Conqueror

by Richard Tongue

  “Will do, Commander. Flight Ops out.”

  “Sir?” Haynes asked. “Just what happened at Altair III?”

  “I’m nowhere near drunk enough to tell that story, Flight. Maybe later.” He looked at the formation behind him, and said, “Standard arrowhead. By the book. Maybe too much so. It’s always hard to work out just where to go with decoy runs. The dividing line…” He paused, then said, “Wait one. I’ve got something.”

  “Already? We’re not in position yet, not even close…”

  “Nevertheless, Flight, I’m picking up three, correction, four targets in position behind the moon in a stationary orbit. He threw a series of quick commands into the computer, bringing the sensors systems on the other fighters online far earlier than he planned, trying to gain maximum possible resolution on the targets ahead. He sighed as he realized what they were, Trident transports, of the same design he had encountered at Golgotha, weeks before.

  “Nothing to worry about, I hope,” he said. “Transports. They’re probably holding them in position to launch a strike after the battle, capture some of our orbital installations.” He frowned, then added, “Though why would they be in orbit now? They must have detected us, must know that we’re coming. Why wouldn’t they be on an evasive course? They could get clear of us easily, and there wouldn’t be a damned thing we could do to catch up with them, not at this range, especially if we wanted to commit to our ground strike.” He paused, then said, “Throw up the trajectory plot, Flight. Let’s see where they might go from their current location.”

  Haynes looked over the navigation computers for a moment, then replied, “They’re set up pretty well to intercept any fleet heading for the moon. Suspiciously close to the course our task force is planning to take. They wouldn’t throw ships like that away on a suicide run, would they? Try and ram some of our ships?”

  “Even if they did, our corvettes are fast enough to dodge them easily, and they’d know that our fighters would hit them with everything they have to stop a kamikaze run. That isn’t the answer.” He paused, then repeated, “Fighters.” His hands raced across the controls, bringing up all the sensor data he could find, trying to get a mass reading on the enemy ships, to scrutinize them for any possible detail that might be of use. “Got it. Launch tubes.”

  “For assault shuttles?” Haynes asked.

  “No, fighters. They’ve been outfitted as carriers, modifications to their internal workings. It’s quite possible they could fill both roles, though not so well. Hell, they don’t have to.” He shook his head, and said, “Best guess has thirty-six fighters on each carrier. A hundred-plus thrown at the task force and we’re not just going to be outmatched technologically, we’re going to be outnumbered as well, and that’s without worrying about whatever the hell the cruiser is doing.” He grimaced, then said, “I think we just found their surprise.”

  “Orders, sir?”

  “Hold course for the moment. I’ve got to warn the fleet. Black Leader to Flight Ops, come in.” He paused, then repeated, “Black Leader to Flight Ops, come in. Reply at once, reply at once. Urgent, urgent.” He slammed the console, and said, “Damn it, come on, respond!”

  “No problem with our communications systems, sir. They must be having troubles at their end.”

  “It was working fine just a few minutes ago. I don’t believe in coincidences. Someone’s managed to find a way to pull the cord. They’ve still got a saboteur on board.” Hoping against hope, he repeated, “This is Black Leader to Flight Ops. Reply at once. Reply at once!” He looked across at his controls, and said, “Red Leader will be starting her evasive pattern right now. There’s no way to get a communications laser lined up, not while they’re weaving about like that, and if I try and send a signal on the normal frequencies, there’s too much danger that we might be overheard. We couldn’t even get through to the task force from here, not at this range.”

  “Sir, if we can’t warn the fleet, they’ll be wiped out.” She looked down at her trajectory plot, and said, “We can’t even hand them the message physically, not before it’s too late.”

  “Then there’s only one choice left. We’re going to attack.”

  “Attack them? A hundred fighters against twelve?”

  “Against seven. Right now we haven’t got any way of warning the rest of the squadron either. Maybe they’ll figure it out. Maybe they won’t. We’ll have to assume the latter. Get set up for an attack run. We’re going to head right into the heart of that formation and see how much of a mess we can make. Unless we can work a miracle, this war could be over even before it really begins.”

