The display showed a broadside of weaponry slicing toward the Phoenix, which responded with a barrage from its rail guns.
“That’s only half a broadside. What is this weapons officer playing at? Either the sabotage worked and she’s trying to draw it out, or she’s passively resisting, too.”
The Phoenix had no trouble neutralizing the attack.
“Bakshi hasn’t given her pilot a command, either,” Ekatya reported. “He’s sitting on his thumbs. They haven’t even turned to present their starboard side. I think this crew is quietly mutinying.”
“Can you blame them?” Salomen asked. “They’ve watched five officers die on this bridge.”
Bakshi snapped out an order.
A second set of shield breakers launched toward the Phoenix. Tal swore, desperately racking her brain for a way to buy more time.
“No, look!” Ekatya’s elation sparkled through their link. “That’s not a full broadside either. It’s less than half.”
Only now did Tal see that these weapons were sparser than the previous barrage.
“What—?”
“They did it. They shekking did it! This ship has two standard launch tubes per room, just like mine. Those are the shield breakers that were already reloaded in the second launcher. Remember, they were firing both bioforce missiles and shield breakers. They took out the bioforce missiles, but not all of them reloaded their tubes.” She stopped to listen as her ship’s defenses responded.
“It wasn’t that they only had one shot left, it was that they had one shot per tube,” Tal said slowly, realization setting in.
“If that’s the end of it, we’re in excellent shape to take on those destroyers,” Ekatya announced.
The weapons officer made a trembling report, setting off an incandescent level of anger in Bakshi. Tal needed no translation.
“Lancer Tal, the slaves said their weapons sabotage was successful. I don’t have any way to confirm it—”
“I do.” Tal was happy to set Vellmar at ease. “Bakshi tried to fire them without much luck.”
“Thank Fahla. They said they burned out the whole area, so it won’t be an easy repair. They’re working on the lockdown now. My teams are in position. Can you tell me Bakshi’s exact location? And her officers?”
“She’s in the commodore’s chair. Her officers are lined up along the levels, five on each side of the bridge and two standing by the bulkhead behind her chair.”
“Five, five, and two, I have it. We’re moving now. Tell Salomen and Dr. Rivers to close their eyes.”
Tal was leading Salomen and Lhyn to the back corner when an explosion rocked the bridge. Smoke poured through the half-open doors, and the bridge officers were on the floor once more.
Bakshi’s rage shifted to vicious glee as she spoke in triumphant tones.
Lhyn was more subdued. “She said she looks forward to telling Captain Serrado that her emissary didn’t see the detonator on the doors.”
20
Endgame
“It’s there.” The Voloth chief of security grinned, his teeth the most visible part of his face in the dim exit shaft. “Just as he said.”
Vellmar had to give Onruang his due. The man was a psychopath, but he knew his ship and his second. He had predicted that she would repeat a successful strategy and rig the bridge doors. The four officers she left behind were only the first line of defense.
“Can he trigger it from there? Take out the doors and guards at the same time?”
“Yes. He says it will only eliminate two, but the others should be surprised enough to be easily neutralized. He awaits your permission.”
“Senshalon,” she said softly.
A quiet scuff behind her meant he had drawn a blade. “Ready.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and pulled two blades from the topmost sheaths. With the tip of her right knife, she indicated his projection target: one of two emotional signatures bracketing the door ahead.
“Target acquired,” he murmured.
She focused on the left-hand signature. “Freeze.”
After the Battle of Alsea, training in both types of terror projection—freeze and flee—had become mandatory for high empaths in the protective services. She detested it, but this was easier than any of her practices. The soldier’s unshielded mind crumpled like a dried leaf.
“Frozen.” Senshalon confirmed his own success.
She tapped her guide’s arm with a knife hilt and nodded.
“Master Onruang,” he said. “Proceed.”
An explosion roared dully on the other side of the thick door separating them from the bridge, bringing with it a barrage of fear and the muting effect of shock. The bridge officers had been frightened so many times in a short period that some were losing their ability to cope. It made sense, she thought. Her tours of the Phoenix had shown that a bridge crew was mostly scholars and builders, with a scattering of warriors. They might be trained for combat, but for most, it was a kind of combat fought from within a massive, impervious ship. Not the kind that took place right over their heads.
Nearby, she sensed a savage triumph that had to be Bakshi.
“They’re down,” her guide reported.
“All teams, go.”
He repeated her order into his com, then slid open the door and pulled aside the banner that hung in front of it. As light and noise poured into their narrow passage, Vellmar caught a glimpse of the bridge over his shoulder. Straight ahead were the backs of the two throne-chairs she had seen on the broadcast. Slender hands dangled over the armrests of the one on the left; beside it sprawled the headless body of Vataka.
The lower stations were empty, their operators crouching on the deck. It gave Onruang’s team a clear sightline from the main doorway to their targets on the right side of the bridge. Vellmar and her team would take the left side.
Ahead of her, the security chief did a credible dive-and-roll out of the emergency exit hatch. He came up on one knee and shot the nearest officer on the fourth landing.
