’s surface failed to fully eliminate the Victoria Forces, but both Cochkala ships failed to return to orbit. Her counterpart was unwilling to launch the remainder of the forces without establishing a supplemental attack position. She’d unsuccessfully argued that the landers were out of position. Equiri weren’t known for changing their minds, and Thraff was no exception. When the Humans defeated the first three landers, he barely registered any emotion. As the second phase of landings stalled and failed, he’d watched the sixth, and final, lander drift toward the city. She’d realized then that he hadn’t cared about landing and destroying things.
The attack’s intent was something different, and that was fine with Regaa. Her forces remained prepared for launch and attack until Thraff canceled general quarters aboard his ship and cycled the Noble Spear’s hyperspace shunts. His call had been simple.
“Noble Spear breaking contact. Prepare to jump for destination Bravo.”
Regaa’s crew remained at their posts as she ordered Vaahn to bring the ship around and prepare to jump. She looked at the Jivool. “Time to jump?”
“Twenty-eight seconds. There are some anomalies on the forward shunts, but they appear to be holding.”
“Anomalies?”
Vaahn waved his heavy paw dismissively. “Engineering assures the commander it was a power surge and nothing more. We had several during transit, if you’ll recall.”
Regaa clicked her jaw shut, but let her antennae vibrate in silent assent. The damned ship was underpowered, underarmed, and barely able to hold her 200 mercenaries and their weapons. Hyperspace travel was dangerous in a perfectly functional ship, but with an unreliable tub like the Dauntless Cloud?
One more transit. Just one more. Regaa believed her options were simple. Bravo was a code name for a little-known colony in the Torgero system known to the Humans as Stockdale. The colony had been a Human colony until the water soured and the agriculture station designed to hybridize fauna from Earth failed. The Selroth maintained a sizable colony there and were more than willing to hide transients for profit. From there, Regaa believed she could opt out of the current contract given the lack of leadership and the sizable losses at Victoria Bravo. If that meant forfeiting her credits, so be it. They could buy her silence. They would not hold her hostage to lead a force that had no intention of fighting.
“There are two ships emerging from behind Victoria Alpha, Commander,” Vaahn said. “Transponders are negative at this time.”
Regaa consulted the Tri-V screen. The second phase of the attack was to have been five ships arriving at thirty-minute intervals starting in five hours. Those vessels were not hers. She ground her lower jaw is disbelief.
No one else is coming. This is a damned trap.
Two weeks before, she’d read the entire attack plan and believed it would succeed far in advance of the final wave. Kr’et’Socae was set to sweep in and lay waste to anything remaining before taking the planet as their own. Thraff said it would be a grand statement, and Regaa and her forces had believed them. No one else was coming. They’d attacked a colony under the guise of stealing something from the Cartography Guild’s forward station and failed. That Thraff hadn’t sent a search party meant he and his boss were more than willing to let it go. This was an exercise. A deception.
Of what? Human competence? Or to see what their response would be in other areas?
Regaa thought about it for a moment and decided the former Enforcer’s reputation spoke volumes. He’d wanted to see the Human response. He’d wanted to test the allegiance of the Cartography Guild. As conflict spread throughout the galaxy, Kr’et’Socae schemed. There was something else he wanted. Victoria had been a test of his forces and the Human response.
It will be interesting to ask him when we arrive at Stockdale.
Bing!
The tone in her headset indicated a call on the private command channel. Thraff had been silent for several minutes, save for the jump order. Their contingency plans were clear. Radio silence was the order of the day, yet Thraff was blatantly disregarding the order. Failing to execute radio silence fully and failing to adhere to the plan were offenses that would have seen him removed had he been a MinSha. Plans were the foundation of all successful conquests. Creating plans and not following them was a very...Human thing, and she disapproved.
Regaa tapped her microphone. “Regaa.”
“Standby to jump. Thirty seconds.”
She took a careful breath. “The ships in the rear quarter? They are not reinforcements?”
“I do not know, nor do I care.” The Equiri’s laugh grated against her sanity. “Our mission here cannot be attained, and I will not risk capture or death.”
“We failed Kr’et’Socae,” Regaa remarked and closed her mouth before the rest of her statement escaped. We failed him, and he will surely execute us. Thraff was an Equiri, and she was not. If anyone were to bear the blame for this failure in Kr’et’Socae’s eyes, it would be her.
The Noble Spear disappeared, leaving her questions unanswered. She turned to Vaahn. “Time to jump?”
“Fifteen seconds,” the Jivool replied. “Power levels at ninety percent and holding. All decks report ready for transition.”
Regaa adjusted her body position to be ready for the ship’s transition. She glanced at her Tri-V display and watched a small window displaying jump data scroll wildly with coordinates and ship’s data in preparation for—
WHUMP!
WHUMP!
Alarms rang. The nose of the ship pitched wildly toward the surface of Victoria Bravo.
You bastard.
Regaa grasped the console as the fuselage rolled wildly. She looked at Vaahn. The Jivool’s face was calm. He sat with his heavy arms in his lap, a content smile curling his maw.
“Report!”
“There is nothing to say, Regaa. We failed, and we must cut our losses. That includes you.”
She clicked her jaw. “And you?”
He laughed. “My job is done, and I did not fail.”
She understood. He’d overseen the sabotage of their ship. The landers were heavy with MinSha forces. Her forces. They were never meant to reach the surface. The entire plan was a deception for what Kr’et’Socae really wanted. He’d picked a fight as a distraction.
Victoria Bravo filled the forward screens. The ship’s thrusters fired in bursts, setting a trajectory and speed that would cause them to burn up in the planet’s atmosphere. Her console was locked, and no weapons were within reach. She looked down and considered her options. Killing the Jivool would give her great satisfaction, but given the wildly rolling deck, her chance of getting to him was small.
The ship buffeted as it hit the upper reaches of the atmosphere. On the forward cameras, Regaa could see orange flickers of ionized plasma reaching over the bow.
She tapped her console and directed a communications array to call for assistance. There was likely no one to answer her call, but she had no other options. She selected the system distress frequency.
“This is Regaa of the Dauntless Cloud declaring an emergency and requesting assistance.”
There was no response. She tried again.
“This is Regaa of the Dauntless Cloud declaring an emergency and requesting assistance.”
“Dauntless Cloud this is Gate Control. Unable.”
Regaa gripped the console tighter as the ship buffeted wildly. Damage control warnings from the forward decks indicated the ship was seconds from catastrophic departure. A new laser communication dinged in her ear.
The voice was MinSha, and its tone was ominous. “Regaa, this is Lieutenant Colonel Tirr of the Taal Regency. You are charged with treason against the Galactic Union, convicted of this crime by your actions, and sentenced to death. There shall be no escape for you. You must pay for your crimes against humanity.”
“You do not have the right, Tirr!” She spat and clenched the console as the ship rolled violently to the left.
“You forfeited your rights by disobeying your hive,” Tirr replied. “Humans are not our enemy.”
“Fool! You will—”
Gravitational forces took over, and the ship rolled through the upper atmosphere, disintegrating as it did. In milliseconds, the Dauntless Cloud spread fiery debris across the Victoria sky.
* * *
Victoria Gate
Victoria System LaGrange Point 2
Bukk emitted a noise Xander had never heard from an Altar. He whipped around to look at the taller alien and saw his antennae bobbing rapidly in excitement.
“Who’s Tirr? Is this a good thing?”
“Yes, it is. Tirr is a friend of Peacemaker Jessica Francis,” Bukk replied. “We can stand down defensive weapons, gate master. The enemy ship is lost with all hands.”
“A tragic accident,” The gate master replied with a solemn, but strangely mocking, tone. Xander’s face registered his confusion.
“I’m sure you will record it this way, Honored Ella’Chi,” Bukk said. He glanced at Xander and flicked one antenna in the Altar approximation of a wink.
There was a joke involved, but Xander didn’t get it. His headset clicked.
<<The Dauntless Cloud departed controlled flight due to calculated thruster inputs following the destruction of the forward hyperspace shunts. Based on that evidence and the observed flight performance, the gate master knows the ship was sabotaged and scuttled, but he will record it as an accident to avoid further intrusion or scrutiny.>>
The speaker snapped on again. “Victoria Gate, this is Lieutenant Colonel Tirr of the MinSha in command of two support vessels for Victoria Forces. I cannot reach the provincial governor on the established frequencies. Can you put me in contact with him or a representative of Force Two Five, please?”
Bukk touched the transmit button. “Honored Tirr, this is Bukk, Executive Officer of Force Two Five. Do you read?”
“Bukk, well met. I show your position at the gate?”
“Affirmative. I have Victory Twelve on station and am preparing to depart for reconsolidation with the headquarters element.”
Xander blinked. Something sounded off. Bukk’s monotone speech didn’t fit. He said nothing but watched Bukk nod at the gate master for an unspoken permission. The gate master replied in kind, saying nothing.
“Tirr, you are cleared to approach and dock with the gate. We will meet you on arrival and depart for the surface.”
“Affirmative, Bukk. Please relay my compliments to the gate master and your crew. I will meet you shortly.”
Bukk rose to his full height and turned to the gate master. “Honored Ella’Chi. Thank you for your assistance. We will leave you to the administration of your gate.”
“The pleasure is mine, Honored Bukk of Force Two Five.” The Sumatozou bent forward at his chubby waist in an awkward bow. “The gate will remain open for business. We are expecting vessels from several guilds to enter the system for official negotiations within the next 72 hours.”
“As we were aware,” Bukk replied. “Would you be so kind as to alert me should anything out of the ordinary approach?”
“Most certainly. When you re-establish contact with Governor Watson, I trust you’ll do the same?”
Bulk bowed equally awkwardly. “Assuredly. Well met, gate master.”
“Well met, Honored Bukk.” The Sumatozou added something in his own language, something the translator did not communicate. Bukk touched his carapace with his left hand in salute, and they walked out of the gate control center without a word.
As they passed through the outer office, they still said nothing. The exited through the outer door to the main corridor and descended the central spiral staircase. Bukk lowered his head slightly. “Keep walking.”
From the central corridor, they turned into a docking ring and made their way toward Victory Twelve’s berth. A small food vendor stood to one side of the passageway, and while Xander didn’t recognize the food the Selroth was cooking, the smell was tantalizing enough to make his mouth water. He was distracted for a moment, and he almost yelped when Bukk took his arm and stepped into an open doorway.
“I know you have questions, Xander.” Bukk’s voice was low and firm. “There are many nuances to life out here. As a Human, especially one without a mercenary upbringing, most of them are lost on you. The best advice I can give you is to remain honest in your interactions. While the ruse you wanted to try might have worked, the honest approach worked better. That may seem odd to you, but the guilds usually require honesty in all matters. Deception is frowned upon and often seen through quickly. We have some time, and I want to make sure your questions are answered before we meet Tirr and embark upon whatever the next phase of this mission will be.”
Xander nodded. “Why did you salute him?”
Bukk’s antennae rippled in surprise. “You’re not curious about what the gate master will report? Or why Tirr’s arrival did not seem to surprise him?”
“I understand it’s in his best interest to report what happened as an accident. If it was sabotage, or something nefarious within the unit, it would show a weakness which could bring more unwanted attention from Peepo and the Mercenary Guild,” Xander replied. “The other ship’s commander knew that, and their escape was calculated. When it comes to the Peacemaker Guild, nothing surprises me. They want us to find Snowman, but they figured out someone was watching us long before we did. The attack at D’nart? We were the target. We show up here, and the enemy comes after us? Not coincidental.”
“And the Cochkala?” Bukk leaned down. “Why were they here?”
“Again, we were being watched. Someone believed we would come here because it is one of the last Human-centric planets that hasn’t been successfully attacked. It’s a festering sore for Peepo. So, she went after it. She, or one of her minions, planted a unit here to wait for us. Once we arrived, she alerted the cavalry and waited.”
Bukk nodded. “I believe you are only partially correct. Victoria is certainly, as you put it, a sore for the Mercenary Guild. However, the Cochkala were clearly here not simply as an advance party for the attack we repelled—they had another mission entirely. There was a timing factor—the arrival of the additional ships was timed to hit us and keep us occupied. But the Cochkala were used improperly.”
“They were a distraction.” Xander squinted.
“No. Regaa intended to drop additional infantry forces, and they did. I do not believe Regaa knew the full parameters of the Cochkala mission, or she would have used them differently,” Bukk replied. “They were after something else. Once we know what that was, the rest of the picture will come together.”
“And you don’t think we’re out of the woods, yet. So, to speak.”
“I am unfamiliar with that euphemism, but I believe it means we are not out of danger.”
“That’s it.” Xander smiled.
“I think we’re out of immediate danger, Xander. But I’m concerned greatly for the future,” Bukk said. “Someone knows a lot more about this situation than we do. And so does the Peacemaker Guild.”
“We need answers.” Xander nodded.
“Answers come to those who seek them, Xander. What we need is a vector and a clear flight path without followers. That may be what Tirr intends.”
“Which sounds like the first answer we need.”
“True,” Bukk replied.
“What did the gate master say to you?”
Bukk looked up and away for a moment. “It’s not easy to explain, Xander. The Altar have a…saying, that one should stay in their tunnel and not seek the light unless necessary. What the gate master said translates into Altar as Lightbringer. For an Altar, it means something difficult to explain. You would equate it to a messiah figure—leading their people in a different direction. An Altar male cannot lead the colony. But a Lightbringer shapes the colony and helps lead it. To be so called is a sign of incredible respect, and I am not certain I deserve such an accolade. At least not yet.”
“Why not?”
Bukk laughed. “My friend, I left Altar to repay the debt of a colony to Jessica. Her father brought me onto his crew, and I learned a great deal about life in the galaxy in a very short time. I learned enough to know we have to find him not because of what he has, but because of what he knows.”
Xander was about to answer when a flurry of chimes sounded over the gate’s loudspeakers. As they echoed down the passageways, he thought they sounded like a herald of trumpets. When the gate master spoke, he realized why.
“Priority arrivals in forty minutes at Executive Docking collar. Representatives of the Cartography, Information, and Merchant Guilds are arriving on the transport Mystic Dawn. Initiate readiness protocols at this time on all levels and spaces. We will welcome our guests accordingly. Dispatch the executive shuttle to the surface immediately and retrieve Governor Watson. The negotiation period has begun.”
“What’s that last part mean?” Xander asked.
Bukk made a sound like a Human snort. “It means Victoria Forces just stood down, for better or for worse.”
“You think there’s another attack coming?”
“Worse,” Bukk said. “Politicians.”
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Victoria Forces Headquarters
Victoria Bravo
Mako One Three touched down directly across from the gate into the Victoria Forces cantonment area. A squad of armed infantry rose up from behind makeshift barricades with their weapons trained on the rear deck as it opened. The young medic stepped out into the sun and waved to the infantry for assistance. The soldiers on the far side of the barrier made no move.
Tara watched Doc get into position at the head of Vannix’s stretcher. He jerked his head toward the wounded Peacemaker’s feet. “You mind helping?”