  Chapter 14

  “What’s going on?” Bishop asked. “Why aren’t they responding?”

  “I don’t know,” Bradley replied, shaking her head. “I can’t get a lock on Red Flight at all. They’re moving around too much, and they aren’t using any of the normal evasive patterns. Smart, but I wish they’d told us. Black Flight isn’t evading at all, but they’re on a course that won’t take them anywhere near the target area, and they still won’t respond to any of my signals.” She looked up at her monitor, and added, “I’ve got a lock right on the rectenna. They should be hearing us loud and clear. I even tried one of the automated fighters, just in case there’s a problem with Black Leader’s laser transceiver. Nothing.”

  “Confirmed,” Nguyen said, his eyes locked on the engineering telltales. “And I checked that transceiver myself before the launch. There was nothing wrong with it then, and there wasn’t anything wrong with the installation here. I went over that three times, just to check. No offense, Cadet.”

  “None taken, sir. It was tough enough to get the beast working. I was more than happy to have everything inspected, given what’s at stake.” She paused, then asked, “Sir, we couldn’t have missed something, could we?”

  “You might, but I wouldn’t,” Nguyen replied. “Besides, it worked before. The chances of something failing so quickly are remote, especially with nothing showing on the monitors. You’re thinking exactly what I am, aren’t you?”

  “Our friend the saboteur is back,” Bradley said. “That’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

  Throwing a control, Bishop brought up an overhead view of the hangar deck, showing a technician standing around, close to the stripped-down fighter, periodically glancing at the displays. She turned to Bradley, a frown on her face.

  “Technician Fedorov. He’s meant to be down there, keeping an eye on things. Either he’s gone blind or there’s nothing obvious at his end either.” She paused, then said, “Cadet, get down there and take a look. I’ll have Lieutenant Drake meet you on the way, just in case something’s wrong. If it’s a technical fault, something that’s got past the monitoring subroutines, get it fixed immediately. If it’s something worse, then contact me at once.”

  “Understood, ma’am,” Bradley replied.

  “One second, Cadet,” Nguyen said, reaching into the weapons locker and pulling out a sonic pistol. “Take this.”

  She took the weapon, sliding it confidently into her holster, and replied, “Thanks, sir.”

  “Just watch yourself,” Bishop said. “No heroics. You’ve already earned your medal for the week. On your way.”

  With a nod, Bradley ran from the room, sprinting down the corridor towards the hangar deck, knowing her father might be in danger, with no way to communicate with anyone back home, no way to pass on anything he’d found out there. She turned a corner, Drake running towards her, pistol in hand, a stocky Corporal behind him, her burly face grim as she hefted a sonic shotgun in her arms.

  “Heard you might need an assist,” Drake said.

  “I hope not, sir, but I’m glad to have the backup,” she replied, turning another corner, the doors to the hangar deck wide open before her. She sprinted into the cavernous room, the young technician at the controls turning in fear, hurling himself into cover at the anticipated attack, his hands racing into the air in surrender.

  “D
on’t shoot!” he said. “Please God, don’t shoot! I’m unarmed!”

  “In a combat situation, kid, that’s a lousy idea,” Drake replied. “We’re not here for you. Probably.”

  Bradley moved to the fighter, climbing into the half-dismantled cockpit, scrambling over the tangled collection of cables that snaked into the data ports. At first glance, everything seemed to be working as it should, all the relay circuits intact, the instruments working properly, but there was something strange about the system readings. She called up the factory default settings, bringing up the testing programs, and instantly saw what was wrong. The system readings were exactly as they were at installation. Precisely within programmed parameters. Except that they had made hundreds of modifications while attaching the fighter to Ariadne’s systems. Someone had tricked the diagnostic computers. Someone who knew precisely what they were doing.

