Shadow Strike

by P. R. Adams

  Why didn’t she say that ships were actually being blown up? He wouldn’t have argued if he’d known.

  Why was it everyone tried to start arguments with him?

  Why—?

  Heat flashed through his face. It wasn’t everyone else, and he knew it. It was him.

  And he had to make up for it.

  Buried a couple sub-menus down, Parkinson found what he wanted. Someone else would have taken minutes to figure the interface out. Thank goodness for his brilliance.

  He loaded up a restore from the date where they’d fled Jotun, then told the system to reset.

  And he hoped Benson was right. Because it sounded like this space battle was different. The kind of different where everyone could die.

  They were breaking down, collapsing into panic. Stiles could see it in the commander’s jade eyes, the way they jumped around too fast for her to actually process what she was seeing. Stress-driven perspiration was like a film of dew on the woman’s brow, a salty scent no one else would notice. Her breath was rapid. If not for the hum of machinery, her heartbeat would probably be loud enough to hear and just as much of a mess.

  The panic was understandable. Stiles hadn’t thought of the possibility of sabotage. Gadreau was a problem. She’d seen that from the start, but his involvement meant the connection to Patel was stronger than indicated in the records.

  There was more hidden, obviously.

  She shot a look at Halliwell. He was worse off than Benson, and it wasn’t because of the battle. The staff sergeant seemed to welcome the possibility of destruction. There was so much pain and dread in him, so much frustration and anger. He hated Gadreau. And Patel.

  Once again, there was more hidden than in the big Marine’s records.

  Shadows. Everything was hidden in the shadows.

  Benson rubbed her forehead. “How long could it take to reset a system?”

  “A minute. Maybe less.” Stiles needed to get the commander settled.

  “The Kolkata doesn’t have a minute.”

  “The Clarion is close.”

  Benson squeezed her eyes shut. Once again, it was an understandable reaction. The captain of the Clarion was damaged. She had many issues, things she had chosen not to have corrected. It was easier to say that the problems were simply who she was. Somewhere, the people of the Republic had decided that rather than address defects, they would embrace them, as if repairable defects were somehow a problem.

  Was that why the Genesys project had been approved? Not just because there were so many enemies infiltrating the ranks but because humans had headed down a self-destructive path?

  How rare was someone like Benson? Intelligent. Self-confident. Capable. And balanced. She had the rare ability to operate effectively under stress.

  Normally.

  But how valuable was that when everyone around her was so broken?

  The commander sighed and set her communicator on the console in front of her. It chirped as a connection was established; the speaker was on. “Commander Scalise?”

  “I tried to get there.” Scalise was breathing heavily. Her cheeks were red around her sideburns, as if she’d been tugging at the whiskers. “Your course was bad.”

  “Commander Scalise, listen. The Marie Belle is gone. It was destroyed because you disobeyed orders.”

  “No! You can’t—”

  “The course I sent you would have put you there—”

  “You can’t order my crew to die! You can’t!”

  Benson’s voice caught. She closed her eyes and bowed her head. It had been the same argument she’d made about Martinez’s orders in the DMZ. “I didn’t order you to have your crew—”

  “You did!”

  “You have the best shields out there other than the Iwo Jima. You could have taken those missile hits.”

  “My crew—”

  “Commander Scalise, one ship—one commander—doesn’t matter more than the nation. If you don’t follow orders, you put our people at risk of annihilation.”

  “No!” Scalise sounded on the verge of a complete breakdown. “No! I matter! I deserved promotion! You—!”

  Benson slapped the console. “Pull yourself together, Commander! Pull yourself together now, or you’ll be replaced.”

  The heavy breathing grew more intense. Scalise’s eyes were wide. Tears pooled in them. “I…”

  “We need your ship, Patty. We need you.”

  Scalise’s lips trembled, then she nodded. “I-I understand.”

  “Good. Then get in the fight. Give the Kolkata some cover before we lose another ship.”