She stepped around to the foot of the stretcher and grabbed the handholds. Vannix lay completely still. Aside from the faintest movement of her chest, she appeared dead. Doc had administered a battlefield stasis serum, effectively placing her into a medical coma and slowing down her biological functions a staggering 80 percent. It was the closest thing to hibernation they had, and Tara was grateful they had it and that the kid they called Doc could calculate the correct dosage for a Veetanho while under fire.
“Ready?” Doc asked. “We’ll lift her on three. One, two, three.”
Tara lifted as directed, and they shuffled out of the rear door. They’d moved about a meter down the ramp when a voice yelled, “Halt!”
Doc looked over his left shoulder. “Oh for fuck’s sake, Smitty! It’s me!”
“Yeah, Sergeant,” Tara heard one of them say. “That’s Doc and the wounded Peacemaker.”
There was silence for about five seconds. Tara wondered which of them would fire out of fear or be the voice of reason. The same voice that questioned Sergeant Smith called out again, “Weapons down. Secure the Peacemaker.”
Smith lowered his rifle and tried to salvage his reputation. “Let’s go, people. Good call, Clark.”
Good call, my ass. Tara wanted to smile. They started walking again. As they neared the barricade, four soldiers took their places on the corners of the litter. Doc slung his medical bag around Vannix’s waist and started triaging her wounds as they moved. Tara slowed and stopped, watching them go. The kid had Vannix’s condition under control.
Sudden tears came to her eyes. As Tara wiped them away with the back of her left hand, she saw a familiar face watching her. She moved toward Governor Watson. The bald man’s face was haggard and slack, and she saw a sheen of perspiration on his forehead and fear in his eyes, but he stood his ground. Tara closed to within a meter of him, crossed her arms across her chest, and stared.
“Mind telling me what happened out there?”
“I thought we were being flanked. There was movement on my oblique, and I engaged what I thought was the target and wounded Peacemaker Vannix,” Watson said and wiped his face with his shaking hands. “I have never done anything like that before.”
Tara kept her face still. “You haven’t been on a practice range since the initial defense, is that right?”
“Yes,” Watson nodded. “My duties as governor have taken my time and my—”
“Don’t give me that shit.”
Watson snapped his mouth shut. He quickly regained his composure. “Combat skills are perishable. I haven’t practiced enough in recent weeks to expect—”
“You’ve been setting up a negotiation that warrants losing your security forces. It allows you to hang up your rifle and wear nice clothes without fear of going to war again because you’re afraid you won’t be able to handle another one. You panicked. Faced with what you thought was a flanking maneuver, you failed to verify your target and gain situational awareness. You shot a Peacemaker in the performance of her duties. Should she wish, Vannix has the authority and right to press charges against you, Watson.”
Watson’s mouth curled under at both corners. “I am sorry for what happened.”
“And I’m sorry you’ve been so busy trying to end your need for defense that you forgot how to do just that.” Tara fumed. “Rest assured, Governor, if I determine your accidental engagement of a Peacemaker was anything but, stepping into Galactic Union politics will be the second worst decision you’ve ever made.”
“You think I made a mistake in attempting to establish a commercial zone.”
“I do,” Tara said. “You think you can operate on the same level as these folks, Watson. You can’t. They’ve played you like a harp, and you know it. Losing your force, or trading them in for security forces, takes away the one advantage you had. I know the credits were good, but tactically, you’ve given them this world and all of its resources.”
“I’ve ensured this planet will have a rich future,” Watson sputtered. “I’ve worked my ass off for this chance at peace and prosperity!”
“If there’s a Human left on this planet in five years, I’ll be surprised,” Tara said. Seeing the reaction on the governor’s face, she added, “So will you.”
“I did what I thought was best.” Watson’s shoulders slumped forward.
“Yeah? For you or your pocketbook?” Tara felt her anger rising, and she wanted to let it wash over her. The little man needed to be taught a lesson, and part of her ached to do just that.
A loudspeaker above the guardhouse clicked on. “Governor Watson, Governor Watson. There is an urgent message for you on communications channel x-ray zero two. Please respond immediately.”
Watson looked at Tara for a moment, then tapped his slate. To her surprise, he left the channel open so she could hear. “This is Governor Brian Watson. To whom am I speaking?”
“Governor Watson, this is Senior Diplomat Advisor Heruul of the Merchant Guild. I bid you greetings and welcome you to negotiations for the Victoria Commercial Zone. Have you met all the clauses of the pre-negotiation document as requested?”
“We have, Senior Diplomat Advisor Heruul, with the exception of the status of the Victoria Forces. You are certainly aware of our current situation and recovery operations?”
“We have been made aware by the gate master,” Heruul replied. Tara thought his stilted diction was a put on—a show of diplomacy. There was little doubt in her mind he was a Buma. “We are authorized to give you an extension based upon your all-too-recent hostilities.”
“Thank you, Honored Heruul. The citizens of Victoria Bravo appreciate this leniency.”
“Very good, Governor Watson. We will need the complete standdown and disenrollment of all surviving Victoria Forces personnel, as well as the surrender of all equipment and materiel not claimed by standing agreement with another corporation. This must happen within the next thirty minutes.”
Tara blinked in surprise. Forty-eight hours would have been my guess. Damn.
Watson stared off into space. Words seemed to have failed him. He finally responded. “I understand, Heruul. I will contact you in thirty minutes or less.”
“I require less, Governor Watson,” the Buma replied and clicked off the channel.
Watson looked at her. Tara turned one side of her mouth under. “That was unexpected, I take it?”
“Yeah.” Watson looked around. “They wanted Victoria Forces stood down on arrival. I should have expected a minimal extension. They want Victoria to broaden their guilds, and they do not want me to have anything other than minimally-armed security forces. I have a few hundred troops remaining. Four hangars. Two dormitory compounds. A strongpoint and defense system in the west valley. A few CASPers and tanks. I’m supposed to find a way to disenroll all of it or negotiate the sale of it all with a third party in 30 minutes or less? If it can’t be done, this whole deal falls through. Everything I worked for...gone.”
Tara looked around, and the gravity of the situation dawned on her. If the guilds departed and left the deal, his planet would be unable to defend itself from attackers, be they mercenary or other. Victoria’s only chance was to secure the deals, but that seemed impossible. She hadn’t thought about the facilities and infrastructure behind the Victoria Forces. There was no way anyone could come in and buy them from Watson in the next 30 minutes. For a moment, Tara wondered if there was a representative on one of the ships who would call Watson in twenty minutes with a ridiculous offer and sweep away the military power of the colony and subvert the government in one fell swoop. Even money, she decided. None of the guilds were to be trusted, and she’d even keep the Peacemakers at arm’s length until they ponied up the intelligence they hadn’t shared with Force Two Five. She snorted as a thought flashed through her brain and directly to her lips.
“It’s too bad I don’t have the capital,” Tara said.
Watson looked at her for a moment. “You’re a bounty hunter on assignment to the Peacemaker Guild, right? Not a Peacemaker?”
She nodded. “Technically, a bounty hunter and a deputized agent, but not a Peacemaker. Right now, Force Two Five operates on private funds. We receive some benefits from the guild, like gate fees and the like, but all of our operating costs are our own.”
“But a bounty hunter could be the head of a corporation,” Watson said. “All that would be required is a legal document establishing a corporation appropriately flagged as Victorian. The materiel and facilities of the Victoria Forces could be signed over immediately.”
Tara shook her head. “What are you getting at? Establishing a corporation would work, Watson, but establishing it now, with a Victorian in command, would give your inbound diplomats a reason to call everything off. Having any Victorian lead this corporation would be a conflict of interest, and the Peacemakers would throw out the articles of incorporation if the other guilds pressed the issue. You’d still have to surrender your stuff to the guilds.”
“You’re not following me, Commander Mason.” Watson raised his eyebrows.
“I’m no expert, but I think I understand contract law of this magnitude and…” Tara paused as comprehension dawned. He wanted her to be the head of the corporation. “I’m a bounty hunter on assignment by the Peacemaker Guild.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t create your own corporation.” Watson smiled. “Or should I say your own mercenary corporation?”
Tara sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t have the capital for it. And I can’t be expected to maintain these facilities while I’m off on this mission.”
“You don’t have to. Take what you need on your mission. Leave a rear detachment here. Set it up as maintenance or logistical staging, whatever you want. Some forces will remain here, living and working the same way they did for Victoria, except they’re working for Force Two Five now. If they provide security and assist with logistics, which I would arrange payment for, the Merchant Guild would certainly provide overwatch.”
Tara laughed. It would work. “You’re a slick bastard, Watson.”
He smiled, but it faded quickly. “No, I thought I was slick. That almost cost the life of a Peacemaker and nearly meant the end of the Victoria Forces. All I’ve done is come up with a way to atone for one of those things and make the other a reality, in a different sort of way.”
“That doesn’t solve the capital problem. I cannot guarantee a return or an IOU on anything.” Tara sighed.
“Do you have a credit, Commander Mason?”
“What?”
“A credit? In your coveralls or your personal effects, do you have a credit?” Watson grinned.
Tara reached into her chest pocket. She’d carried a five-credit token there, in case of emergency, for years. The coin was heavy with a small red diamond in the middle. “I have 5. Can you make change?”
Watson theatrically tapped his pockets. “Actually, I think 5 credits will pay for my personal legal clerk on emergency dispensation and the materiel, facilities, equipment, and all things Victoria Forces to be transferred to the legal ownership of the Force Two Five Corporation effectively immediately. I might even be able to persuade the governor to offer a tax break for your company remaining a tenant of Victoria Bravo and our fine spaceport, Colonel Mason. Do we have a deal?”
* * *
Victoria Forces Medical Facility
Victoria Bravo
Rains realized he was dreaming as he woke with a start. He was lying on a soft, comfortable bed surrounded by warm sheets. The air smelled of antiseptic. He knew he was in a hospital. He kept his eyes closed and took a deep breath, searching for pain. He was nauseated, and he felt an odd tingling in his knuckles on both hands. His mouth was dry, and he licked his lips before opening his eyes and looking up at a featureless ceiling. The gentle whirring and beeping of nearby medical devices oddly reassured him. There was movement to his right, and Rains turned his head and saw Maarg’s elongated face and the pinched, rat-like features of Vannix staring at him.
He blinked once, then again, to ensure they were real and not some figment of his imagination. They were there. Vannix smiled at him, and Maarg reached out a large hand to pat his uninjured knee.
“You okay?” she asked.
Rains nodded. He wanted to speak, yet his mouth was too dry. Licking his lips again did not help. He looked away from Maarg and searched for a water container. On his left, a cup of water with a long, flexible straw rested on a table-like surface. He reached for it and stopped. His left hand trembled visibly.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He again reached for the water with his shaky hand and found the smooth, cool surface of the cup. Lifting it to his mouth wasn’t difficult, except for the bobbing straw that threatened to throw water in all directions. The water was cool and clear and good. As much as he wanted to gulp it down in powerful swallows, he realized sipping the water was better for his upset stomach. He took several small sips without protest from his insides.
Finishing, he set the cup back on the table and turned to Maarg and Vannix. He smiled, grateful to see them and thankful he wasn’t alone. Maarg was her usual self, except for the bandolier swung over one shoulder that held a long knife with an ominous curve. She studied him with a half-smile on her weird, triceratops-like face. Her eyes were clear and bright. There wasn’t a detail she would miss, and while she was technically a child, there was a peace and confidence in her eyes he’d seen before. Mrs. Green, way back in Mississippi, called folks with that look “old souls.” They knew and expected things unlike anyone else around them. They’d been around the block a time or two. She’d grinned at him before saying he had the same look.
Vannix, though, looked pale. For a white-furred Veetanho, looking pale was quite a feat. Her eyes were glassy. She was clearly drugged, but coherent. She looked at him with a combination of gratitude and amusement. Her tiny maw curled up on one side in a sardonic grin. “Hey partner,” she said softly, despite her pain.
“You good?”
She shook her head. “Took a point-blank burst from the Governor.”
“I heard.”
“Yeah,” she wheezed. “Tried to cut off the Cochkala from leaving the city and ran into his forces. He didn’t see me coming.”
Rains closed his eyes for a moment. Fratricide, the act of killing friendly forces, took more lives than combat operations it seemed. Watson and his security team had been trying to do the right thing, but they’d nearly killed his partner, a Peacemaker. That she was still alive was pure luck. “Prognosis?”
Vannix looked at Maarg who spoke for her. “Vannix took some damage to the chest cavity, but her vest took most of the impact. Nanite therapy will start tomorrow. The doctors expect that she’ll be ready to move in three weeks. That meets our timeline.” Maarg smiled at him. “She’s going to be fine. But we’re not sure about you, Jackson Rains.”
Rains blinked. “What happened to me?”
“How about you tell us?” Maarg leaned closer. “You went from hobbling around to climbing into a CASPer in about two minutes.”
“That kid. Doc. Gave me a nanite shot to the knee. I was able to move and fight one minute, then I didn’t feel so good.”
“What were your symptoms? Do you remember?” Maarg asked.
He looked at Vannix, who watched him with expectant eyes. Seeing her in pain curdled his stomach. “I started to cough. I felt pretty hot in the suit and turned up the cooling system to maximum. I felt like my heart was racing out of my chest for a bit, then I got dizzy and confused and collapsed. I don’t remember anything after that.”
“You had basic medical training at the Peacemaker Academy, right?” Maarg asked.
“Yeah,” Rains replied as he scrolled back through the training he’d received. “There are at least half a dozen explanations.”
“Like what?”
“Could have been anything from altitude sickness to dehydration. Could have been exposure to vapors inside the suit, which isn’t unheard of. There’s a chance it could have been an allergic reaction to something on Victoria Bravo. Influenza? Nanite sickness? Or even the common—”
Oh shit.
He took a long, deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Nanite sickness?”
“Bingo,” Maarg replied. “You had 2.5 times the normal concentration of therapeutic nanites when they brought you in. The ones Doc applied did exactly what they were supposed to do. Problem was they reacted adversely with something else you’ve been carrying in your blood. More nanites—ones that didn’t get expelled from your system like normal therapy doses. You developed a pretty serious blood infection. I’m betting you had no idea they were there, or that you hid them from everyone, including the Peacemaker Guild.”
Rains blinked. “What do you mean?”
“When did you get the other nanite shot?” Maarg replied. “Do you remember ever having one?”
Rains shook his head. “Not that I remember. I had a saline injection in the prison on Karma. They called it a tracking serum, but I know it’s not something done to Peacemakers.”
“It’s not. The nanites were older than that, so you have to go back earlier. We traced them to an Equiri manufacturer, Rains,” Maarg said. “What aren’t you telling us?”
Rains looked at Vannix, then back at Maarg. He closed his eyes and let the memory surface. There wasn’t much to it. He’d discovered the fugitive Enforcer Kr’et’Socae was close by while on his commissioning mission to Cetla. He’d been close enough to try and do something heroic and stupid, and he’d failed.
“My commissioning mission,” Rains said. “I had some type of shot on my commissioning mission, but it wasn’t medical. I went after Kr’et’Socae, the disgraced Peacemaker Enforcer. I’d been doing my diplomatic engagements and learned from a source he was nearby, attempting to influence things behind the scenes. A real target of opportunity. I tried to go after him.”