Vellmar was close on his heels, turning the moment she emerged to sink a knife into the frozen guard’s heart. On her right, Senshalon did the same to his.
She yanked out the bloody blade and refocused on Bakshi, projecting simple confusion to delay the woman’s response. One step and a quarter turn put her in the proper orientation, and she sent both knives across the bridge in quick succession. The first lodged in the throat of the woman closest to the main doors. The second, glistening from its previous use, took down the man next to her.
Trusting her warriors to neutralize their own targets, she kept moving, reaching the commodore’s chair just as Bakshi leaped out of it and turned. Projected confusion shifted to instinctive horror when she caught sight of the warriors pouring out of the emergency exit—a bridge access Onruang had accurately guessed she would not consider a high risk. It was meant solely for the four-ribbon officers, who could run down the exit shaft to a luxurious, high-powered escape shuttle. That shuttle required cleaning and maintenance, and lowly hangers or slaves doing the work could not be allowed to dirty the bridge with their presence. Thus, the exit shaft had a second entry from a brace shaft.
Bakshi had not rigged this door, clearly believing that two guards close by and ten more lining the walls would be enough for the unlikely threat. In addition, Onruang had pointed out, she wouldn’t want a bomb so close to the command chair she had stolen.
By the time the frightened woman drew her disruptor, Vellmar had already extended her sword.
The first stroke severed Bakshi’s wrist, her fingers still clutching the weapon. The second sliced across her throat, leaving her a dead woman standing. She stared, all fear erased by stunned acceptance as a curtain of red streamed down her throat and into her collar.
Even as her body crumpled to the deck, Vellmar threw a third blade at an officer who had taken cover on the right side of the bridge, shielding himself from Onruang’s team. He was not shielded from a well-placed
knife, however, which struck in the one place exposed to her: his shoulder. He jerked back with a cry, a natural response but a fatal mistake. Her fourth blade sent him to the deck with a severed trachea.
She drew a fifth and cocked her arm, scanning the bridge for hostiles. The air stank of burned flesh, with a tang of hot metal indicating missed disruptor shots that had struck bulkheads instead. Fear bombarded her senses, as well as a few flashes of weary satisfaction from bridge officers.
Interesting.
There were no more threats. Her warriors had done their jobs with speed and precision, aided by the surprisingly effective security officers. Ten bodies lined the walls, two lay at her feet, two more slumped behind her, and all of her warriors were still standing, though Senshalon grimaced as he held a hand clamped against his shoulder. Dewar was already unslinging her medic’s pack, preparing to treat him.
She fervently hoped Lancer Tal had heeded her advice. If Salomen had seen this, her friend might never look at her the same way again.
“Master Onruang!” she called, sheathing her blade.
He stepped through the damaged doors. “Yes, Lead Guard?”
“Please see that these bodies are removed from the bridge. Then make sure no one enters or leaves. And get my knives back.”
He snapped his fingers at two nearby officers and pointed. They jogged over to pick up Bakshi, but not before Vellmar had cleaned her sword on the woman’s fancy uniform jacket.
It was a Yulsintoh blade. She would no more retract it while bloodied than she would jump from a moving transport.
“Well done, Vellmar. Very, very well done!” Lancer Tal sounded delighted. “You even kept your uniforms clean.”
She hooked the retracted sword back on her hip, trying not to smile too broadly at such effusive praise from her oath holder. “Thank you. Please tell me Salomen didn’t see it.”
“She did not. And she’s extremely relieved to know her task is truly done. Goddess above, I’m glad to see you here. I don’t—” She stopped. “We’ve had some unpleasant surprises along the way. Having this work so perfectly . . .” Once again, words failed her.
“I understand.” Had she been forced to bring Lanaril into a battle, she’d be lucky to string two words together.
“Thank you.” Lancer Tal’s voice was crisp once more. “Be aware that the pilot, weapons officer, and comm officer have engaged in a quiet sort of mutiny against Bakshi. You may find them supportive.”
“We still have to embed the directive.”
“Yes, but it should be relatively easy. They’re waiting for you. Go be our emissary. I’ll tell Lanaril you’re all right.”
Too many words crowded her throat. This was not the time, nor was Lancer Tal the person for a message of love. But she had seen and sensed so much pain on this ship that the thought of Lanaril’s serene smile made her physically ache.
She pushed down the image and surveyed the sea of wary faces looking between her and the bodies being carted from the room.
“I am Fahla’s Emissary. Your ship is locked down, including all officers. Your weapons rooms will not fire. I’m taking control of this ship and taking it out of the fight. I’d like your assistance in that, but I won’t threaten you to get it. My hope is that this is the last violence we will see today.”
Quickly, she outlined her terms: they could remain on the bridge and work with her, or they could be removed and put under lockdown until a prisoner transfer could occur. This lockdown would not take place in their own quarters but in the slave quarters.
That had been Dewar’s idea, and it was diabolically effective. At her first mention of the lockdown option, half the crew rose from their chairs. Upon hearing the phrase “slave quarters,” all but two sat back down.
