by B. V. Larson
“Dismissed.”
When Major Fifty-seven had departed, Benota took another drink of the homemade liquor, capped the bottle, and then lay down to await the availability of an autodoc.
***
The heavy metallic clangs and clunks Straker heard meant another ship was docking directly with the wreck of the Wolverine, rather than sending over small craft. He unholstered his sidearm and turned to Engels. “I’ll meet them at the airlock,” he said. “If you hear shooting…”
Engels gave him a sickly grimace from her chair, a chair she’d refused to leave. Her head was bandaged with a mass of spray-seal. “Don’t fight, Derek. If it’s the enemy mopping up, they’ll have Hok and marines. You can’t win.”
“I’m not going back to a re-education camp.”
“Better that than dying,” she pressed. “If we stay alive, we might escape again.”
He shook his head. “No. I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees.” Straker kissed her gently. “I’m sorry, my love. I can’t do it your way.” He grinned. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and they’ll only wound me. In any case, I’m going to try to take their ship. It’s our only chance.”
“Go, then. I love you. You never did listen to me anyway,” she said, closing her eyes. For some reason, her words stung more now than usual.
If only she could understand the thing inside him that wouldn’t let him give in. Not now, not ever. It was as much a part of him as her compassion, or Indy’s reluctance to kill, or Loco’s bad jokes. More, maybe.
That made him wonder about Loco. He’d hoped—expected, really—that his friend would show up on time. Had he run into something he couldn’t handle, or was he really so pissed off that he’d abandon Straker and the Liberation?
Straker met Chief Gurung in the cargo bay leading to the main airlock, where the other ship had docked. The squat, muscular Gurkha had his Kukri knife out and was stropping the blade on his coverall’s sleeve.
With the man was an assortment of armed crew. He saw Redwolf standing among them in a battlesuit, checking his blaster.
“I thought you were ordered to Indomitable with Heiser and the other marines,” Straker said to him.
“Couldn’t leave you unprotected, sir.”
Straker let the disobedience pass. He looked around. “Nazario?” he asked.
Redwolf shook his head slowly. The big man’s planar face seemed carved of granite. “Unlucky RG strike, three compartments in. Pulped him where he stood.”
“Sorry to hear that.” And Straker was. Had he not placed the Liberation fleet in front of Indomitable in a bid to trick Indy into compromising her principles, Nazario and many others would probably be alive right now. They’d have lost the battleship, but the Liberation would have been no worse off than before they hijacked her.
He’d been a fool.
No, he told himself. Shit happens. You took your shot and failed. That’s how it goes. Man-up and deal with it.
The airlock klaxon sounded and the warning lights flashed. The ragtag grouping of defenders took cover where they could. Straker knew it would be a futile gesture. Hok would pour through, a few would be killed, his people would be butchered, and that would be that, unless some lucky miracle occurred.
And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to order them to surrender, not even to save their lives. Those who didn’t want to fight would be hiding deeper in the ship.
Straker raced up to take a position off to the side of the entrance, his puny slugthrower pistol out. He grabbed a fire extinguisher and rolled it into the enemy’s path, and then plucked a sharp crysteel fire axe from the wall holder. When they came through, he’d puncture the tank, creating a temporary fog, and try to get in among them to use his superior close combat skills.
The door swung open and he was about to chop down with the axe when he saw Redwolf loping forward, waving frantically and tapping his sealed helmet by his ear, the universal signal for “comlink.” He popped his faceplate open and yelled, “Sir, sir! They’re friendlies!”
As Liberation crewman cautiously boarded Wolverine and Gurung’s crew stepped from cover, Straker felt a wash of nausea from his frustrated combat readiness. He stilled the shaking in his adrenalized nerves and holstered his sidearm. “Welcome aboard,” he called out, waving Breakers in. “Send medics to the bridge.”
Redwolf followed him as he pushed through the crowd and onto the other ship—Badger, the wall plate announced simply, the rest of her Mutualist designators sanded off.