“This is all classified, Vannix.” Rains paused. How much can I tell?
Maarg made a “come on” gesture with her right hand. “We know about your contact with him. We’ve seen the official and the classified reports on Storm Watch. Vannix read me in. You’ve been out a few days, Jackson.”
The classified report from the Peacemaker Guild traveled innocuously through the GalNet as the Barracks Force Readiness Report. Used with a classified dihedral encryption sequence, the detailed report of all notable Peacemaker activities found its way to every Peacemaker barracks in the galaxy. Rains knew Selector Hak-Chet had filed an official report, but he’d never read the final version. Instead, he’d gone on leave and skipped his graduation from the Academy to go back to Earth and drink himself stupid. He would still be there if Vannix hadn’t hauled him back to the fight.
Rains glanced at her for a long moment. He smiled a little, and she returned it. “I was cocky. I tried to walk in on him and his associates. They laughed. One of them came at me. I drew my weapon and killed her. His girlfriend. Two of his friends rushed me, so I tried to take him down, but the bastard spun around and donkey kicked me in the chest. I flew through a plate glass window, into the street. They grabbed me, stabbed me in the thigh with a pneumo-needle, and I lost consciousness. When I woke up three days later, I found the injection site on my thigh. I didn’t report it. I probably should have, but I didn’t want to get into any more trouble. Hell, I thought they’d knocked me out so they could escape. So, I didn’t say anything incriminating. I’d left my mission and tried to apprehend one of the most wanted fugitives in the history of the Guild. In some ways, I thought I was a hero. When it was all swept under the rug, and they didn’t want to formally announce my commissioning, I went back to Earth prepared to quit.”
“And I brought you back,” Vannix whispered. “I’m glad I did.”
“I’m glad you did, too.”
“We traced the shot back to an Equiri named Thraff. Does his name sound familiar?” Maarg asked.
“One of Kr’et’Socae’s trusted aides,” Rains replied. “Something he’s used before?”
“A tracking device, yes. It’s a good one, too. Recognizable by small sensors deployed all over the galaxy by the Information Guild. They’ve been watching you ever since.”
“And now?”
“We think it all was scrubbed out of your blood, but we won’t know for a few days,” Maarg replied. “You and Vannix get to stay here a bit longer while we try to figure out the future of Force 25.”
Rains frowned. “Didn’t we win the field?”
“We won the battle,” Maarg replied. “The diplomats are here now. Three different guilds want to establish a commercial trade zone for Victoria and provide protection therein. There’s a diplomatic battle being waged for Victoria’s resources. Where things will stand when the talks end is anyone’s guess.”
Rains looked at Vannix for a moment and winked. “I think we’ll worry about healing a little, then see what’s waiting for us on the other side.”
Maarg chuckled. “If we got all the nanites out of your system, you won’t have to worry about Kr’et’Socae waiting on the other side.”
Rains smiled, but he didn’t feel happy. The Enforcer known for finding every target ever given to him had tracked Rains and Force 25 since their inception. “He was behind all this, wasn’t he?”
“Certainly seems that way,” Maarg replied. “He’s likely after our target, too. The Cochkala tried to capture a Cartography Guild classified server. He’s looking for something, and it’s pretty apparent our target is wanted by at least two guilds. I don’t think I have to draw a diagram for you to see how this is going to go.”
Rains didn’t answer. He knew Kr’et’Socae had a larger, more troubling goal in mind. What it was couldn’t be determined, yet. If the former Enforcer was really trying to find James Edward Francis, they were in for the race of their lives.
“I’m a liability to the mission,” Rains said. His body was heavy, and he was exhausted. He stared up at Maarg’s face. “You have to make sure Tara leaves me behind.”
He heard Vannix cough and turned toward her. They locked eyes, and she smiled wanly. “You don’t understand, Jackson. You’re part of this team, and we’re not leaving you here. In fact, you’re something even a practiced Enforcer can’t resist.”
“You’re making me the bait.”
Maarg grinned a savagely. “Exactly. We’re going to put you in two places at the same time and see what happens. Either way, Kr’et’Socae is in for a surprise.”
* * * * *
Chapter Thirty
Headquarters, Force 25 Corporation
Victoria Bravo Spaceport
The first of the shuttles from Tirr’s armada landed forty-eight hours after the Guild Representatives arrived and initiated negotiations to protect and secure Victoria Bravo. All inbound ships without diplomatic clearance were held in orbit while the initial negotiations took place. The guilds wanted a foothold in this part of space, but there were also resources on Victoria Bravo that rivaled those of other Earth-like planets in the galaxy. With General Peepo trying to subvert and dominate the Human race for whatever purpose the Mercenary Guild had in mind, planets Humans could operate on without specialized equipment were prime real estate. Tara had discussed the phenomenon with Bukk, who’d brought up something she hadn’t considered. Maybe the other guilds were readying for the eventual Human victory?
Tara wasn’t certain and, anyway, it was the least of her worries. For exactly two days, she’d been the President of the Force Two Five Corporation. One moment she’d had a balance of 5,000 credits in the virtual banks of Karma and Earth, the next she’d acquired more than five million credits worth of equipment, facilities, and materiel for the corporation. With the official standdown of the Victoria Forces, there were two hundred and fifty more personnel seeking jobs. Jobs were few and far between, even with the immediate arrival of the guilds, but there was one company looking. Hers.
Thankfully, Xander Alison had some experience running a company, and while it wasn’t a mercenary company, it was a business that required people, places, and things. Xander knew how to hire and organize people, and he’d taken to the task like a duck to water. Bukk supervised the clean-up of combat operations and the reconciliation of equipment and materiel for the new corporation. Years of moving egg clutches, storing and managing food supplies, and planning expansions of living quarters and the defense of the colony made the Altar an extremely effective part of the nascent operation. With Xander filling the role of Chief Financial Officer and Bukk serving as the Chief Operations Officer and second in command, both the unit and the corporation took form quickly.
With the two Peacemakers in the infirmary for at least three weeks, they weren’t going anywhere soon. They had time to figure out who would remain at Victoria Bravo as part of the contracted security force and who would continue the search for Snowman. How she would continue the mission, however, was unanswered by Lieutenant Colonel Tirr. He’d insisted on speaking face to face, and she’d had to wait while the guilds did their diplomatic dog and pony shows before getting down to business.
Tara watched as the lead shuttle’s cargo doors opened and a lone MinSha male wearing the traditional light blue chiton of the royal security forces walked down the ramp toward her. Tara noticed his height and breadth were significantly less than those of his counterparts. That he’d ascended to the rank of lieutenant colonel and was held in high regard by the Peacemaker Guild and the MinSha royal family spoke to his ability. Tara waved, and the MinSha returned it.
She started walking toward Tirr. Incredibly, the MinSha was one of Jessica Francis’ best friends. How should she approach him? Being the newest and most unqualified leader of a corporation made the anxiety in her stomach worse. As they walked toward each other, Tara’s mind wavered between not wanting to create an interspecies incident and wanting to make a good first impression but having no clue how to do so.
Tirr solved the problem by walking up to her and embracing her. “Tara Mason. Well met.”
To her credit, Tara didn’t freeze. She returned the embrace lightly, marveling at the feeling of the MinSha’s smooth, resilient carapace. He smelled of wet soil and petrichor. “Well met, Lieutenant Colonel Tirr.”
“Just Tirr, please. Any friend of Jessica’s is a friend of mine.”
Tara smiled as they each let go and stepped back. “I feel the same.”
The MinSha tilted his head and tapped the shiny, new silver eagles she wore on her right shoulder with his foreclaw. “Congratulations, Colonel Mason.”
Tara flushed. “This whole arrangement is still a little weird. But, we’ll make it work, I suppose.”
“Very well,” the MinSha’s antennae waggled in amusement. “Then we can get down to work. Please, would you walk with me?”
They walked toward the Victoria Forces main hangar complex, Tara falling in on Tirr’s left out of respect and habit. As she did, his words echoed in her mind.
“We?” Tara blinked. “You said we can get down to work. Are you staying?”
“No, Tara,” Tier replied. “Am I to understand you’ve started a new corporation?”
She sighed. “I needed forces. What else was I supposed to do?”
Tirr waved his foreclaws and laughed. For the first time, Tara realized he was speaking English without a translator. “Please do not mistake my question for sarcasm, I am unfamiliar with that particular nuance of your language. I simply meant you have taken this mission in a way unexpected by myself and the Peacemaker Guild. I believe Jessica would be proud.”
“Thank you.” Tara blushed. The compliment gave her a sense of pride she’d never felt before. “This was almost a great loss.”
“Your kind calls this a Pyrrhic victory. A victory at great cost,” Tirr said. “From what I have gathered, this was not a typical combat operation. There are aspects of their attack that make no sense and are troublesome.”
Tara nodded. “The Cochkala missiles and their skiffs were deadly.”
“And their tactics were duplicitous. They waged a war with unknown superior weapons and could have taken the field, but they delayed to perpetrate a heist of the Cartography Guild forward office.” Tirr shook his head, letting his antennae bob from side to side. “I am uncertain what the intent was.”
Tara squinted. “We believe they wanted a classified server.”
“Why didn’t they simply transmit the data?” Tirr asked.
Tara felt her mouth drop open. “You’re saying the whole thing was a ruse?”
“Potentially,” Tirr replied. “We’ll get to the bottom of it over the next few days. You have some time until your Peacemakers are able to launch and transition to hyperspace. Once you jump away and begin your search in earnest, I will determine what happened to the best of my abilities.”
“Which, I hear, are the best in the business.”
“I am not one to brag, but yes.” Tirr laughed. His face became serious. Tara saw her reflection in his compound eyes. “You cannot put off your mission, Tara.”
“I’m not, Tirr. I have to have the infrastructure here to make it work.” Tara looked around at the soldiers, her employees, moving materiel and clearing the detritus of war from the spaceport. “We have a lot of work to do.”
“Work that doesn’t take all of your force to complete,” Tirr said. “I am reminded of one of your Human generals, an incredible sonuvabitch, to turn a phrase, who said he would take a good plan executed today versus a perfect plan executed in the future.”
Tara sighed and smiled. “Patton. George S. Patton.”
“Was he correct?”
Tara wanted to argue. She wanted to say her infrastructure and business operations on Victoria were more important than the mission to find Snowman, but she knew at her core that Tirr was right. The mission was all that mattered. A business might earn her enough credits for retirement, but her first priority had to be the mission for which she’d been deputized.
I have to find Snowman.
“You’re right, Tirr.” She wiped something from her right eye. “I have to entrust the infrastructure to someone else and do what I’ve been tasked to do.”
Tirr nodded, and his antenna bobbed forward with respect. “You are a credible commander, Tara Mason. You do yourself and your unit proud.”
She met his eyes. “What about these people? These facilities and all this equipment? How do I decide what I can take?”
“The first step, usually, is understanding what options you have for travel. I brought along two ships that are yours if you want them, compliments of Queen Taal, provided I can take Victory Twelve. There is a need for duplicity in order for us to find Jessica’s father, protect the Peacemaker Guild, and eliminate Kr’et’Socae.”
Tara nodded. The ominous figure in the shadows, the disgraced Enforcer, occupied a worrisome place in her thoughts. “Maarg let me know the plan, and I am in agreement. Jessica would be fine with your taking Victory Twelve and Lucille.”
Tirr’s antennae waggled. “You have Lucille aboard your CASPer and Victory Twelve?”
“Yes. She’s the same copy but operating in two different places.”
“I see. We must change that. Download her solely to your vehicles and interfaces. Victory Twelve must be clear for what I have in mind.”
Tara squinted at him. “And what is that?”
“I’m sorry, Tara. That’s need-to-know and protected by Guild Master Rsach. I can assure you Jessica is aware of the mission and will be reunited with her ship soon.” Tirr nodded theatrically. “You and your forces will have more than enough room aboard your new accommodations.”
Tara nodded. “What do what owe Queen Taal for this, Tirr?”
“You don’t, Tara. This is a gift so you can accomplish your mission and help Jessica unite the galaxy against threats from the outside.”
“There are threats from the outside?” Tara asked, genuinely surprised. “I thought the enemies were all around us.”
“Only if you cannot see the forest for the trees,” Tirr replied. “As for your forces, how you handle them is simple. Talk to them. Be the one in charge. They are waiting for you.”
Tirr stopped abruptly and waved a hand toward a group of personnel sitting in a loose circle. Familiar and new faces engaged in the classic soldierly games of telling stories and laughing during a down moment. Seeing them, the young dark-haired CASPer pilot Tara knew as Mata stood and snapped to attention.
Mata took a visibly deep breath and yelled, “Group! Attention!”
Almost as one, the group stood, faced Tara and Tirr, and snapped to attention. Tara flushed with pride at seeing them. She nodded to Lieutenant Whirr, the MinSha infantry commander, who returned the nod with a tap of one foreclaw to her carapace. She saw the dropship pilot, Carter, the CASPer commander, Vuong, and two of his lieutenants she did not recognize. The young mechanic, Morris, recently promoted to second lieutenant, stood with his remaining team members, including a tall brunette named Signes who looked younger than her seventeen years. The veterans of Victoria Forces stood intermixed with several aliens and Humans she’d never met before. In the center, propped up on a stretcher, his head in bandages, lay Colonel Ibson with a smile on his face. That he’d been pulled alive from the rubble of the command center surprised everyone, except him. She hoped to talk him into joining the company when he recovered.
Looks like you pushed my timetable, Colonel. Tara smiled at him. Hope you’ll take the job—I need an operations officer who has their shit together to stay here and keep things running.
In the center of the group stood an Oogar. The three-meter-tall purple bear stood with its massive arms at its sides, and she could see the tips of its claws nearly touching its knees. To the bear’s right was a short, pudgy Human with dark hair and a wicked grin on his face. On the other side of the Oogar was a Pushtal. The muscular tiger analog nodded approvingly at her. Maarg stood with them. The TriRusk, previously believed to be lost, were now returned to the Galactic Union. The secret was out, for better or worse.
Bukk moved out from behind the imposing shadow of the Oogar and tapped his carapace. “Colonel Mason. Your officers are gathered.”
Tara grunted through a smile. “You’re a motley crew if there ever was one.”
A few of them chuckled. Maarg smiled at her. “Permission to be at ease, ma’am? Humans might like standing still, but some of us would rather move freely.”
The group laughed, Tara included. She waved a hand. “At ease, at ease. I’m not one for ceremony. I like to move freely, too.”
There was an appreciative sigh in the collected group. She paused and looked at them. Expectant faces and respectful smiles stared back at her. She saw potential. What they saw mattered just as much.