  “Got it,” she said, looking up at Drake. “I think I can fix it. No way it was accidental, though.” She looked up, seeing Gordon walk into the room, toolkit in hand, and said, “Glad you’re here, Dimitri. Take a look at the starboard data connector, will you?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Gordon replied, pulling a very deadly pistol from his belt. “I’ve got AP in the magazine. One touch of the trigger and I breach the hull. It’s strained in this section as it is, and I’ve calibrated the weapon to guide the first round right to the weakest point.”

  “What the hell do you think you are doing?” Drake asked, turning to face the mutinous cadet.

  “Put your hands in the air, all of you, and move out into the open. You too, Vicky,” Gordon said, his pistol still levelled on the hatch. “Or I’ll be forced to do something all of us will regret. This will be over soon, in a matter of hours, and it would be a shame if you didn’t live to see the effects of our victory.”

  Slowly complying with his order, Drake replied, “You haven’t answered my question, Cadet.”

  “I reject that label. I had to wear it for a time, but no longer. Now the hour of liberation is at hand.”

  “What are you talking about?” Bradley asked. “You aren’t from Tartarus. You’re sixth-generation Caledonian…”

  “And my family has lived and worked in the refinery we were shipped here to slave in since we arrived. Freedom didn’t change a thing for us, and the central government has sat back and colluded with our oppressors. It’s going to be different now. Freedom is at hand. For all of us, yourselves included. No longer will we be subjects of a tyrannical oligarchy that enslaves us, oppresses us, holds us back. No more military buildup to create fleets to subjugate other worlds, bring them under the control of our tyrants.” He tugged at his uniform, and said, “Soon I can take off this costume forever.”

  “You might want to reconsider that,” the corporal replied. “It’s cold in here.”

  “You can scoff, you can mock, but I’m the one with the gun,” Gordon retorted.

  “True, but if you pull the trigger, you won’t live long enough to see the arrival of these Terran friends of yours. Just what makes you think they’re going to be so peace-loving, anyway?” Bradley asked. “We live in a democratic republic, and while I’ll be the first to admit that it is far from perfect, treachery and betrayal isn’t the answer!”

  “We’ve had fifteen Presidents since we became independent. They’ve only had ten last names between them. That doesn’t sound particularly democratic to me. We’re living in a plutocratic oligarchy, and only in the fires of revolution will we ever win through to true freedom and liberty. If the wealthy elites must burn for us to save ourselves, then so it must be. I’m only sorry that your father must die, but his name will be remembered forever as a martyr, one of the last slain by the forces of…”

  “You’re mad,” Bradley said, taking a step forward. “You’re mad to think what you do, and you’re mad as hell if you think I’m going to stand here with my hands raised while you sentence my father to death.” She took another step towards him, and said, “Give me the gun.”

  “One more move, and I’m going to kill us all.”

  “Then I guess you’re going to kill us all, Flash, because if I don’t get the communications systems working again, my father is going to die, and you have to be out of your mind if you think that I am going to sit back and let that happen.”

  “I’m warning you,” he said, beats of sweat building on his brow. “Don’t think that I won’t shoot.”

  “Oh, I think you’ll shoot. I just don’t think you’ll have a chance.”

  “What?”

  A loud report echoed through the room, and Gordon fell to the ground, stunned by the force of the sonic shotgun the cowering technician had retrieved from its resting place on the deck, the blast catching the renegade square on.

  “Good shooting, Specialist,” Drake said, racing forward to snatch the pistol. He ejected the chambered round, and looked up at Bradley, adding, “He wasn’t bluffing. He really meant it. I didn’t actually think he would go through with it.”

  Climbing back into the cockpit, Bradley said, “We need to hustle. We’ve got to get the communications system working again, and we’ve got to do it now. Corporal, get up to Astrogation and warn Lieutenant Bishop what happened here. I don’t want to trust any of this to the intercommunications system. Right now we don’t have the first idea who might be listening.” The trooper glanced at Drake, who nodded in acknowledgement as she sprinted from the room.