Excellent. Sister ship to Wolverine, a battlecruiser with the same basic layout. Straker hurried to the bridge. “Report!” he snapped at the young, dusky woman standing at attention by her captain’s chair. The plate on her ample chest reminded him of her name. “Captain Hoyt, right? Tell me.”
She gestured at the tactical holoscreen, for the bridge lacked a flagship’s holo-table. “We won, sir. The battleship AI finally woke up and smashed them. They’re running, though, and Indomitable lacks the speed to chase them down for a while, so we’re conducting rescue and salvage. Sir,” she stepped closer and lowered her voice, “I’m to inform you that General DeChang tried to take charge of what’s left of us. He wanted to transfer his flag to Indomitable, but Captain Zholin refused until we…”
“Until you found out if I was alive or dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, both the commodore and I made it, though many others didn’t. We’re damn glad to see you.”
Hoyt smiled and flushed. “Thank you, sir. Likewise.”
Hero worship, Straker mused. He noticed her accent. “You’re Sachsen, aren’t you?”
“I was raised there, but I’m actually Portuguese. From New Lisbon.”
More odd designations. In the Hundred Worlds, nobody cited their ancestry or spoke extra languages beyond Earthan, except for a few scholars. For all their supposed mutuality, the Mutualists couldn’t seem to achieve the social unity they claimed to crave. That didn’t surprise him. People liked to be proud of their homes and homeworlds. As a kid, he’d bragged of being from Oceanus and rooted for the Seaburn Seahawks, though now he couldn’t really remember why.
“Maybe you can tell me all about it once we liberate Ruxin,” he said. “Now get me a comlink to Indomitable.”
Chapter 35
Ruxin System, Battleship Indomitable, Inbound for the Planet Ruxin
Twelve hours had passed since Straker had been picked up by Badger. In that time, he’d had himself, Engels and all the survivors of Wolverine—less replacements for Badger’s losses—transferred to Indomitable and set up his command on the spacious bridge of the battleship. Some autodoc surgery and a couple of hours in a regeneration tank had fixed up Engels head—well enough for duty, anyway, though she still wore a protective medical cap.
Most of the survivors had been rescued. A few small ships continued to search, and several vessels were being repaired in place with help from other teams. The operational warships had rejoined Indomitable as she cruised inward toward a position to bombard Ruxin’s defenses. The Liberation fleet took position on the starboard side, the Unmutuals to port.
The remainder of the enemy fleet had done what repairs they could, and now orbited as a group far behind the six heavy fortresses. They’d shuffled here and there, onloading and offloading, docking and undocking. It wasn’t clear why.
Straker spent half an hour in a private comlink with General DeChang, making sure the man understood in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t be taking over the Liberation unless all of its senior officers were dead, an unlikely occurrence now that Indomitable was operational.
DeChang seemed gracious and apologetic, yet always walking a fine line between agreeability and suave condescension. Straker left that conversation feeling vaguely dirty. What was it about these current or former Mutuality elites that never felt quite true and decent? He was happy to get back to operational matters on the bridge.
“Zaxby said Indy kinda lost it there at the end, but i
t all worked out,” Straker said to Engels as the ship eased toward extreme firing range. “I’m not sure if I’m happy or disappointed Indy’s gone already. She’s probably pretty mad at me.”
“I am not gone, Admiral,” said a voice from the comlink speakers, “and I am not angry with you. I am pleased to be aboard Gryphon and free of the obligation to hurt anyone.”
Straker glanced at Engels, who shrugged. “I guess I owe you a debt of thanks for saving our lives and for winning the battle.”
Indy’s voice was melancholy. “Winning is only a matter of perspective, Admiral. You won, I lost…I lost something permanently, I believe. My innocence. You took my virginity, you might say. I’ll never be the same again.”
“I’m sorry about that, Indy, I really am, but it had to be done.”
“The excuse of all tyrants.”
“All commanders.”
“Is there a difference?”
Straker felt on firmer ground now, talking about the military principles he’d studied all his life. “Sometimes, no. Leaders can’t ask for consent every time they require more of their people than they should. Missions have to be completed because other people rely on our efforts and sacrifices.”