“You’ve met Bukk, the company’s Chief Operating Officer. Many of you have met Mister Alison, our Chief Financial Officer. The three of us are happy to have you on board. Knowing Bukk as well as I do, I assume he’s told you our mission. I would tell you something like this hasn’t been done before, but that would be a lie. There’s no secret about what will make us succeed. I will give you everything I have as a leader. I expect you to do the same for me. I will tell you where you stand at all times, and I expect you to keep me from living in a vacuum. I expect you to work together without regard to the characteristics that make us different. I expect you to focus on the thing that makes us all the same. You are part of a unit now—our unit. And our unit has a unique mission, an even more unique story of inception, and two Peacemakers along for the ride. Once Peacemakers Rains and Vannix are medically cleared, I’ll be leading most of you on a search for a man many of you know by reputation alone. James Edward Francis, known as Snowman, is the President and Chief Executive of Intergalactic Haulers. He is the father of Jessica Francis, Earth’s first Peacemaker. We have to find him before the Mercenary Guild does, specifically, a name many of you will recognize: Kr’et’Socae.”
There was a murmur in the group. The Oogar rumbled. “The disgraced Enforcer Kr’et’Socae, Commander? The murderer of Drecht-Four?”
Tara nodded. “That’s the one. But he is not the only threat. We lack full intelligence on the situation, but that cannot stop our search. Those of you remaining here will spearhead that effort while securing this planet from further attack. Our citizens have seen enough war. Those of you on the maneuvering end of this operation will put your lives on the line every day. The Mercenary Guild has decided to make Humans their enemy. Our target is a Human, which makes him one of the most wanted citizens in the galaxy. But, and I want to stress this, we are not bounty hunters. We are a combat operational force deputized by the Peacemaker Guild and employed by the Government of Victoria to accomplish our mission for the betterment of the Union. We are more than a mercenary force, and we will act accordingly. Credits will not be our sole motivator. For there to truly be peace in the galaxy, the Peacemakers need us, and we will support them.”
The portly Human raised his right hand, and Tara nodded at him. “Harmon Gray, ma’am, Commander of Gray’s Goblins. Well, at least what’s left of the Goblins. I have a question.”
The man drawled like Jessica tended to do when she was tired. His accent was from somewhere north of Georgia, but she couldn’t quite place it. Most Southerners sounded the same to Tara’s Plains ears. The man’s name was familiar, though. She’d had an offer of employment from his father twenty years before.
How the galaxy turns.
“Shoot,” she replied.
“Who’s us?” Gray asked, looking at the collected group.
Tara looked at Bukk, Maarg, and the rest of them with a widening smile. Her eyes fell on Ibson who sat up a little straighter.
“Welcome to Force Two Five,” Ibson said. The group let out a roar that echoed off the hangar walls and filled Tara’s heart with joy.
* * *
Temporary Headquarters of the Peacemaker Guild
Location CLASSIFIED
“So, by the time I read this, Force Two Five will have left on their search?” Rsach squinted over the top edge of his slate at Selector Hak-Chet. The older Sidar stood with his hands clasped across his bulbous abdomen. The look on his face was troubled. “And Peacemaker Rains is certain Kr’et’Socae was at Araf?”
“That is the case, Guild Master,” Hak-Chet replied. “It was one thing to have a fugitive boogeyman who stayed out of the limelight and away from directly threatening the guild. It’s another to have someone seemingly playing multiple avenues toward revenge.”
Rsach nodded. “If it were simply revenge, I believe he would have already jumped here and attempted to murder us all for what we did to him.”
“You said an example had to be made.”
“I was wrong,” Rsach said. “We didn’t need to rule the Enforcers with an iron fist. Hr’ent showed us that in his final actions. He served with honor, and we treated him with honor. We threw his protégé to the wolves and punished him severely. We were fools to think he would not seek revenge.”
Hak-Chet nodded. “And what do we do, Guild Master?”
Rsach looked up. “Cut the passive act, Hak-Chet. I need my old friend who threw strange ideas of Human Peacemakers and Pushtal Enforcers at me to push my boundaries rather than someone wringing their hands and acting as if they’ve pissed me off and are waiting for me to order their execution. You have answers. At the very least you have suggestions, and I would hear them.”
Hak-Chet smiled and spread his hands. “Kr’et’Socae is not the only player. The Dream World Consortium also seeks revenge, and they’ve chosen to go after something that doesn’t matter to them but matters, on a personal level, to one of our own. While we must act in the interests of the guild over an individual, we cannot allow a personal attack on our own. I believe the Enforcers must be activated for combat operations at once.”
Rsach’s furry eyebrows rose and a ripple went down his contorting body. “I have been waiting for someone to make that request. You know my position on this.”
“I do,” Hak-Chet replied. “And I am well aware that you will disagree with me for the next ten minutes before eventually agreeing with my arguments. The situation merits an appropriate response.”
“Who? Who did you send, old friend?”
“Let’s just say I’ve sent an associate of our prey and I have a recommendation for someone Kr’et’Socae will never expect,” Hak-Chet replied. “The game is afoot, so to speak, Guild Master. If we can spring the trap, our greatest weakness will be removed just as the drums of war sound.”
“If he acts for the highest bidder, he will be easy to follow. Stopping him may be something else entirely,” Rsach said. “Only Hr’ent was strong enough to physically put Kr’et’Socae in his place.”
“Perhaps.” Hak-Chet smiled. “But there are two actions I need you to approve to make this happen.”
“Those being what?” Rsach leaned forward, genuinely surprised.
“First, I would ask you to be prepared to recall Lieutenant Francis the moment we have a positive lead on her father’s whereabouts. There will be no stopping her if he is in danger.”
“Agreed. Your second request?”
“Allow an old friend to do something audacious.” Hak-Chet smiled. “When the time comes, there is a matter several decades old that bears addressing.”
Rsach sighed. “I assume you know what you’re doing, old friend.”
Hak-Chet laughed. “I do. I remind you that Lieutenant Colonel Tirr and I know what we are doing. As do Captains Kurrang and Dreel on their mission. I’m reasonably sure we won’t have to wait long for results. If Kr’et’Socae really has monitored Jackson Rains’ movement for the last eight months, he has enough data to figure out that our guild has initiated contingency procedures. From there, he’ll simply do the math.”
“He won’t find Snowman first?”
“That endeavor, for him, would purely be about credits. He has a funding source now, and that will make him seriously consider a more dangerous course of action. He’ll search for Snowman, and he stands a good chance of finding him. But that…” Hak-Chet laughed. “Sorry, Guild Master. I channeled Peacemaker Francis for a moment and about called Kr’et’Socae a fucker.”
“Heh.” Rsach laughed. “That fucker would do what, Selector?”
The smile on Hak-Chet’s elongated face faded quickly. He locked eyes with his friend and softly said, “He’ll come for you. I respectfully suggest we make ready for him.”
* * * * *
Epilogue
Taal’s Fury
Hyperspace—92.56 hour remaining
Destination: Snowmass
For a TriRusk, Maarg took to the freefall of microgravity with great ease. Moving her mass gracefully through the passages and accessways of the MinSha flagship gave her endless pleasure. Compared to the tight quarters of Victory Twelve, her only other experience in hyperspace flight, Taal’s Fury was a vast open space. Yet, in her hurry, she managed to resist the impulse to launch herself up through the bridge access tube with the spinning pirouette she’d learned from Vannix two days before. As the little Veetanho Peacemaker confided, there was no rule against having fun when no one was looking.
“How close are you?” Vannix’s voice chirped in Maarg’s earpiece. Despite the ship’s vast communications network, the core team maintained a separate interpersonal connection.
“Almost there. The whole intel team is present?”
“Affirmative, except for Jackson. He’s off-shift and resting. I’ll brief him later.” Vannix replied. “Where did you say you found this file?”
“In the Haulers archive. As near as I can tell it’s a voice transcription of an encounter Snowman had on Snowmass fifty-five years ago,” Maarg replied as she passed the halfway point to the bridge. “Once the initial encryption broke, it was the first thing I found.”
“We needed a little good luck,” Vannix replied. “Have you listened to it?”
“No. I think the team needs to hear it together. It might give us a clue for what we’re facing when we get there.”
Maarg slowed her approach to the bridge access portal by touching the walls and exposed handholds of the tube. At the entrance, with her velocity nulled almost to zero, Maarg ducked inside the main bridge and met the eyes of Force 25’s dedicated intelligence team. With the bridge crew excused for the moment, only Peacemaker Vannix, the Oogar Quintaa, the MinSha Lieutenant Whirr and Tara Mason remained.
The human with the long blonde hair smiled. “You found something, Maarg?”
“In the Intergalactic Haulers’ archive, Tara. An audio transcription file from a mission on Snowmass fifty-five years ago.”
“Anything else about it? I mean, before we listen?”
Maarg shook her wide head. “No. The file is marked Stars Brightly Shining and that’s all. The rest of the standard Haulers’ mission nomenclature is missing on this file save for the location stamp—Snowmass.”
Tara squinted at her. “What else? You sound concerned.”
“I found about a terabyte of encrypted data like this file. It will take a significant amount of time and effort to decrypt it all.” Maarg took a deep breath. “That being said, we got lucky, Tara. We’re headed to Snowmass from the target list Vannix and I developed, and the first file we get decrypted is tied to it. I can’t help but wonder what else we’re missing in the archives.”
Tara nodded. “Lucky or not, it’s a break. Maybe the first real break we’ve had when it comes to finding Snowman. Lucille? Play Maarg’s file on the bridge speakers, please?”
<<Acknowledged, Tara. Transcription commencing.>>
* * *
Intergalactic Haulers Archive
Entry 004—Marked Stars Brightly Shining
Fifty-five years ago
Position Unknown
Snowmass
24 December
The reassuring crackle of a fire warmed Katya Orlova’s sleep. She felt the warmth against her skin and relished it. But was she dreaming? Katya imagined the warmth surrounding her like a blanket, except for a cold, wet mass against her face.
Cold.
Wet.
Katya’s mind swam up, piecing together the missing time before she opened her eyes and found herself lying in a blanket of fresh powdery snow. The fire popped and crackled nearby. She craned her neck and raised half her face from the snow. A bolt of pain tore through her neck and shoulder. Tears squirted from her eyes. Katya strained and saw the wreckage of the Mercury-class dropship, the one they’d nicknamed Rudolph because of its flashing red fuselage lights, burning. Fire licked at what had been their delivery vehicle and crawled slowly up the heavy trunk of an alien tree with big, heavy boughs of wide needles. Snowmelt cascaded across the ground as the fire’s heat melted both snow and permafrost underneath. Under what her mind said was a mutant alien fir tree, melting snow plopped down in frigid bursts and splats. Katya pushed with her arms and struggled upward into a sitting position. Brushing the snow off her face with one hand, she blankly stared at the wreckage for more than a minute before the memory fully came back to her.
Ten meters from the dropship. I must have been thrown out in the crash. Thank God we had the cargo doors open to see the snow. She snorted. Canudas and Blake had never seen snow on Earth, and with a blizzard raging on Snowmass, Captain Ericksson had agreed to open the bay doors on the descent to give the crew an opportunity to sightsee before they got to work. Canudas’s face had looked angelic as she watched the swirling snowflakes. The chance to do anything besides ingress to a forward operating base and help evacuate casualties, and recover remains, was something the Doctors For the Void organization rarely enjoyed.
Guess the cease fire was a lie.
A missile came up through the snow in the direction of what they’d identified as a Veetanho mercenary company supporting a group of squatters determined to hold a water source and keep New Perth from receiving water without a significant fee. Extortion wasn’t a crime in the Union, and while the citizens of New Perth had tried in vain to solve the issues amicably, they’d finally relented and brought in a mercenary company of their own to fight the Veetanho. The trouble was that the human citizens wanted to fight more than their Zuul mercenaries did. The Zuul seemed intent on waiting out the weather on Snowmass. The trouble was that the colony had been built below the planet’s Antarctic Circle, and it sat in the midst of a 45-day blackout. The nearby yellow star wouldn’t be seen for another two weeks. The darkness, the cold, and the reportedly lackluster performance of the Zuul gave the advantage to the Veetanho. The little rat bastards didn’t understand a neutral medical team trying to help.
They shot us down.
Katya closed her eyes and felt her stomach lurch as images from the moment of impact and the departure from controlled flight flashed through her mind.
Bozhe moi! We crashed!
In her headset, she remembered hearing Captain Ericksson’s deep voice screaming, “Altitude! Altitude!” The alien fir trees came up from the snow, stabbing at the dropship’s fuselage, and that had been it. A second later they tumbled through the trees and her memory went black.
“Damn,” Katya said to the wind.
The next rational thought was to check her body. Nursing brought good habits. She constantly checked others without their knowledge and she quickly put her experience to work on herself.
Legs are okay. My back and neck hurt. Left hand aches. Possibly a sprain. Maybe something broken. My head is killing me, but there’s no blood there. Cuts and scrapes in other places. My suit took the worst of it.
She looked up at the fire and decided that the cold was too incipient, and her garment was not meant for exposure. Katya prepared to push herself up to a standing position and watched the fire beaconing like a warm siren. The light was good enough to see about twenty meters in every direction, and there wasn’t another soul in right.
Did anyone else survive?
Katya stood slowly and tried to gain her balance while realizing just how mind-numbingly cold it was. She shuffled painfully toward the dropship. Orange light reflected off the snow and bathed the surrounding forest in an eerie light.
Off to her left, there was a shape in the snow that she’d thought was debris at first, but it was a human body. Laying face up in the snow, Doctor Christian Blake’s eyes were open. He did not blink, and his pupils were distant and fixed. Katya frowned. The pediatrician was dead. She bent down and closed his eyes. Before pulling her hand away she touched his cheek lightly.
You were a good man.
Katya wobbled back to a standing position. Walking hurt, as every fallen branch and root hidden by the 20 centimeters of snow snagged her feet and jerked her aching body. She moved closer to the wreckage and faced the shattered cockpit. Captain Ericksson was clearly dead. His bloodied torso hung headless against the safety harness. The copilot, Lieutenant Portino, was also dead. A large tree branch appeared to have impaled her on the descent. Her face was a grotesque mask of death. Katya turned away and heard moaning from the far side of the wreckage.
Katya limped around the cockpit section and found Adela Canudas sitting upright in the snow, curled around Doctor Thomas O’Brien’s head. The doctor’s neck seemed oddly bent. Katya made her way through the snow. “Adela?”
The petite nurse from Barcelona looked up, her eyes wide in shock. “Madre de Dios! Katya! You survived!”
Katya fell to her knees in the snow beside her friend and touched the woman’s shoulder. Adela flinched in pain. “Are you okay?”
“I think…” Adela took deep breath and winced again. “I think my left scapula is broken.”
“Does anything else hurt?”
“I’m-I’m…” She shook her head and blinked a few times. “Left shoulder. Left hip. Think I took the brunt of the impact there. Everything hurts.”
“Your head?”
Adela smiled wanly. “Hard as ever.”
Katya sighed and smile. She needed Adela to be her calm, cool self, and she seemed to be coming around. “What’s wrong with Dr. O’Brien?”
Adela held up a blood-slicked hand. “Nasty gash on the head. I’ve got a dressing on it, as good as I can, but he’s still bleeding. Pulse is weak and resps are 22-23. His neck is broken at the very least.”