  “Yes. Yes, ma’am.”

  Benson’s hand shook as she powered the connection down.

  Halliwell had grown more agitated with each of Scalise’s wild shrieks. “She’s crazy.”

  The commander slapped the communicator against her shoulder. “She’s terrified and angry.”

  “Because she’s crazy. And she got the Marie Belle blown up.”

  “It’s not just her. And it’s not just this Azoren captain. There’s something else at work.”

  Stiles rubbed the blank display in front of her. “Once we get the SCS back—”

  “That’s just the symptom. The problem runs deeper. Gadreau, Patel, SAID—there’s a whole lot of smoke. I just can’t see the fire.”

  Halliwell’s eyes dropped to the deck. His jaw muscles bunched.

  Benson didn’t notice; Stiles did. “Staff Sergeant Halliwell, are you okay?”

  He nodded, but it was a desperate plea to be left alone.

  “Do you know something the commander should know?”

  Benson spun around, surprised, and the big Marine’s head came up—first to glare at Stiles, then to offer a pleading look at the commander: Please don’t ask.

  But the commander had to ask. It was in her eyes now—a dread of her own. “Clive…?”

  The struggle within must have been intense. What had his record said about him? Driven but conflicted. Loyal but unreliable.

  Why would he be considered unreliable? If he was loyal… Too loyal?

  Stiles focused on relaxing him. “It’s not just Patel, Commander. And it’s not just SAID. They’re definitely involved. If the data hadn’t been stolen—”

  Benson rocked back. “Data you stole from Patel.”

  “Not all of it. But it was data that needed to be recovered.”

  “Maybe it’s still out there.”

  “No, it’s gone. People needed that data destroyed. It would have moved a lot of investigations forward.” Stiles twisted enough to look at Halliwell. “Agent Patel was driven by more than loyalty to SAID.”

  The staff sergeant flinched.

  Benson’s eyes widened; she’d caught the reaction. “What else was behind his behavior?”

  “His family had significant influence over him. They pushed him to do things he probably was conflicted over.”

  Halliwell’s nostrils flared.

  Stiles calmed him. “Have either of you ever heard of anything known as Owls or Ravens?”

  It was as if she’d driven a live wire into the big Marine’s scrotum.

  She waited a second to see if Halliwell would speak up; he didn’t. “I thought Colonel McLeod might be involved. It’s an internal GSA struggle of some sort, I guess.”

  “There!” The commander pointed to the SCS display. “It’s coming back up.”

  The system menus appeared. Stiles ran through them as she spoke. “The Patels had substantial investments in efforts to broaden ties with the Gulmar, same as other wealthy families and corporations. They all wanted trade.”

  Benson squinted. “You’re trying to tell me all of this is about money?”

  “Well, they wanted the Gulmar to go to war. There was lots of money to be had selling weapons systems.”

  “That’s ridiculous. No one is stupid enough to give a known enemy weapons and aid simply because they think there might be some short-term gain.”

  A nervous tic
ran along the left side of Halliwell’s face. He knew something.

  Stiles just needed to draw him out. Could he have been involved? “There was an SAID operation several years ago, an illegal trade with the Gulmar—weapons and drugs in exchange for Gulmar fielding privateers of their own to raid Azoren ships in Moskav space and to give the Moskav aid.”

  The commander held up a hand. “That’s enough. You’re getting into conspiracy theories and lunatic—”

  “It’s true.” Halliwell’s voice was a ghost of its normal strength. He shuddered, as if the struggle within was physical, one part of his body fighting another. “Those piracy raids I told you about. That’s…that’s what they were really doing. Smuggling weapons and drugs.”

  Benson stared at her screen. “Lieutenant, anything?”

  The countermeasures seemed different. Stiles ran a sweep. “Nearly there.”

  Halliwell reached out to Benson’s back, then hunched over his knees. “Faith, it’s the truth. All of my life, I’ve refused to turn people in. It’s how people get taken down. The innocent pay. Gadreau knew I’d figured out what was going on. He offered to bring me on. I said no.”