  “I didn’t see any problems with the system when I was looking over it, ma’am,” the technician said. “Everything seemed in normal parameters, and I wasn’t just relying on the readouts. I’m not that green.” He looked up at Bradley, and asked, “Are you wearing someone else’s uniform, ma’am?”

  “Details of rank can be dealt with later,” Drake said, ripping a medical kit from the wall. He rummaged through the contents for a sedative, pulling out the strongest one in the pack and injecting the wayward cadet with a full dose, a brief spasm running through the body of the unconscious man before he settled back onto the deck, all his muscles relaxed. “That’s going to be rather more pleasant than I’d expected, but it’ll keep him in Dreamland for a while.”

  “Never mind that now,” Bradley said. “I think Gordon managed to throw in a misalignment on the laser. It should be simple enough to fix. Set up a tracking decoy, Specialist, as close to the side of the ship as possible.”

  “Throwing it now,” the technician said, throwing a switch. Bradley brought up the targeting display on one screen and the proximity sensors with another. Immediately, she realized that her hunch had been correct. There was a discrepancy, just a micro-fraction of a degree, but enough to prevent any signal reaching the distant fighter. She worked the systems, trying for a hasty recalibration, attempting to bring them back on in a hurry. Finally, after what seemed an eternity but was actually only a handful of seconds, her work was rewarded with a glowing green light, and she swung the laser out again, out to her father on his approach to Taranis.

  “Hey, there’s something wrong here,” the technician said. “I’m getting a power feedback on the systems. Sleeping beauty must have rigged some sort of fail-safe override, a booby trap in case someone managed to find a way to stop him.” He reached under the fighter, tapping in a command sequence, and said, “He did a damn good job, as well. The whole matrix is going to go in a minute. We’ll be damned lucky if it doesn’t breach the hull.”

  “Ariadne to Black Leader,” Bradley began, as though she hadn’t heard him. “Ariadne to Black Leader. Come in, please. Come in, please.” Looking at Drake, she said, “Get Gordon out of here and prepare to close the blast doors as soon as the power build up reaches critical levels.”

  “We’re on the way,” Drake replied. “Come on, Cadet, get moving.”

  “I don’t have time to set up a relay to Flight Ops. If my father has got some sort of message for us, then we’re going to have to receive it now. There’s not going to be another chance.” Tapping a control
to boost the power, she said, “Get the hell out of here, sir, and do it now. I’m happy enough to risk my own life, but I’d really rather not be taking three others down with me. Get ready on that hatch control.”

  Shaking his head, Drake said, “The second you get your message, get out of there. That’s an order.”

  “Understood, sir.” Throwing another switch, she said, “Ariadne to Black Leader. Reply at once. Reply at once.”

  “Black Leader here. Vicky, is that you?”

  “No time to explain, sir. Pass your message, pass your message.” She looked up to see Drake dragging Gordon out of the room, the technician loitering for a few more seconds as he worked the power controls, trying in vain to find at least some way to delay the inevitable end of the power buildup, trying to shunt some of the overload into other, non-critical systems. He looked up, shook his head, and raced out of the room, standing by Drake as the officer pulled out the manual control for the hatch, holding it at the ready, looking up at Bradley with pleading eyes.

  “Enemy has four, repeat, four auxiliary fighter carriers behind the moon, positioned to ambush the task force as it advances towards Taranis. We estimate a hundred-plus fighters, all of the same type that attacked Ariadne. Imperative that Commodore Maddox alters his attack strategy to compensate. Black Flight will be launching a strike in eight, repeat, eight minutes, but I am not confident of success. Unable to contact Red Flight, which is proceeding with the original mission as planned. Did you get all that?”

  “I got it. I recommend you abort, Black Leader, and…”

  “Like hell, Vicky. We’re almost there. Good luck.”

  “Good hunting, Dad. Ariadne out.” The channel winked out, and for a second she looked at the blank monitor, wondering if there was any way she could have talked her father out of an attack that had to be suicide. There was no way that he could survive the battle, not with nothing but a collection of automated drone fighters equipped with missiles modified for ground assault.