Katya noted Adela’s descriptions were clearly in line with a pediatric nurse thinking clearly. That was good. They needed to be sharp. They were down on an unknown planet that, while Earthlike, could harbor any number of natural predators, as well as the warring mercenary companies who might or might not ask questions before shooting. Katya ground her jaw. Every mercenary she’d ever known had done more damage than good. Unless they did something fast, O’Brien wouldn’t make it.
“Okay,” Katya said more to herself than Adela. “We need to get him roused if we can.”
“I’m okay,” O’Brien said. He grunted, winced, and opened his eyes. He blinked up at Adela and then at Katya. “What happened?”
“The Veetanho shot us down. We’re the only survivors.” Katya said. “You have a significant head injury.”
O’Brien nodded. “I can’t feel it. That means I’m heading into shock.”
Katya stood and scrambled toward the wreckage. She found a package of their medical supplies and dragged it toward O’Brien. Placing his feet on the package took a moment, but she got it done. She looked at him. “How’s that?”
“How’s what? You need to elevate my feet. I’m getting cold, too.” O’Brien grunted.
Katya looked at Adela. A volume of unspoken data passed between them. “I’ll get your legs up, Tom. Just relax. I’ll take care of it.”
Adela looked down and stroked his cheek. “Relax. We’ll get you covered up.”
Katya looked back at the wreckage. Were there blankets in the first aid kits? Would there be a survival blanket? Something? She turned back and looked at O’Brien. His face was pale and his breathing grew ragged. Adela was crying, and Katya understood immediately. They were medical professionals surrounding by a host of medical gear and there was nothing they could do. O’Brien lay dying from a massive head wound and a likely cervical fracture.
“Tom? We have your legs up and a blanket on. Just relax. Help is on the way.”
O’Brien coughed. “I know that line, Katya. All the old holomovies have it. Something to keep the victim calm.”
A tear burst out of her left eye and raced down her cheek. “You’re going to be fine, Tom.”
“They say that one, too.” He smiled and looked past her. A weak smile flickered across his face. O’Brien licked his lips and whispered, “There’s something about…”
O’Brien’s face twitched into a wider smile and slackened. His chest did not move again. She looked at Adela. The young nurse’s tears looked frozen on her face in the light. In her teary eyes were fear and uncertainty. She thought they were going to die.
Not if I can help it.
Katya jerked her chin, wincing as she did and mentally cursed herself for forgetting her injured neck. “I’m gonna try to get to the survival gear.” She tromped into the snow back toward the shattered cockpit. After a few minutes work, she’d found and removed the main survival kit behind the pilot’s seat. Both radios in the dropship were useless hulks torn from their mounts in the crash. Katya paused before trying to check the command pilot’s survival vest.
Don’t look. Just get the damned radio.
Got it.
She continued to dig in the vest for a moment longer and retrieved the Ericksson’s .45 caliber pistol. From the cockpit, she made her way into the smoldering main cabin. Katya removed the MX-5 rifle that had been strapped to the bulkhead and several magazines of ammunition. The door-gunner’s MX-60R machine gun had been torn away in the crash, along with the door-gunner and the loadmaster. Katya hadn’t seen their bodies and there wasn’t going to be time for a definitive search.
That’s the last time we send a mission without clear rules of engagement established by a Peacemaker, Katya thought. Diplomatic cargo or not. She made her way back to Adela. “Got most of the gear. The radios are useless and this one isn’t going to transmit through this crap. And there isn’t a working flare to save our lives.”
“That would let the Veetanho know where we are,” Adela shuddered. “Was there an emergency beacon working in the cockpit? A crash response indicator?”
“I’ll check it. But we’re going to have to find shelter. The weather is supposed to do nothing but get worse.”
Adela shivered at the fire near the wreckage. The snowmelt from the overhead limbs was putting it out quickly. “We can’t stay here?”
“We’re going to have to move. Just to keep warm.”
“What about CSAR?” Adela asked. “We can’t just leave ‘em a note!”
“They’ll figure it out,” Katya said as she brushed snow off her coveralls. “At least we brought the cold weather gear. Let’s split the gear and weapons.”
She gave the pistol to Adela. With one good arm, she couldn’t handle the rifle. They rigged a backpack out of the survival gear and filled it with the rations and survival water she’d found. There wasn’t enough for more than a few days. The priority was food. They could always melt snow for water. The makeshift pack weighed no more than ten pounds and she slung it gingerly over Adela’s good shoulder.
Katya picked up the heavy rifle and the survival radio. She checked the compass on her wrist slate. The village of New Perth had been due south of their flightpath when the attack came. She had the basic sector map, too, but the weather appeared to be affecting her ability to definitively locate their position. They each had a nice, easy load to manage and could move quickly and, if her instincts were right, they could make it to good, warm shelter in a couple of hours at most. Katya studied Adela’s face in the dim light of the diminished fire.
“Anything else? All right, I’ll lead the way. Keep your communications app open. We’ll see if we catch anything usable.”
Adela cocked her head to one side and gestured towards the wreckage. “And what about that piece of diplomatic cargo?”
* * *
Firebase Alpha, Defensive Perimeter
Colony of New Perth
Snowmass
A lone human male stood in the center of the operations center. Around him, the Zuul mercenary forces kept a quiet watch over the displays and security systems ringing New Perth. In the last seventy-two hours, the Veetanho force’s attempts to probe the perimeter for weaknesses remained at a constant 1-2 attempts every twelve hours. Along the perimeter, humans and Zuul worked together to man the sixteen checkpoints and maintain the thirty-two laser fence security platforms. The temperature hovered near -15 degrees Celsius and the autonomous weapons aboard the security platforms were only guaranteed to perform to a minimum temperature of -30 degrees Celsius. The forecasted low temperature, scrawled on the central board so humans could read it among the Zuul battle maps and documents, read -45 degrees.
The colony mayor, Johann Pryce, frowned at the board. The Veetanho continued to harass his colony defenses and would not negotiate. Alerting a Peacemaker was the next step in the process, and while Pryce was prepared to send the message and arrange for a mediator to arrive and settle the dispute, his Zuul counterpart was not. Krut resembled a German Shepherd that walked upright. His body was not doughy or soft but muscular to the extent the kangaroos were that Pryce remember seeing in the Pretoria Zoo during his youth on Earth. The patch Krut wore over his left eye only accentuated his sour demeanor. But Pryce couldn’t look past the alien’s resemblance to the dogs of Earth. By all appearances, the Zuul were not interested in being mankind’s best friends. Krut’s mercenaries appeared to have taken to the large, comfortable buildings in New Perth’s constant darkness and mind-numbing cold.
Pryce studied the large Tri-V display showing New Perth in the bottom left corner and the Veetanho outpost twelve kilometers to the northeast in the upper right. Crossing the terrain was a ridgeline nearly six hundred meters higher than the valleys on either side. From the ridgeline, powerful springs fed creeks that became rivers giving lifeblood to the two settlements. They should have had everything they needed, but Pryce believed the Veetanho were preparing to mine the higher ground. The little bastards were positioning equipment to drill deep into the rock, and that meant red diamonds. What the humans called the Grand Valley possessed rich, dark soil capable of tremendous crop yields when cleared of snow, warmed by geothermal energy, and protected by greenhouses. While they could grow wheat, soy, all manner of vegetables, and even rice, Pryce and his colony’s major weakness was their lack of an export. Shipment required capital, and there weren’t enough humans on Snowmass to purchase the food he could produce. If the Veetanho had indeed found red diamonds, though, that could be used to leverage galactic shipping companies and raise the amount of capital in New Perth’s coffers. Pryce believed it was a simple matter. His colony would simply take what they wanted. Human warfare for most of the last millennium revolved around the concept of occupy by force. The Veetanho had other ideas.
His enemy had seeded their valley with mines and other devices to keep the humans away. When it hadn’t worked, the Veetanho had done the one thing he hadn’t believed them capable of doing during the constant darkness of the solstice—the Veetanho had attacked. They held a sizable portion of the mediating terrain when the sun went down. Now, a non-affiliated medical team inbound to help relieve the pressure of his own staff had been shot down over the high country and were missing and presumed dead. The Zuul refused to mount a search and rescue operation without a significant raise in their pay. Given their antics and inherent laziness in the recent week, there was no way in hell Pryce was going to—
“Sir?”
The gruff, soft voice took Pryce out of his thoughts. He turned to see the Zuul commander staring up at him. The dog-like alien’s maw was curled under in what could only be a frown. “There hasn’t been any confirmation of an impact beacon. We will not be launching a search mission based on those criteria. We are not equipped to do so. If you will remember, sir, those criteria are specifically laid out in our contract.”
Pryce clenched his jaw. “I am well aware, Colonel Krut.”
“The transport company is prepared to leave. Given the weather situation, I will not be launching flyers to support their departure. I recommend they follow a track up through friendly territory before boosting to orbit.”
Pryce nodded. “That’s fine. When are they departing?”
“Ten minutes.” Krut shuffled his boots. “The commander and his copilot want an audience before they leave.”
Spare me from deep space freighter pilots. The long-haul truckers of the galaxy aren’t exactly a politician’s best friends.
“Send them in.” Pryce put on a smile and returned his gaze to the massive screen. He displayed the medical team’s inbound flight path and the impact point of the missile. Tapping at the screen, he’d almost finished determining the coordinates more from idle curiosity than intent when two human men walked into the command center. The older of the two wore a worn baseball hat with an embroidered red and green “C” on the crown. His skin was red and stood out from his shocking white hair and partial goatee. His spoke in a voice higher pitched than most men, with a distinct accent from North America.
“Mister Pryce? We’re ready to depart. Wanted to thank you for trusting your shipment to Carthage Shipping. We’ll send word from the destination. Should be two weeks or so from today.”
Pryce nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Yerkes. We’re very satisfied with the services you provide. But I have to ask what you are doing way out here? Pardon my inquisition, but shouldn’t the Chief Executive Officer of a company monitor his wares from afar?”
“I’ve never asked someone to do something I wouldn’t do,” Yerkes said. “A mission over Christmas means my people will be away from their loved ones. As long as I can fly a spacecraft, lift a box, or do anything that would allow one of my people with a family to be home for the holidays, it’s worth my being here.”
For a moment, Pryce’s thoughts returned to his own quarters, where his wife Ilse and their two children were decorating a small alien fir tree. His family’s tradition, passed down for three generations, was to wait until Christmas Eve to do so. They would’ve started by now. His duties were keeping him long past his time, and with the loss of the medical team…More troubling, though, was something sent to him from the colonial headquarters two systems away. The diplomatic package, meant for him and his family, was likely lost. It would be a bleak Christmas for them without it. As it would be for his personnel expecting their bonuses and the usual complement of actual packages, likely smoldering in the frozen forests of Snowmass along the route of travel.
“Is everything okay, sir?” the younger man asked. Pryce looked at him. The kid was no more than twenty-one-years-old with a head of unruly black hair held down by a knitted hat and snow goggles. “We heard an inbound flight went down?”
“They were shot down,” Pryce said. “A medical team from Doctors For The Void. They’re presumed dead. My hospital team is overworked, especially with all this fighting. They had a pediatrician, too. We’ve got a bunch of children who need regular care. Our shipment of immunizations didn’t make it. Those are the kinds of things we don’t get on a regular basis out here. If we can’t get regular care, our kids are going to suffer more than they already do.”
“Medical care wasn’t a priority. You spent your profits building more capability and not taking care of your people.” Yerkes didn’t ask it as a question. His words were a statement, and Pryce flushed in embarrassment. His efforts to take care of the families of his workers, and the workers themselves, paled in comparison to his push for profit. A fresh image of his family decorating their tiny alien tree without him at that very moment sent a bolt of regret through him. The smile on Yerkes’s face faded. He glanced at the collected Zuul in the control room sitting bored at their makeshift desks and tapping on slates. “There’s no effort to find them?”
“I don’t have the manpower for a search and our…protectors have deemed it unnecessary to search given the weather conditions and the lack of an impact beacon. That likely means the vehicle disintegrated on impact.”
The younger man’s face screwed up in disgust. “That could mean the beacon didn’t work as advertised, too. Most of those non-guild vehicles and dropships couldn’t fly their way out of a paper sack. Built by the lowest bidder.”
Pryce fought a smile and lost. “You may be right, but I cannot spare an effort to find them. If there were survivors, they’ll likely die of exposure in minutes. I doubt we could save them.”
“And you cannot bring yourselves try.” Yerkes frowned.
“My resources won’t allow it,” Pryce argued. He gestured to the command center. “My contracted support is not equipped to perform such a mission.”
“Or they simply won’t do it,” Yerkes said. “When did the flight go down?”
“Eight minutes ago.”
Yerkes turned to the younger man. “Spin them up, Jimmy.”
The young man’s eyes brightened. “I can have a flyer ready to drop in no time, boss.”
Yerkes nodded. “Do it. Grab the infrared gear. You’re gonna need it out there.”
“On it, boss.” The young man was out the door at a dead sprint.
Pryce stared at the taller man for a moment. “What are you getting at?”
“It’s Christmas Eve, Pryce. You can’t just leave them out there to die.”
“And you don’t know that anyone survived that crash,” Pryce replied. “A rescue mission could kill more of my people and, frankly, I don’t have that many to lose. I know it’s Christmas Eve. But there’s nothing I can do. My hands are tied between my lack of resources and my…support.”
Yerkes nodded and pointed at the main radio console manned by a Zuul who looked about to fall asleep. “If you’d be so kind, sir? Try to get in touch with your adversaries and explain the situation. We’ll be broadcasting non-combatant codes and don’t want to be shot out of the sky tonight.”
“You’re going after them?”
“On our way out, yes,” Yerkes replied. “Jimmy’s a helluva a flyer pilot. He’ll do a low-level recon of the crash site and see what he can find. If we find something, we’ll alert your forces. If we don’t, I’ll recover Jimmy and we’ll boost for orbit. No harm, no foul. But if we find them, you have to recover the survivors.”
Pryce nodded. “I will see what I can do. But I don’t think you’re going to find anything alive out there, Mister Yerkes.”
“Maybe so. You asked me what a CEO is supposed to do? I imagine it’s a lot like being a colony leader. You manage, you supervise, and, every once in a while, you get into someone’s shorts for not doing what they should have done.” Yerkes paused. His eyes glittered like chips of blue sapphire. “But that CEO also has to do what’s right. Not just on Christmas Eve, either. Every time the situation calls for it. Even when people aren’t looking.”
The older man turned away and walked toward the door as Pryce asked, “You’ll be in radio contact?”
Yerkes looked over his left shoulder. “You bet your ass I will, sir. I’d warm up your rescue team now, I have a feeling about this one.”
“And just what is that supposed to mean?” Pryce scoffed. “And what about the cost of a rescue attempt?”
“Far better than living with knowing you could have saved a few lives both now and possibly with all the kids here.” Yerkes stared back at Pryce for a long moment. “At least, I wouldn’t want to face that bastard in the mirror every morning. But that’s just me.”