  “We don’t have time for this, Clive.” But Benson was listening. She was processing what the Marine was saying now that he’d broken.

  “Faith, they tried to kill me. Three times. And then on Dramoran.”

  That turned Benson around again. “You’re trying to tell me that whole cover-up—”

  “Was to keep me and some of my battalion quiet.” He clenched his big hands into fists. “The general—Gullaly—his family’s in deep with the Gulmar. It’s why they’re dead set about keeping Dramoran in the Republic. Most of the other powerful families are pro-Azoren.”

  Stiles thought about that. She’d never made all the connections. General Gullaly’s family certainly had ties to the Patels. It made sense, although wiping out an entire battalion—

  The countermeasures system fully blazed to life.

  “Commander!”

  The tension seemed to largely slip from Benson’s face. “I see it.” She tapped the ship communications panel and adjusted her headset. “All vessels, this is Commander Benson…”

  Stiles relaxed ever so slightly as a second sweep refreshed the screen, revealing the outline of the Azoren ships.

  Too late for the Clarion, she realized.

  Benson had been wrong: The missile strikes had been too much for the ship. But she had been right about the sabotage, and now with the SCS operational again, the Kedraalian fleet had the advantage.

  29

  Hunters wrote about the thrill of pursuit, the sense of desperation of the prey like a drug. It was a feeling Morganson could appreciate. Chasing the wounded Kedraalian ship was both frustrating and thrilling. The enemy captain seemed capable, and the fact that an ally would intervene to preserve a damaged ship spoke volumes about discipline, but the ship would be destroyed.

  Something touched his left hand, a hand that had gripped the support rail ring so hard and for so long that his forearm now ached. It took real effort to draw his eyes from the giant display tracking the hunt.

  Voegel looked up—eyes cold but full of concern. “You have other targets.”

  Thunder had nearly swallowed her voice. My heart. The gas. “We do. But this is the target that matters.”

  “It is the weakness of humans to succumb to stubbornness.” Her breath was like oil and dust.

  Real? Imagined? She was a machine, after all.

  He fought back a sneer. “It is stubborn to seek to complete the mission now? How strange that before it was dedication and the lack of such pursuit was failure.”

  Lights flashed on the giant display, and Ostmann turned, back stiff. “Another ship has intervened between us and the damaged one, Captain!”

  Morganson pulled his hand free from the doctrine officer’s grip. “Good.”

  “We have a clean lock-on. Shall I adjust to fire upon it?”

  “Destroy it.”

  The weapons officer bent over his console. “Firing all weapons.”

  The Kedraalians were fools to sacrifice themselves. It occurred to Morganson that he was doing the same thing. “Status, Ensign?”

  “Fires. Debris. It was a substantial hit.”

  “What matters now is the strike that destroys it.”

  “It will not be long, Captain.” The weapons officer must have noticed the cool stare on Voegel’s face. He cleared his throat. “With each strike, the enemy loses more capabilities.”

  True enough. “The display shows more ships approaching.”

  “They also move to protect this one. As you said, Captain, it must have some significance to the others. This second ship has suffered more serious damage. It—it is gone.”

  The enemy had expended missiles in a desperate gambit to provide protection for the damaged ship. Now it had sent two ships to die in its stead. What greater proof was there that a captain’s assessment trumped that of his android aide? While the artificial mind provided value—the eyes and ears of the Supreme Leader as she continued to remind everyone—she didn’t have the training Morganson did. While he had studied tactics, she had studied philosophy.

  How unsurprising she lacked the awareness to assess this difference and to keep herself silent.

  Voegel tugged on his cuff. It was the sort of thing an infant or an animal might do. “There is an opportunity here.”

  “There is, Commander Voegel. I happen to be pursuing it.”