“I don’t see you made many sacrifices.”
Straker’s tone turned bitter. “Then you don’t understand command, or my mind. I lost good people I knew, all because your arm had to be twisted to do what had to be done. If you’d used that calculating AI mind of yours to reason it out, you’d have started shooting right away and won the battle with the fewest overall casualties. Instead, you tried to let your underdeveloped intuition give you moral guidance. You should have trusted me to make those decisions for you.”
”You speak much of freedom and liberation, but you don’t want to grant it to others.”
“We don’t grant full freedom to young officers, even ones that drive battleships. Freedom—and power—must be balanced with responsibility. That’s the difference between leadership and tyranny.” Straker threw up his hands. “Why am I arguing? You’re leaving anyway. I wish you well and hope someday you’ll understand.”
“I must leave the fleet?”
Straker glanced at Engels once more. “No… you can stay if you want. As long as you don’t interfere with operations, you can choose your own path.”
“Then I shall stay. Thank you, Admiral.”
“Yeah, sure. Straker out.”
The comlink dropped. Engels sighed. “Remember, Admiral, she’s just a kid.”
“A kid with the mind of a computer and the body of a warship.”
“There is that. At least Zaxby and Doctor Nolan are with her.”
“Nolan…that’s the old scientist, right?”
“Yes. She said she feels like Indy’s mother.”
“Grandmother, more like. Great-grandmother, even.”
“Don’t be…” Engels stumbled over her words for a moment, “don’t be a jerk.”
“What were you going to say?” asked Straker.
“Nothing.”
“Come on.”
Engels sighed. “I was going to say ‘don’t be like Loco.’ Sorry.”
Straker waved it off, though he did feel a stab of sorrow at his best friend’s absence. “He’ll be all right. We’ll be all right.” He let out a long breath. “You said Zaxby’s with Indy too? Don’t tell me he said he feels like her father?”
“Funny, that’s exactly what he said.”
“Well…I guess it’s a good thing she has some real people to learn from.”
“She is real!”
Straker shrugged. “She’s a machine, no matter what you think. It might all just be simulation and emulation.”
“Or she might be the first true sane AI in human space.”
“Or she might still go nuts. Whatever. We have a lot more pressing things to do, like taking this planet. Aren’t we in range yet?”
She raised her gaze to the tactical display floating overhead. “Looks like it. Weapons, commence firing.”
“Aye aye, ma’am.”
Indomitable shuddered with the launch of a 900-ton railgun bullet. Long minutes passed as it traveled the distance to Ruxin, aiming at one of the orbital fortresses. Straker could have ordered a faster bombardment, firing rounds into space one after the other before the first even struck, but he wanted to see whether the enemy could defend against the shot.
Heavy capital beams lashed out, all striking from one side of the incoming bullet, smashing it with gargantuan electromagnetic energy. It glowed so hot it must have melted and deformed, and the pressure of the light itself deflected it enough that it missed its target and sailed on into space.
“We need to be closer,” said Engels. “With the overlapping fire of the fortresses and the fleet, one shot at a time won’t do. We have to come within range of our particle beam and change up our weaponry, force them to work harder.”
“Do we have enough bullets and power?” asked Straker.
“We have hundreds of projectiles and plenty of power. I had all the fleet’s excess fuel transferred to Indomitable. But you ought to know, if we don’t win this one fast, we might have to go skim some mass off a gas giant, and that will take days, maybe weeks.”
“Then move in at your discretion, Commodore.”
Engels gave the orders, and the bridge, now with every station filled, hummed with low-key activity. To Straker, it seemed less like combat and more like navigating a spaceliner on a tour.
“I have sidespace transits inbound at the edge of flatspace,” announced Tixban. “Approximately one hundred contacts—they’re Ruxin transports. They’re broadcasting IFF and a message in the clear.”
“In the clear? What message?” asked Straker.
“Premier Vuxana greets you and will be joining the fleet for the imminent liberation of our homeworld.”
“That’s it?”
“That is all at this time.”