* * *
Position Unknown
Snowmass
As a young girl, Katya had visited her distant relatives in the Urals of eastern Russia. At fourteen, she’d dreamed of wide-open plains and a warm sun on her face as she rode her great-uncle’s horses for hours on end. When she’d arrived in the dead of winter, Katya vowed to get outside. Even when the air stabbed at her face like a thousand tiny blades of ice, she roamed the countryside from dusk to dawn. After moving from one mining colony to the next for the last ten years, even walking outside without an environmental suit was an opportunity to be cherished. She was a colonist, and space was unforgivingly cold. If you wanted to live, you had to learn how to be cold.
Katya tromped through the snow, looking over her shoulder every four steps to see Adela lagging farther and farther behind. The young nurse from Earth—somewhere in Spain, Katya remembered—was not used to the bitter cold and the general issue cold weather gear was woefully inadequate.
The air was clear, and while it bit into her face like the worst of her Russian winters, everything about it was different. There was a richness to it. Something she hadn’t smelled on a planet before and it made her sinus passages open and her lungs expand more with every inhalation. The snow fell at a slower rate now, but it was still enough that she could see their footprints filling in the distance.
We have to move faster.
But they couldn’t. After only about four hundred meters, Adela slowed precipitously. When Katya asked what was wrong, Adela waved a hand and said the snow was hard to walk in and that she would be fine. Her limp began not long after.
Katya stopped and made her way to Adela some thirty meters away. As she drew near, Katya whispered, “Are you okay?”
Adela shook her head. When she looked up at Katya, there were tears running down her face. In the very dim light, Katya saw the young woman shake her head again and tuck her chin to her chest. Katya closed the distance and wrapped an arm around the shivering woman.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “Tell me what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“Si,” Adela replied. “I think my knee is sprained. It’s getting hard to put weight on it.”
Katya bit her lower lip for a moment. Working the strap of the heavy diplomatic satchel off her good shoulder, she winced and tried to calm the flash of pain that shot through her neck and upper back.
Bozhe moi!
Katya dropped the satchel, conveniently marked “eyes only” to a Mister Pryce, into the dozen or so centimeters of fresh snow and leaned down toward Adela. “Rest here for a moment. Don’t sit down. Just pause and breathe. Put your hands on your knees and rest. I’m scouting ahead and will be right back.”
“You should just leave me,” Adela whimpered.
“No,” Katya said. “I will do no such thing. You rest. I will be gone two minutes. There is a break in the treeline ahead. Do you understand?”
There wasn’t a response. Katya leaned down and shook the younger woman by the shoulders. “Adela!” she hissed.
“Ow!” Adela glared up at her. “I’m listening!”
“Stay right here. Do not sit down. I’m checking that break in the tree line.” Katya pointed. “I’m leaving the rifle with you. Let me have the pistol. I can move faster.”
“Okay. You’ll be right back?” She offered the pistol without pointing the barrel safely away from them.
Katya took the pistol carefully. “Faster than you can imagine.”
About thirty meters away, the constant dispersion of the strangely alien fir trees gave way to open space. How far that space went, or what the terrain looked like, Katya couldn’t see. All she knew was that it was in their path and anyone looking for them would be able to see them easily. Whether that was good or bad, she couldn’t say.
She left Adela and moved quickly through the remainder of the trees to the edge of the open space. The clearing looked to be a few hundred meters long and about a hundred wide. They could cross it easily, save for the mangled shipping containers filling the middle of the space. There were a dozen or so of the space-certified heavy containers laying in disarray. A few lay half-buried at strange angles. A few others where crumpled on one end and torn apart on the other.
Wonder what happened here?
No sooner had the thought crossed her mind when she realized the containers would provide her and Adela some measure of shelter from the elements. In the center of the pile was a container with a side hatch used for crew loading and unloading. She’d seen similar containers in numerous places throughout the galaxy, but she’d never seen one completely by itself in a pile of containers that looked like they’d fallen from a great height and been scavenged ruthlessly. The typical crew-style container was more fortified and insulated than a normal container and, if it wasn’t torn apart on the inside, it would be the best place for them to hole up and wait for recovery. There was writing on the outside of the container that she could see but not understand as it wasn’t human. That didn’t matter. It would be dry and potentially warm enough for them to have a chance at rescue.
The only trouble was the tiny sliver of light shining from the door’s offset hinge. It wasn’t the light of an interior bulb of any kind. It was a small fire or a candle, most likely. The orange light flickered as she watched it carefully. Something was in the container.
Something that was about to have company.
Katya turned and shuffled back to Adela. Her friend remained hunched over with her hands on her knees and the MX-5 rifle slung across her back. Neck aching, Katya realized that she was the only one of the them able to defend themselves in a combat situation. Like most mercenary medics, even as unaffiliated volunteers, Adela had familiarized herself only once with a pistol on a weapons range. As Katya remembered, it did not go well. She shuffled up to her friend.
“Adela,” Katya stage-whispered above the wind. “Give me the rifle.”
“What’s wrong?” Adela straightened, her eyes wide in fright. “Is someone out there?”
“Maybe,” Katya replied. “Can you follow me? As fast as you can?”
Adela nodded. “Yes. Where?”
“Just follow me,” Katya pointed. “Through there. I found shelter, but it may be occupied.”
“Occupied? By what?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t need the rifle.” Katya smirked. She watched Adela unsling the rifle and awkwardly handed it over.
She couldn’t use it if I needed her to.
“Thanks,” Katya said. “Now, follow me. Keep moving until you get to where I am.”
“What if something happens to you?”
Katya thought for a moment and all of the ends weren’t great for Adela. Injured and unable to fire a weapon, there was little Katya could hope for if something happened. She smiled and touched the younger woman’s shoulder. “Nothing is going to happen. Just taking precautions is all.”
“Okay,” Adela said. “I’ll follow you.”
Katya hefted the rifle at what the grunts called a low-ready position. Raising it any farther would hurt her arm too much, but faced with life or death Katya knew her body would respond. It might not save her life, but she would go out firing. “Hurry. It’s too cold to stay out much longer.”
“Right behind you.”
Before she turned, Katya shouldered the diplomatic satchel and slung it across her shoulders and placed the bag on her lower back. The walk back to the edge of the tree line was easier where her feet had shuffled the snow away. Stepping into her own footprints she made it to the edge of the clearing quickly and then stopped. Walking across the field would be the fastest, most direct route to the containers. If she hugged the wood line, an adversary wouldn’t necessarily know that she was going to the containers until she broke from the tree line. The cold seeped into her boots and through every weakness in her suit as she stood motionless.
Just go!
Katya shuffled forward, picking up the pace at the promise of a warm, dry place. Keeping to the right of the door, she closed the distance quickly.
Once positioned along the container’s wall, she looked back to see Adela following her, much closer than Katya had believed possible. The door, slightly ajar, did not appear to have a locking mechanism on the exterior. She wouldn’t know if something obstructed it until she pulled on it. Holding the rifle by the handgrip in her right hand, Katya reached for the edge of the door with her left. She moved to a position to be able to bring up the rifle when she opened the door. Her hands trembled, but she sensed heat on her face from the cracked door. Katya stepped forward, gripped the edge of the door with her left hand, and yanked it open, bringing up the rifle painfully with the other. She stepped inside and froze.
A tiny, gray-haired Veetanho squealed and darted toward the end of the warm container. In the light of a few candles, at least something that appeared to function like candles, Katya had enough time to wonder if the alien was going for a weapon and started to raise her own when the creature stopped, it’s back to what looked like a makeshift bassinette, and assumed a protective stance.
Katya lowered the weapon. “No, no. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“No zzzzzz hurt?” The alien’s translating pendant buzzed. By the color, the pendant’s internal operating system appeared to be damaged. “No zzzz human.”
Katya lowered the rifle’s barrel point all the way down at the ground. The warmth from the container dissipated with every passing second. She glanced and saw Adela ten meters away, shuffling painfully forward. Katya looked again at the small alien standing frozen in place.
“We mean you no harm. No harm.”
The alien’s tiny shoulders relaxed a tiny bit. “No harm?”
“No. We were shot down. Crashed nearby.”
The alien nodded. “Soldiers?”
Katya shook her head. “No. Nurses. Medical. We help the sick and injured.”
Behind the alien, two tiny heads popped up with wide dark eyes staring at her. Katya understood immediately. “Are you hurt?”
“Not hurt.”
“Is this your home?”
“For zzzzz now.” The alien replied. “Close zzzzz door?”
Adela walked up, straightened to smile at Katya, and half-turned before she froze. “Madre de Dios.”
“Mother,” the alien said. “New zzzzz mother.”
Katya squinted past the two little pairs of eyes and gasped. She grabbed Adela and pulled her into the container before stepping around and closing them inside.
“What are you doing, Katya?” Adela whispered.
Katya nodded. “She just gave birth, Adela. There are newborns in the basket with her older babies.”
Adela looked again. “You’re right.”
“Nurse?” The alien’s translation buzzed. “Check zzzzz children zzzzz breathing zzz please?”
Adela frowned at Katya. “What does that mean?”
“Her translator is broken.” Katya said. “But I think that she’s asking you to check her babies.”
“They’re not human!” Adela hissed.
“But you’re a pediatric nurse,” Katya said. She smiled at the alien. “She will check.”
“Zzzzz thank zzzzz you.”
Adela took off her gloves and pushed her hood away from her face as Katya unslung the satchel from her shoulders and set it beside the door. She watched Adela step up to the small Veetanho. The new mother stepped away and Adela looked down into the bassinet. The two older Veetanho climbed away quickly, moving with the unstable grace of toddlers toward the protective legs of their mother. Each of them, both girls if Katya’s recognition skills were on point, peered out from behind their mother like every child she’d ever seen on Earth—human or animal.
Katya smiled at them, hoping it was friendly enough, but the little ones stared agape up at her. She looked at the mother whose face was composed, yet cautious. Katya drew a slow, quiet breath and prepared to speak when Adela’s voice snapped.
“Get me the survival kit, Katya! Now!” Adela looked over her shoulder. “One of the babies is hypoxic. Not breathing well at all.”
Katya moved quickly to the pack still hanging from Adela’s back. She dug blindly for the plastic first aid kit and pulled it out. Instinctively, she grabbed a small coil of tubing and emergency shears to create an expedient tracheotomy kit. Stepping up to the bassinet, she saw five small, dark pink babies curled against each other for warmth. The sixth, in Adela’s hand, coughed and squeaked with a whimper before settling down.
Adela looked over and snorted. “The blanket, Katya. Wrap all of them up.”
“And that one?” Katya dug back into the kit, found the small wrapper for the Mylar emergency blanket and handed it to Adela over her right shoulder.
“A mouthful of mucus. Extracted it with my little finger. She’s fine,” Adela said taking the blanket. “Four boys and two girls.”
There was a familiar sound behind them. The mother Veentaho sighed and raised a tiny paw to her chest. “Thank zzzzz you.”
Adela spoke softly. “I’ve never held a Veetanho before. They are beautiful.”
“My name zzzzz Reecha,” the Veetanho said. “You zzzzz stay warm zzzzz here. Cold zzzzz kill.”
“Thank you,” Katya smiled. “Are you lost?”
“Like zzzzz you. Hunting zzzzz storm came zzzzz give birth.” Reecha said. The two children left her legs and carefully walked around the narrow container’s floor space. Katya felt herself warming and tugged off her jacket. She turned toward the door in time to see one of the two little females peeling back the diplomatic seal on the satchel and peering inside.
* * *
Aboard the Independence
Snowmass
“Ready for drop,” Jimmy said into his helmet’s boom microphone. For the last eighteen months, he’d served as everything aboard the Independence from galley assistant to junior navigator. He’d joined the crew to see the galaxy and found his jack-of-all-trades mentality either rubbed experienced crews the wrong way or they loved him like a family member. His first two postings had been far from the family-type experience, but his arrival on the Independence six months before changed everything.
After meeting the median score for his year-group in the VOWS, Jimmy hadn’t thought much about joining the mercenary units of Earth. In the years after the alpha contracts, only a few really amounted to much, and while the work was lucrative, it was dangerous and often involved fighting someone else’s little war. A few of his friends returned to Earth with their accounts bursting with credits. Most of his friends had not returned at all. Even the ones who survived their first or second missions realized they were more lucky than good. Almost all of them returned to their units for the third time with a palpable reluctance. By then he’d made up his mind. Determined to make his own way, he’d traded everything he owned for a posting with Carthage Shipping and never looked back.
“Roger, Alpha One.” Yerkes said in his ears. The older man was more than a captain. He’d become the mentor Jimmy never had. “You be careful out there, son.”
“I will, Captain. What’s my time hack?”
“Nav says you’ve got about ninety seconds to sweep the area and get back before we have to boost. We don’t have the fuel to linger.”
Jimmy grinned. “And it’s colder than a witch’s teat out here. I don’t want to be out much longer than that.”
“You wearing the full exposure suit this time?”
On his last excursion, looking over wreckage on a small moon called Pavonis, he’d worn only the exterior suit and left the thermal inner lining behind. He’d returned with blue fingers and toes to the constant ribbing of the bridge crew. “I’m not making that mistake twice, sir.”
“That’s good, Jimmy,” Yerkes chuckled. “I got two credits in the pool on you not forgetting your underwear this time.”
Jimmy flushed but laughed. “Safest bet you’ve ever made, boss.”
“Drop in five seconds. The target is bearing 2-1-0 at three kilometers. Any closer and we risk the same type of missile fire that took out the medical transport,” Yerkes said. “Release…now!”
The flyer dropped off its external mount. Cold air swirled around the open cockpit and seeped into his suit seals at the wrist, ankles, and neck. It wasn’t enough to worry about, but it reminded him to move quickly as the ducted blades bit into the air. Jimmy had control of the aero surfaces and pivoted the flyer’s nose to the target azimuth. The low clouds with a bright starry sky above gave him a sense of the horizon. In the distance, he could make out a thin wisp of smoke.
“Thermals,” he said, and the visor in his helmet pivoted from a visual spectrum view of the surrounding terrain to an infrared scan. He added a digitized terrain map to the display for good measure. Target fixation was the fastest way to fly into the ground. The wreckage of the dropship showed up a brilliant white in the display, but not as hot as he thought it would be.
Too damned cold out here. With his left thumb never leaving the flyer’s throttle, Jimmy zoomed in on the source but lost all resolution. If there were people alive down there, they’d be huddled near the warm wreckage. Until he got closer, there was no way he’d be able to see them.
“Indy, Alpha One. Initial scan is negative. Moving to investigate and timer is set.”
“Alpha One, you have eighty-nine seconds,” Yerkes replied. “Move your ass, kid.”
Jimmy pitched the nose down and dropped the flyer to just above the white pointed tips of the massive gnarled trees. As the flyer accelerated, he opened up his longer ranger sensors and the v-dar immediately pinged movement in the distance.
“Indy, I’m guessing that anything I’m seeing out to the south side of that big ridge isn’t friendly?”
“What have you got, Jimmy?” Yerkes responded. “Seventy-two seconds to lift.”
A five second scan of the activity told him there was a company of Veetanho infantry moving toward the crash site. Jimmy mashed the throttle forward to the stops, full military power, and raced between the treetops. The distance to the crash site ticked down and Jimmy decelerated and brought the nose of the flyer up. Over the shattered fuselage, he saw the fires were low and smoldering more than furiously burning. The surrounding trees were clear of snow and the ground near the wreckage looked decidedly barer than the forest itself. There were no lifeforms moving. He swept the area with a synthetic aperture radar looking for changes in the terrain. Dialing up the resolution, he found what he’d hoped to see.