She sent those two away in the company of a security officer with a quiet order to put them in the brig. Onruang had warned her that any officer who accepted her offer had either an abusive relationship with slaves or a profitable one. Either way, he advised her not to allow it.
She did not understand this culture and hoped she never did.
“Given that all of you have been complicit in the attempted genocide of my people,” she said, “I’m sure you’ll understand that I can’t trust you not to betray us. Each of my warriors will implant an empathic directive in you. The instruction is simple: you will not be able to harm Alsea or any Alsean. That’s it. It’s painless, as our Voloth Empire settlers can attest.”
Every remaining member of the bridge crew stared at her in shock. So did her turned security officers.
“Excuse me.” A woman on the fourth level lifted a hand.
“That’s the weapons officer,” Lancer Tal said.
“Yes?”
“Could you explain what you mean by Voloth settlers?”
That was not the question she had expected. “The prisoners from the Battle of Alsea. Your government abandoned them after the battle. The ones who survived with their minds intact were given permission to make their homes on Alsea. They’ve built a nice little village and created their own municipal government.”
Far from clearing up the shock, her explanation seemed to do the opposite.
“Good Fahla, they didn’t know.”
“We were told there were no survivors,” the weapons officer said, confirming Lancer Tal’s realization. “They said you killed them all, down to the last one.”
“Your government lied to you. Again. One of the survivors taught me everything I know about Voloth ships and military structure. He’s the elected spokesperson of the village.”
An older man spoke up. “We were firing bioforce missiles on our own people?”
“Does that change the immorality of it for you?”
He at least had the grace to not only feel shame, but allow it to show. “I never thought it was moral. But questioning orders isn’t good for one’s career.”
“Or life, today,” someone muttered.
“I’m going to arrange for Rax to address the Voloth fleet through the Phoenix. It will take a few ticks. Get busy with those directives.”
“Enough. We need to move on. Either accept a painless empathic directive to leave us alone, or spend time in the slave quarters.”
It was amazing what that threat could accomplish. The officers meekly lined up at the front of the bridge and awaited their fate.
Vellmar walked down and pointed at the weapons officer. “You seem more courageous than the others. Step over here, please. I’ll embed your directive and you can tell them they have nothing to fear.”
With trepidation she almost managed to hide, the woman stepped out of line. She appeared to be middle-aged, inasmuch as Vellmar could judge age in Gaians, and about Lanaril’s height.
“I have two sons,” she said quietly. “They’re back home, waiting for me. If that makes any difference in the mercy you show.”
“I have two mothers. They’re on that planet.” Vellmar pointed at the display. “Waiting for me to come home. That made no difference in the mercy you showed today.”
It hit hard. Clearly this woman had never once considered that Alseans might have families they cared about. She dropped her gaze, unable to look Vellmar in the eye. “What they told us about you—they made you sound like a threat to the galaxy. Monsters who couldn’t be allowed out of your system.”
“Do you know the irony of that? We don’t want to leave our system. Perhaps someday, but we’re not the ones who invade peaceful worlds and murder entire civilizations.”
The officer nodded, sniffed, and held up her head. “I’m ready.”
“I promise you, it won’t hurt.” Vellmar slid her hands into position and rested their foreheads together.
She was gentler than she had been with Onruang. This wasn’t a rewrite of a resistant will, but the simple addition of a new layer.
Less than one tick later, she withdrew. Every bridge officer was watching intently.
“Well?” a younger man demanded. “Are you still you?�
��
“Shades of our Seeders. Yes, I’m fine. The only thing that hurts is my heart.”
“She damaged your heart?”
“No. I did. We all did.” She faced them. “You can’t tell me you were comfortable with this mission. Bioforce missiles? Even the Protectorate agreed not to use them. Since when are we worse than them?”
Many of them averted their eyes.
“I passed on those orders knowing they were wrong, but I didn’t think I had a choice. Now the idea makes me sick. I’d rather die than give another order like that. But that’s all she did.” Looking back at Vellmar, she added, “Thank you for your mercy.”
“You’re welcome.” Though she didn’t know how merciful it truly was. When this officer returned home, would her government accept her? Would it allow her to rejoin her children, or would it conduct medical experiments to determine the physiological effects of an empathic directive, as Rax and his settlers suspected?
It was not an issue she could afford to worry about. These officers had made their choices, coerced or not. Now they had to face the consequences.
She kept watch, along with her turned security officers, while nine of her ten warriors completed the directive implantations in shifts. With his arm in a sling, Senshalon could not manage the necessary contact.
When it was done, she had a nearly complete bridge crew and full control at last.
“Call the Phoenix,” she said. “Use an open channel and the translator for High Alsean to Common. It’s time to speak to Fahla.”
21
Path of the Return
Fahla probably wouldn’t grin like an idiot.
But it was difficult to hold back when Vellmar capped off the most precise military assault Ekatya had ever witnessed by pressing both fists to her sternum and bowing her head in the salute given only to the Lancer—and now, apparently, a goddess.
Alsea Rising: The Seventh Star (Chronicles of Alsea Book 10) Page 14