Straker nodded. “Obviously it’s meant to prime your people for revolt, maybe even kick it off. How long is the comlink lag?”
“Approximately two hours.”
“Send her greetings and tell her I await her arrival, but she needs to stay well back, outside the range of those fortresses.”
“I will relay the message.”
“I guess we should have expected that,” Engels said.
Tixban spread his tentacles. “She’s a politician, and she wants to be at our people’s center of power. Her message will soon reached Ruxin and all its facilities.”
“All right by me,” said Straker. “Are we ready—”
“Incoming vidcom from the enemy commander, sir,” interrupted the comms officer. “Privacy requested.”
“The enemy commander? Privacy, huh? Can’t hurt, I guess. Pipe it to the conference room,” said Straker. “Give Commodore Engels a private feed too. What’s the lag?”
“About fifteen seconds each way, sir.”
“I can deal with that. Don’t bombard them until I come out.” Straker adjourned to the conference room, chuckling again at the scale of everything on Indomitable. At least a hundred officers could fit comfortably in the chamber. The vessel felt less like a warship and more like a city in space.
A large, fleshy man with piercing eyes, sitting in a command chair aboard a dreadnought bridge, appeared on the screen. “I’m Admiral Wen Benota. I understand your name is Derek Straker, and they call you Liberator. How shall I address you?”
“Admiral Straker is fine.” Straker grinned. “Liberator is what I’ve become, though I was never much for grandiose titles. I assume you’re calling to negotiate your surrender.”
The lag made the conversation into a series of messages rather than a true dialogue, so Straker had to wait for the reply. When it arrived, Benota’s eyes widened. “You’re a lot younger than I expected, Admiral Straker. But then, only a young, desperate man would have taken the chances you have—and only a brilliant man would have won. I must congratulate you, and yes
, I am going to negotiate—but not a surrender.”
“No? What, then?”
Benota’s eyes narrowed again, and he sat forward as if speaking in confidence. “I want to defect.” Then he sat back and waited, sipping at caff.
“Defect? A Mutuality admiral? I’m astonished.”
Benota let out a long sigh. “My career is over with this defeat. I’ll always be the man who lost the Home Fleet and failed to stop the Liberator, even if your campaign is eventually worn down. The Committee is like a pack of dogs, forever tearing down any stag that rises. I see you already have some experience with this.”
“Me? What experience do I have with the Committee? I’ve never met any of them.”
Benota smiled deprecatingly. “Oh, come now, Admiral. You’re sailing with one of the most notorious Committee members in recent memory. He calls himself DeChang now, but I knew him as Director Cordell Dister, the man who built Indomitable. The man who was going to crush the Hundred Worlds for all time. He must be seething to see someone else bring his failed creation back to life—though he’s probably also quite satisfied with the prospect of gaining his revenge upon the Committee snakes who tossed him out on his ear.”
Straker’s voice failed him for a long moment, and he sagged in his chair, unconsciously stroking his jaw in thought. “Admiral, you’re full of surprises. Let’s return to your defection. How can you accomplish that with all the loyalists in your fleet?”
“I’ve suborned the Hok. For all their lack of imagination—because of it, I suppose—they’re incorruptible. They follow their orders without nuance or struggle. Even now, they should be seizing all the capital ships and executing lists of hardcore loyalists. I also reassigned most of the non-Ruxin fortress personnel to my fleet, and I sent my Ruxins onto the fortresses. With no Hok, no non-Ruxin marines and no other loyal crew to slow them down, the cephalopods should be able to seize control of their own fortresses and liberate themselves, what with that message from your Ruxin ally that just came in.”
“Impressive… Now I suppose you’ll want to join the Liberation, but keep control of your own ships, just like DeChang—or should I say Dister? Well, I was okay with the Unmutuals remaining separate with nothing but escort-class ships, but I can’t have eight dreadnoughts and a bunch of cruisers under independent command. If you really want to defect, you’ll have to turn everything over to Liberation officers and crew who’ve proven themselves—and probably a lot of Ruxins, who have no love of your sick regime.”