  “No. Our Dramoran allies have revealed more. The way these ships were able to attack us despite our advanced technology—they have technology of their own.”

  “Then we will extract that technology from the wrecked husks they leave behind.”

  “But it would be better to exploit this weakness now. Pursuing this damaged ship gives the enemy an idea of where—”

  Morganson sighed. “Commander Voegel, I am quite aware of the risks.”

  She stepped back, her face twisted by disappointment or confusion. “A capable captain would rein his emotions in.”

  “Do stop assessing my competence, please, Commander Voegel.”

  “It is my job—”

  “And it is my job to lead this fleet, something I cannot do with you hounding me like a needy child.”

  The imbecilic communications and helm officers turned gaping mouths and wide eyes on their captain. They were the spineless sort who would follow a doctrine officer into the heart of a sun, wondering until the end if they might see a raise or promotion for their loyalty.

  But not Morganson. He knew his capabilities, and now he knew where he stood with the doctrine officer. And with the Supreme Leader. “Ensigns Francisco and Mencias, are you so free of duties you have the time to gawk?”

  Muttered apologies preceded the two of them turning back around.

  She is a problem. A distraction. “Commander Voegel, there are times the Supreme Leader must know everything, and there are times where he need only know the end result.”

  The doctrine officer squared her shoulders and pivoted to face the display. “My position grants me broad discretion, Captain.”

  “It does. Interference is not part of that.”

  “Assessment is, though.”

  Ostmann swung around, glancing first at his captain, then at Voegel. Clearly, the meaning of the doctrine officer’s words had landed. “Captain…?”

  Morganson waved a hand dismissively. “Carry on, Ensign Ostmann.”

  The words were easy. Projecting calm at the android’s challenge was harder.

  He straightened and clasped his hands behind his back, then stepped down and slid to Voegel’s side. “Assessment? There is no excuse for questioning my competence in front of my crew.”

  She stared straight ahead. “You have become obsessed.”

  “The reasoning behind my tactics is sound. Destroy this ship, and we strike fear and panic into the enemy. They have thrown two ships—”

  “Gr
eater fear and panic can be created by attacking these ships that maneuver to protect the damaged ship. Superior targeting is available to you. Seize the advantage.”

  “You say I have become obsessed, yet it seems to me that you are the one suffering from irrational thinking.”

  “That is not possible, Captain.”

  He pressed his lips to her ear. “You are programmed to think as a human, Sasha.”

  Her cold eyes locked on his. “As are you.”

  “We have the same goals. We see the same results. Only the methods differ.”

  “The enemy fleet is vulnerable. By pursuing so recklessly, you make your fleet vulnerable. You acknowledged this not even an hour ago.”

  “Ah, but you ignore the result of my efforts. Already, I have destroyed two ships. Whether I hunt them or they rush to defend my prey, the result is the same.”

  “Except you have become emotionally invested in the pursuit.”

  “There is no shame in the thrill. You should seek emotion out one day.”

  She looked away. “Have you considered the missile attack against us?”

  “Beyond desperation, there is little to consider.”

  “Are they so desperate they fired with no chance of success? You had yet to destroy even a single ship.”

  Morganson had wondered the same thing, but to hear Voegel challenge the notion made it seem even more absurd. The missile launch had been logical in its own way. More importantly, it was a thing of the past. To dwell on the possible reasoning for a failed enemy tactic seemed pointless in the middle of a battle not yet secured.

  Ostmann glanced up at the display, where flashes of light indicated Azoren weapons fire coming closer and closer to the failing enemy ship. “Captain?”

  “Why such confusion, Ensign Ostmann?”

  “The Helsinki.”

  “Yes, what about it?”

  “It has registered several hits, Captain.”

  “Good!” Morganson smiled down at the doctrine officer. “The pursuit ends—”

  “Captain, the Helsinki has not struck the enemy. The Helsinki has been struck.”

  The weapons officer’s eyes were distant. He would be listening to damage reports, assessing what happened.