Footprints.
“Indy, I’ve got tracks. Unknown number of survivors moved northeast of the site into the forest. I’m following. Looks like the Veetanho have sent a search party, too.”
“You’ve got sixty seconds to lift.”
Jimmy swung the flyer to follow the tracks and inched the throttled forward, sweeping the terrain ahead as he did. His confidence grew, and he kept pushing the throttle quadrant forward. He did the math in his head as he followed the tracks.
Twenty seconds to the Independence. Ten seconds to load. Thirty seconds to positively identify survivors and the temperature is what? He glanced at the display. Fuck. Minus eleven Celsius.
“Indy, I’ve got tracks but cannot positively identify.” Jimmy said. “I’m going to follow them. Boost to orbit. I’ll get a ride up.”
There was no response for five seconds. Out of the forest a clearing appeared, and in the middle of the clearing lay the wreckage of an orbit drop. He’d seen it before, a few times actually. Human companies got lazy when they deorbited equipment. It was far easier to drop it, come what may, than to actually land and have to burn precious fuel and time escaping a planet’s gravity well. The Independence was a small freighter with excellent power plants, but she had to ascend to orbit virtually empty.
“Like hell you will, Jimmy,” Yerkes snapped. “We’re boosting for orbit. We’ll go around once and drop a ship to get you or your body. You hear me?”
Either way, I’ll be going home.
Jimmy snorted. “Yes, sir. I’ve got the tracks headed into the wreckage pile at your 1-8-5. Do you see it?”
“Copy, all. We’re relaying the information to New Perth. No acknowledgment of the transmission.”
They’re not coming.
He glanced behind him in the open cockpit. There were two survival kits mounted to the cockpit walls. Food and water wouldn’t be an issue. There were limited medical supplies, too, and there were weapons. If the Veetanho were indeed coming, they’d need all three unless they could move quickly.
“Copy, Indy. I’m landing and pursuing on foot.”
“Good luck, kid.” Yerkes replied. “We’ll see you on the flip side.”
Jimmy picked a spot in the clearing about two hundred meters from the wreckage. With his left hand, he retarded the throttle all the way back to idle and adjusted the fans to a vertical landing position. Even before the skids touched the snow, he was powering down the fans and reaching for the survival kits. As the flyer settled into the snow, Jimmy grabbed the kits and a MP-45 pistol strapped to the cockpit wall. He vaulted over the side and intended to slide neatly down the fuselage to his feet until one leg hooked the cockpit rail and spun him sideways halfway down.
Fuck!
Jimmy slammed into the snow face first, and one of the survival kits fell on his head for good measure.
Snow worked under his goggles and onto his cheeks but did little to cool his flushing face. He rolled over in the snow, felt it crunch under his back like it had done a long time ago in North Carolina or Virginia; he couldn’t remember where. He’d been six the first time he’d seen snow. Laying in the snow on a planet light years from Earth, he looked up into the clearing clouds and smiled.
At least nobody saw me.
He laughed once and the let it come again. In the corner of his eye, he saw the Independence light her boosters and climb toward orbit. Jimmy watched the bright, bluish-white plumes of exhaust from the mains light up the countryside around him. In the shimmering light, he saw the unmistakable shadow of something approaching.
Jimmy rolled over to his front, moved into a low crouch, and readied to draw the pistol as a voice called.
“You okay?”
He froze. The voice was a woman with an eastern European accent, maybe Russian. “I’m fine.”
“Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“I’m here to rescue you,” he said and closed his eyes. Fuck, that was smooth! “I’m from that ship that just launched. I flew down here to get you out.”
The woman chuckled. “You flew down here and fell out of your ship. Are you sure you can get us out?”
He blushed furiously but stood up and faced her. He couldn’t make out her features with her heavy exposure suit, but she held an assault rifle at the low-ready and looked as if she could handle it if it became necessary.
“There’s activity to the south. Could be the Veetanho coming to investigate,” Jimmy said. “We have to get you out of here.”
The woman shuffled and tipped her head. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll be coming. Let’s get back inside where it’s warm. Just be quiet. Don’t wake the babies.”
“The what?” Jimmy squinted. “What are you talking about?”
“Come along, Snowman.” The woman smiled at him and pointed. His exposure suit was covered with fine, powdery snow from head to foot. There was laughter in her voice and Jimmy found himself smiling back as she spoke again. “All your questions will be answered inside where it’s warm and dry. Just don’t wake the babies.”
* * *
Container Field
Snowmass
When she’d heard the flyer, Katya had shooed the little Veetanho away from the satchel before going outside to investigate. When she returned with the young man, pushing through the door quickly and as quietly as they could, the two older Veetanho children were again playing with the satchel, and she did nothing to stop them. Katya watched the little Veetanho as if everything was in slow-motion. One furry child pitched forward with an excited squeal and nearly fell into the open top of the satchel. Her little arms worked side to side as she pulled hard on something and then popped up, eyes wide and her little mouse-like maw smiling.
In her paws was a stuffed brown bear. She reached into the satchel and came up with another bear. Her sister squeaked and took one. The two little furry aliens danced across the small room with their prizes. Katya looked up and saw Adela, still cradling a tiny baby Veetanho, watching them with glistening eyes.
She glanced at her wrist slate: 0034.
Christmas morning.
Katya walked past the playing little ones and looked inside the diplomatic satchel. There was nothing diplomatic about the cargo. A bottle of scotch shipped from Earth in its classic cardboard tubing, a large jar of olives, and a wheel of a type of cheese she’d never heard of before but that smelled like sweaty feet. There was a small cloth bag in the bottom. Keeping it inside the satchel, Katya worked the drawstrings open and found a handful of ten credit coins.
Roughly a hundred credits, she thought. Not much on a major planet, but out here it’s a small fortune.
Katya swept the contents aside and found a small foil-wrapped loaf of bread but no diplomatic cargo. There was a letter, a simple green envelope with the name of the colony leader, Johann Pryce, and the return address for the Dream World Consortium. Deciding to hand deliver the letter, she tucked it inside her own jacket. Looking back at the satchel, she thought about taking the bag of credits, but she left it where it was.
“What’s in there?” Adela said. “Doesn’t look like anything diplomatic to me.”
“Me either,” Katya frowned. “I think this was destroyed in the crash, don’t you?”
Adela smiled and returned her attention to the tiny Veetanho nestled in her arms. “What satchel?”
“Indeed,” Katya nodded. She looked at the snow-covered form of the flyer pilot. “And who are you, Snowman?”
“My name’s Jimmy. I’m crew on the freighter Independence. They sent me down to search for survivors and are calling New Perth for rescue.” The young man tugged away his goggles revealing bright blue eyes that startled her. “There’s a group of Veetanho coming from their side of the valley. We need to get your stuff and get out of here now.”
“We’re not leaving the babies,” Adela said softly.
Katya nodded. “We stay here. They might be coming to rescue Reecha and her children. They can help us.”
“They might be coming to kill us.”
Reecha spoke quickly, but her failing translator could not keep up. “No zzzzz hunting zzzzz lost zzzzz find zzzzz before zzzzz death. You zzzzz friend.”
A sudden knock came at the container door and Katya shot to her feet. Jimmy looked at her and drew a pistol from his coveralls, but Reecha scurried past them both and shushed them with a small digit over her maw in an all-too-human “quiet” gesture.
Reecha opened the door and the icy breeze flickered the candles. A heavily armed Veetanho female stepped into the container but kept her weapon’s muzzle down. She locked eyes with Katya, Adela, and Jimmy before looking at Reecha. The newcomer did not wear a translator, so one side of the conversation was incoherent and almost inaudible squeaking.
“No zzzzz safe. Hunt zzzzz long. Could not zzzzz nest,” Reecha said.
The armed Veetanho looked at Katya and Adela for a long moment and then pointed at them, squeaking a question laced with what sounded like ire.
Reecha pointed at them. “No zzzzz nurses. He zzzzz pilot.”
Another series of squeaks. The soldier adjusted her grip on the weapon.
“Yes zzzzz armed. No zzzzz danger.”
The leader stepped up to Katya. Despite being only slightly taller than her navel, the little alien dominated the space. She’d never seen such a commanding presence from something so tiny. It squeaked at her imposingly. Katya was caught between fearing for her life and laughing at the absurdity of getting berated by a small furry alien.
The Veetanho stopped speaking and Reecha translated. “Veeka zzzzz want zzzzz know zzzzz why zzzzz no kill zzzzz us?”
Katya took a long, slow breath and locked eyes with Adela, and then turned to the imposing Veetanho. “You are not our enemy, Veeka.”
Reecha translated and the Veetanho’s facial muscles twitched. It didn’t appear satisfied and looked at all three of the humans for a long moment, lingering on Adela.
“Besides, it’s Christmas,” Adela whispered and looked down at the baby in her arms. “Our most special night of the year.”
Reecha translated the words to Veeka and then turned to Katya. “What zzzzz Christmas?”
Katya winced. Whether the Veetanho had religion, or celebrated anything of the sort, was beyond her knowledge. Explaining to an alien felt just as baffling.
The young man spoke up. “On Earth, many of our kind celebrate the birth of a baby who they believe is the son of God. The creator of our universe.”
Again, Reecha translated and the armed Veentaho visibly relaxed. It squeaked at her again, but the vitriol in its voice seemed absent.
“You celebrate this event on this night?” Veeka said through Reecha.
Katya nodded. “Not all humans, but yes.”
Veeka turned to Reecha and said something soft. “We celebrate a similar event. A similar…being. But very differently.”
“Perhaps we are more alike than not.” Katya smiled.
Jimmy shuffled on his feet and looked like he wanted to say something. Katya cut him off with her eyes. She turned back to Veeka. “The child we celebrate was a great teacher, leader, and savior to his people.”
Veeka said something to Reecha who demurred and looked at the makeshift bassinet. “Maybe one of these children would grow to be the same.”
Veeka reached out to Reecha’s translator for a moment and removed it. The two spoke quietly for a moment in their native tongue while Veeka worked on the translator with her fingers. She placed it back around Reecha’s neck and it glowed a bright pink. After a moment, the soldier withdrew one from a pouch on her belt and donned it.
Veeka looked at Katya for a moment. “You possess honor, human.”
“My name is Katya, Honored Veeka.”
The Veetanho nodded formally. “Well met, friend.”
“Well met.”
Veeka cocked her head slightly. For the first time, Katya saw that she wore an earpiece down inside her ear. “Your people have dispatched a patrol to fetch you. We should be on our way.”
Katya shook her head. “No, Honored Veeka. Please stay until you can get the babies home with the warmth and stability they need. We will ensure your safety.”
Veeka turned to Reecha. “Is that acceptable, Honored One?”
“Yes, Commander.” Reecha replied. She glanced at Katya, and all of a sudden Katya realized who was really in charge. Her brow furrowed.
“You are the colony leader?” she asked. “Why were you out with your children on a hunt?”
“A leader must provide, too.” Reecha said. “Others may want to sit in the nest and let their people work for them. I do not. My people deserve the warmth of the nest as much as I do. And my children must know that, too.”
Katya smiled. “A great lesson.”
“One which the human colony leader does not understand.” Reecha said. “Is that why you came here?”
“They asked for doctors. We came because we were needed.”
“And we shot you down,” Reecha frowned. “Was there communication from your ship to the planet? All frequencies as directed in our charter?”
“Yes,” Katya replied.
“And there has been communication from the human colony to yours with no response,” Jimmy added. Katya had almost forgotten the young man with the incredible eyes was still there.
“Something is wrong with our equipment,” Reecha looked at Veeka. “We must fix it as well. And we ensure that your people are getting our messages as well, and not those ignored by the Zuul.”
There was a tiredness in the leader’s voice for a moment. Katya leaned forward. “The humans have problems, too. Perhaps there is a chance for cooperation instead of conflict.”
Reecha nodded. “I have hoped for a peaceful end. Out of a tragic misunderstanding, it appears I may have found one.”
“At least we haven’t woken the babies,” Katya laughed.
“Oh, they’ve noticed,” Adela smiled. “Except for this little one. She hasn’t made a peep.”
“That makes me smile, friend Adela.” Reecha chittered a laugh. “My great aunt is named Peepo. She has never been that quiet, though.”
* * *
Container Field
Snowmass
The snow no longer fell, and the sky cleared in large, ragged tears. Stars neither of them could name shone brightly in the darkness through the remnants of the slate gray clouds. Above the trees, in the direction of New Perth, the lights of flyers with their red and green beacons, flew toward them. Katya watched them for a long moment before looking back up at the stars.
“You didn’t have to land,” she said to the young man at her side. The breeze was calm, and they stood with just their soft hoods over their heads in the ankle-deep snow. When she spoke a wave of steam erupted from her mouth in the frigid, still air. “Things would have been the same, I think.”
Jimmy shrugged. “There’s no way of knowing that now.”
“I guess not,” she sighed. “Do you think they will solve this conflict?”
“If they’re smart they will. But it will take more gumption than a human politician has to do so. These things take effort. Real effort. “ Jimmy stuffed his gloved hands into his pockets. “A lot of good people are hurting out here.”
“More than just humans,” Katya said.
“Yeah.” Jimmy sniffed and exhaled a cloud of steam with a burst of soft laughter. “I think before this is all over, a lot of folks are going to be hurting.”
She turned to look at him and saw his brow furrowed in thought. Curious, she asked, “What are you thinking?”
He shrugged. “I’m just a freighter crew member. What do I know?”
More than you let on, that’s for sure.
“Tell me what you were thinking just then.” Katya smiled. “Something serious went through your mind.”
“Just an idea.” Jimmy smiled with one side of his mouth. “There seems to be more humans getting in real trouble without a plan for getting out alive. Our last few trips we’ve ended up hauling beat-up mercenaries out of combat zones. It’s like some of them have no idea what they’re facing out here. Everyone is a potential enemy.”
Katya jerked her head toward the container. “Until you make them your friend.”
“Yeah,” Jimmy shook his head. “That’s easier said than done.”
“Yet, we just did that,” Katya replied. “And don’t say that you weren’t part of that. You kept your bearing and managed to not draw your weapon. Most humans out here shoot first and answer questions later.”
“You mean ask them later,” he turned toward her and smiled. She decided that she liked his smile. And his eyes. “You still live on Earth, Katie?”
She grinned at him and shook her head, but she could not bring herself to correct him. “No. I go where the organization sends me. We have offices in most human-settled systems.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know, Snowman.” She chuckled. “My home, for now, is here among the stars. One Christmas, it will be far away. Somewhere warmer, and with children running around.”
“And your husband?” Jimmy asked. His blue eyes seemed to catch every shred of light around them and sparkle brightly.
“As long as he doesn’t arrive like a knight in shining armor and fall off his steed into the snow, I think he might be okay.” She smiled. “But that’s a long way off. I want to do more good in this void, Jimmy. Do you understand that?”
He nodded. “I joined a crew to do something that didn’t involve going into battle with substandard weapons and leaders. Don’t get me wrong, some of the companies are shit hot, but most of them couldn’t fight their way to a bake sale. I keep thinking there’s more to do. That I have to do more. I don’t know what that looks like yet, and I have a good job already, but there’s more to do out here.”
He pulled his hands out of his pockets again. She reached over and grabbed his left hand. “I am glad you came along when you did, Snowman.”
“Me, too, Katie. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” Katya said. “It’s one I will never forget.”
A shooting star raced through the dark sky above them and pulled their eyes away from the inbound flyers and back to the void. He squeezed her hand as they looked up into the sky. The silence of the wind was covered by the beating of her heart in her ears. There was much more to be done. Many more adventures to have. But there was something special about the young pilot with the stunning blue eyes.
Something special indeed.
<<<<>>>>
About Kevin Ikenberry
Kevin’s head has been in the clouds since he was old enough to read. Ask him and he’ll tell you that he still wants to be an astronaut. A retired Army officer, Kevin has a diverse background in space and space science education. A former manager of the world-renowned U.S. Space Camp program in Huntsville, Alabama and a former executive of two Challenger Learning Centers, Kevin works with space every day and lives in Colorado with his family.
Kevin’s bestselling debut science fiction novel, Sleeper Protocol, was released by Red Adept Publishing in January 2016 and was a Finalist for the 2017 Colorado Book Award. Publisher’s Weekly called it “an emotionally powerful debut.” His military science fiction novel Runs In The Family was released by Strigidae Publishing in January 2016 and re-released by Theogony books in 2018. Peacemaker, Book 6 of the Revelations Cycle, was released in 2017, spawning its own line of books in the Four Horsemen Universe.
Kevin is an Active Member of the Science Fiction Writers of America and he is member of Pikes Peak Writers and the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers. He is an alumna of the Superstars Writing Seminar.
Titles by Kevin Ikenberry
“Peacemaker” – Available Now
“Honor the Threat” – Available Now
“Stand or Fall” – Available Now
“Super-Sync” – Available Now
“A Fistful of Credits” – Available Now
“Runs in the Family” – Available Now
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Connect with Kevin Ikenberry Online
Learn more about Kevin Ikenberry at:
http://www.kevinikenberry.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorkevinikenberry/
Twitter: @thewriterike
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Connect with Seventh Seal Press
Get the free prelude story “Shattered Crucible,”
join the mailing list, and discover other titles at:
http://chriskennedypublishing.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/chriskennedypublishing.biz
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The following is an
Excerpt from Super-Sync:
Super-Sync
___________________
Kevin Ikenberry
Now Available from Theogony Books
eBook, Paperback, and Audio
Excerpt from “Super-Sync:”
The subspace radio chimed an hour later, just as Lew put aside the holonovel with dissatisfaction. There was no such thing as “happily ever after,” no matter how many books she read. No one was going to carry her off into the sunset. Lew reached for the radio controls and felt the thuds of Tyler’s boots on the deck in the passageway below. He burst onto the bridge and vaulted into his chair.
He looked at Lew. “Identify the transmission.”
Lew fingered the controls and read off the diagnostic information, “Standard Ku band transmission from Earth. Origin point known through Houston nexus. Encryption is solid Johnson Analytics with the proper keys.”
Tyler grinned. “Boss.”
Lew nodded and smiled as well. “Appears so.”
Their mysterious benefactor hadn’t called them in more than six months, but every time he’d employed them, the take had been impressive. How he was able to garner the contracts he had bordered on magic. Lew thought the man sounded like some kind of Texas oil baron. Despite the technology, his calls were always voice-only, and there was never any interaction between them and whoever he represented.
Whatever he contracted them to acquire was delivered to a private, automated hangar on Luna. The robotic ground crew would unload Remnant and send them on their way again. Anonymous cash transfers always appeared in their accounts by the time Remnant returned to lunar orbit. The first mission had earned Tyler’s company over a million Euros. The following missions were even more lucrative.
Their benefactor went by a call sign, and they talked in codes meant only for their own ears. It should have been a red flag, but the money was too damned good to pass up. A call from him could not go unanswered.
Tyler punched a few buttons on his console, and a drawling voice boomed through the speakers, “Remnant, this is Boss. Are you receiving?” The transmission ended with a chiming tone that dated back to the early days of spaceflight. The clear delineation of conversation allowed Tyler to answer.
“Boss, this is Remnant. Nice to hear from you. How can we be of service?”
A few seconds passed. “Tyler, it’s good to hear your voice. I understand you’re on a contract flight from our friend in India.”
“That’s affirm, Boss.”
“Roger, you’ve got a shadow. Are you aware of that?”
Tyler’s face darkened. “Roger, Boss. We’re aware of the bogey.”
By definition, a bogey was an unknown contact with unknown intentions. Should the situation turn bad, the radar blip would become a bandit. Lew checked the telemetry from the unknown ship. There was no change in direction or speed. It was still gaining on them.
“Remnant, the trailing vehicle is not your concern. I have a change in mission for you.”
Tyler shook his head. “Negative, Boss. I have a contract.”
“Remnant, I bought out that contract. The shadow on your tail is the Rio Bravo, under contract by me to get Telstar Six Twelve. You’re going high super-sync.”
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Get “Super-Sync” now at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07PGS545X
Find out more about Kevin Ikenberry and “Super-Sync” at: https://chriskennedypublishing.com
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The following is an
Excerpt from Book One of the Earth Song Cycle:
Overture
___________________
Mark Wandrey
Available Now from Theogony Books
eBook and Paperback
Excerpt from “Overture:”
Dawn was still an hour away as Mindy Channely opened the roof access and stared in surprise at the crowd already assembled there. “Authorized Personnel Only” was printed in bold red letters on the door through which she and her husband, Jake, slipped onto the wide roof.
A few people standing nearby took notice of their arrival. Most had no reaction, a few nodded, and a couple waved tentatively. Mindy looked over the skyline of Portland and instinctively oriented herself before glancing to the east. The sky had an unnatural glow that had been growing steadily for hours, and as they watched, scintillating streamers of blue, white, and green radiated over the mountains like a strange, concentrated aurora borealis.
“You almost missed it,” one man said. She let the door close, but saw someone had left a brick to keep it from closing completely. Mindy turned and saw the man who had spoken wore a security guard uniform. The easy access to the building made more sense.
“Ain’t no one missin’ this!” a drunk man slurred.
“We figured most people fled to the hills over the past week,” Jake replied.
“I guess we were wrong,” Mindy said.
“Might as well enjoy the show,” the guard said and offered them a huge, hand-rolled cigarette that didn’t smell like tobacco. She waved it off, and the two men shrugged before taking a puff.
“Here it comes!” someone yelled. Mindy looked to the east. There was a bright light coming over the Cascade Mountains, so intense it was like looking at a welder’s torch. Asteroid LM-245 hit the atmosphere at over 300 miles per second. It seemed to move faster and faster, from east to west, and the people lifted their hands to shield their eyes from the blinding light. It looked like a blazing comet or a science fiction laser blast.
“Maybe it will just pass over,” someone said in a voice full of hope.
Mindy shook her head. She’d studied the asteroid’s track many times.
In a matter of a few seconds, it shot by and fell toward the western horizon, disappearing below the mountains between Portland and the ocean. Out of view of the city, it slammed into the ocean.
The impact was unimaginable. The air around the hypersonic projectile turned to superheated plasma, creating a shockwave that generated 10 times the energy of the largest nuclear weapon ever detonated as it hit the ocean’s surface.
The kinetic energy was more than 1,000 megatons; however, the object didn’t slow as it flashed through a half mile of ocean and into the sea bed, then into the mantel, and beyond.
On the surface, the blast effect appeared as a thermal flash brighter than the sun. Everyone on the rooftop watched with wide-eyed terror as the Tualatin Mountains between Portland and the Pacific Ocean were outlined in blinding light. As the light began to dissipate, the outline of the mountains blurred as a dense bank of smoke climbed from the western range.
The flash had incinerated everything on the other side.
The physical blast, travelling much faster than any normal atmospheric shockwave, hit the mountains and tore them from the bedrock, adding them to the rolling wave of destruction traveling east at several thousand miles per hour. The people on the rooftops of Portland only had two seconds before the entire city was wiped away.
Ten seconds later, the asteroid reached the core of the planet, and another dozen seconds after that, the Earth’s fate was sealed.
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Get “Overture” now at:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077YMLRHM/
Find out more about Mark Wandrey and the Earth Song Cycle at: http://chriskennedypublishing.com/imprints-authors/mark-wandrey/.
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The following is an
Excerpt from Book One of The Psyche of War:
Minds of Men
___________________
Kacey Ezell
Now Available from Theogony Books
eBook, Paperback, and Audio
Excerpt from “Minds of Men:”
“Look sharp, everyone,” Carl said after a while. Evelyn couldn’t have said whether they’d been droning for minutes or hours in the cold, dense white of the cloud cover. “We should be overhead the French coast in about thirty seconds.”
The men all reacted to this announcement with varying degrees of excitement and terror. Sean got up from his seat and came back to her, holding an awkward looking arrangement of fabric and straps.
Put this on, he thought to her. It’s your flak jacket. And your parachute is just there, he said, pointing. If the captain gives the order to bail out, you go, clip this piece into your ‘chute, and jump out the biggest hole you can find. Do you understand? You do, don’t you. This psychic thing certainly makes explaining things easier, he finished with a grin.
Evelyn gave him what she hoped was a brave smile and took the flak jacket from him. It was deceptively heavy, and she struggled a bit with getting it on. Sean gave her a smile and a thumbs up, and then headed back to his station.
The other men were checking in and charging their weapons. A short time later, Evelyn saw through Rico’s eyes as the tail gunner watched their fighter escort waggle their wings at the formation and depart. They didn’t have the long-range fuel capability to continue all the way to the target.
Someday, that long-range fighter escort we were promised will materialize, Carl thought. His mind felt determinedly positive, like he was trying to be strong for the crew and not let them see his fear. That, of course, was an impossibility, but the crew took it well. After all, they were afraid, too. Especially as the formation had begun its descent to the attack altitude of 20,000 feet. Evelyn became gradually aware of the way the men’s collective tension ratcheted up with every hundred feet of descent. They were entering enemy fighter territory.
Yeah, and someday Veronica Lake will...ah. Never mind. Sorry, Evie. That was Les. Evelyn could feel the waist gunner’s not-quite-repentant grin. She had to suppress a grin of her own, but Les’ irreverence was the perfect tension breaker.
Boys will be boys, she sent, projecting a sense of tolerance. But real men keep their private lives private. She added this last with a bit of smug superiority and felt the rest of the crew’s appreciative flare of humor at her jab. Even Les laughed, shaking his head. A warmth that had nothing to do with her electric suit enfolded Evelyn, and she started to feel like, maybe, she just might become part of the crew yet.
Fighters! Twelve o’clock high!
The call came from Alice. If she craned her neck to look around Sean’s body, Evelyn could just see the terrifying rain of tracer fire coming from the dark, diving silhouette of an enemy fighter. She let the call echo down her own channels and felt her men respond, turning their own weapons to cover Teacher’s Pet’s flanks. Adrenaline surges spiked through all of them, causing Evelyn’s heart to race in turn. She took a deep breath and reached out to tie her crew in closer to the Forts around them.
She looked through Sean’s eyes as he fired from the top turret, tracking his line of bullets just in front of the attacking aircraft. His mind was oddly calm and terribly focused...as, indeed, they all were. Even young Lieutenant Bob was zeroed in on his task of keeping a tight position and making it that much harder to penetrate the deadly crossing fire of the Flying Fortress.
Fighters! Three o’clock low!
That was Logan in the ball turret. Evelyn felt him as he spun his turret around and began to fire the twin Browning AN/M2 .50 caliber machine guns at the sinister dark shapes rising up to meet them with fire.
Got ‘em, Bobby Fritsche replied, from his position in the right waist. He, too, opened up with his own .50 caliber machine gun, tracking the barrel forward of the nose of the fighter formation, in order to “lead” their flight and not shoot behind them.
Evelyn blinked, then hastily relayed the call to the other girls in the formation net. She felt their acknowledgement, though it was almost an absentminded thing as each of the girls were focusing mostly on the communication between the men in their individual crews.
Got you, you Kraut sonofabitch! Logan exulted. Evelyn looked through his eyes and couldn’t help but feel a twist of pity for the pilot of the German fighter as he spiraled toward the ground, one wing completely gone. She carefully kept that emotion from Logan, however, as he was concentrating on trying to take out the other three fighters who’d been in the initial attacking wedge. One fell victim to Bobby’s relentless fire as he threw out a curtain of lead that couldn’t be avoided.
Two back to you, tail, Bobby said, his mind carrying an even calm, devoid of Logan’s adrenaline-fueled exultation.
Yup, Rico Martinez answered as he visually acquired the two remaining targets and opened fire. He was aided by fire from the aircraft flying off their right wing, the Nagging Natasha. She fired from her left waist and tail, and the two remaining fighters faltered and tumbled through the resulting crossfire. Evelyn watched through Rico’s eyes as the ugly black smoke trailed the wreckage down.
Fighters! Twelve high!
Fighters! Two high!
The calls were simultaneous, coming from Sean in his top turret and Les on the left side. Evelyn took a deep breath and did her best to split her attention between the two of them, keeping the net strong and open. Sean and Les opened fire, their respective weapons adding a cacophony of pops to the ever-present thrum of the engines.
Flak! That was Carl, up front. Evelyn felt him take hold of the controls, helping the lieutenant to maintain his position in the formation as the Nazi anti-aircraft guns began to send up 20mm shells that blossomed into dark clouds that pocked the sky. One exploded right in front of Pretty Cass’ nose. Evelyn felt the bottom drop out of her stomach as the aircraft heaved first up and then down. She held on grimly and passed on the wordless knowledge the pilots had no choice but to fly through the debris and shrapnel that resulted.
In the meantime, the gunners continued their rapid fire response to the enemy fighters’ attempt to break up the formation. Evelyn took that knowledge—that the Luftwaffe was trying to isolate one of the Forts, make her vulnerable—and passed it along the looser formation net.
Shit! They got Liberty Belle! Logan called out then, from his view in the ball turret. Evelyn looked through his angry eyes, feeling his sudden spike of despair as they watched the crippled Fort fall back, two of her four engines smoking. Instantly, the enemy fighters swarmed like so many insects, and Evelyn watched as the aircraft yawed over and began to spin down and out of control.
A few agonizing heartbeats later, first one, then three more parachutes fluttered open far below. Evelyn felt Logan’s bitter knowledge that there had been six other men on board that aircraft. Liberty Belle was one of the few birds flying without a psychic on board, and Evelyn suppressed a small, wicked feeling of relief that she hadn’t just lost one of her friends.
Fighters! Twelve o’clock level!
* * * * *
Get “Minds of Men” now at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0778SPKQV.
Find out more about Kacey Ezell and “Minds of Men” at:
https://chriskennedypublishing.com/imprints-authors/kacey-ezell.
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