by Daniel Gibbs
The second dove for the cover of a long, broad console. His was an automatic, the bolts tearing apart panels and scorching the bulkheads. Sev took deliberate aim with the plasma rifle, even as an energy bolt slashed across his torso, and fired through the far end of the console.
The blast melted half the station and didn’t leave much of the gunman hiding behind it.
“Secure the hatch!” Jackson snapped. He rolled the engineer over.
The man’s eyes were glassy, unseeing. Steam rose where the plasma blast had dug a hole in his chest. Gone, as was their chance of making it a clean shutdown of the reactor.
Gina sealed the hatch. “Sev! Plasma rifle.”
Sev handed over the heavy weapon then dragged the first technician he’d socked off the deck. Blood poured from the man’s nose, and he was missing a tooth on his lower jaw. Sev thrust him forward. “Fix?”
“He’ll do. Are you okay?”
Sev’s suit already hissed with foam, not only sealing the tear but adding antiseptic to his wound. “Sore.”
“I’ll bet.” Jackson dragged the engineer over to the console. The second thug lay dead behind it, the gaping wound from Sev’s shot a crimson bullseye. “Scram the core, and take it completely offline. Disconnect us from any bridge overrides.”
“We’ll be dead in space!” the man protested.
“Better than being spaced.” Gina said it nonchalantly over the Saurian rifle’s hiss as she sealed the center of the hatch. “That should buy us time.”
A rumble echoed farther down the corridor. The deck vibrated under Jackson’s boots.
“Home, this is One. Your handiwork?” he asked.
“Negative, One, that’s Sparks. Had to clear four people with rifles headed our way. I’ve cut off the bridge from life-support control, but it’s a temporary block.”
“Stand by.” Jackson glowered at the young man. “Environmental systems?”
He swallowed and pointed, finger shaking, at a smaller console to the right.
“Thanks.” Jackson linked his wrist unit to the station then inputted a series of commands as Brant fed them through the device. “Sev, get him to take the reactor offline. Give him a tour if he won’t cooperate.”
The tour began with the dead engineer and was past the first of the two dead thugs when the technician vomited. Sev glowered at the mess on his boots.
“Okay! Okay. I’m working on it. Just don’t kill me.”
“No promises,” Gina said.
“Two?”
“Yes?”
“Give it a rest.” Jackson entered the last bit of code. “That’s it, Home. How’s it look from your end?”
“It’s looking like I can pipe nasty but nonlethal coolant from belowdecks into the crew compartments. I’ll try to herd them all to the bridge.”
Jackson did the math—five in Engineering, four in the corridor. “What’s the crew capacity of a Bulwark again?”
“Specs say forty-five. With all the wiring I’ve seen on the scans, I think this one’s rigged to run with half that, maybe less. Sparks?”
In the silence, Jackson could hear only two sounds—the technician’s frantic grunts as he sent the reactor through the shutdown protocols and the boots on the deck outside their hatch.
“Roger. One, Sparks says he’s getting eight heat signs that are cooling off, plus another nine still active. A hot one’s right by you.”
“Confirmed, Home. He’s getting the reactor killed in…” Jackson rapped on the central console with his pulse pistol.
“There. Almost—got it.” The tech slumped against the bulkhead, his shirt soaked with sweat.
The steady, background hum powering 9091 faded into nothing.
Jackson nodded. “How’s it looking, Home?”
“That did the trick, One. She’s powered down. They’re trying to boot auxiliary, but it’s not going to go to their weapons, if you’re worried about it.”
“Everybody’s worried about it. What about the coolant?”
“Rerouting it now. I’d recommend keeping your suits buttoned. It won’t kill anyone, but they’ll be puking for a few days.”
“Roger that. Sev, bind our two prisoners. Lash them to the consoles if you have to.” Jackson followed the instructions on his wrist unit to lock down all access from the engineering compartment. No sense in leaving prisoners behind if they could sabotage the mission—and he wasn’t about to kill anyone else.
As soon as he finished, he noticed Gina taking time to lean over each of the victims. She spent a few seconds motionless, face-to-face. “I have them recorded.”
“Don’t forget him.” Jackson indicated the engineer. He didn’t fit the mold of the cartel thugs or even the nervous technicians. He’d had more to his bearing.
“One, this is Home. There’s a secondary access out of Engineering behind the tertiary access frame. I figured you’d want to know since you torched yourself in.”
“We had a plan for getting out, but I appreciate the shortcut.”
The highlighted frame appeared on their wrist comms. Sev headed there, Saurian plasma rifle in hand.
Jackson marked the bridge with the quickest points between. “Feed me locations on the remaining crew. I’ll get us there ASAP. Just make sure no one else out there starts shooting.”
“I’ll do what I can, but you’d better move—patience is in short supply beyond this hull.”
Zhou frowned at his readouts—and the accompanying communication. It was even odds as to which bore worse news. TFC 9091 was powerless. Continuing on her original course, yes, but the reactor had gone into shutdown—no reply on the comms, no weapons fire, not so much as a target lock or a sensor ping.
“Captain? Kiel wants a response. He’s… inquiring as to the situation.”
“Yes, I’ll wager he is,” Zhou muttered. “Tell him I’m busy. Repopulate the board with the latest scans.”
Targets shifted across the tactical display. A few TCFEs repositioned. The CDF ships showed no signs of slowing their approach or rerouting their course. But those were Kiel’s problems. Zhou was more interested in the stealth boat, which of course, wasn’t making itself known. Fine with him. He had no interest in an easy mark. “Transfer the helm to me.”
His console lit up with helm control. He eased the freighter onto a new course, shadowing four transports that had decided not to stick around the place from which missiles had launched. They were arrowing toward a formation of forty-plus refugee ships, which by Zhou’s read of the navigational tracks, was about to get more crowded. Zhou preferred to keep more insurance around. “Sensor Post, any reactions from the rest of the ships?”
“Negative, sir—hold on. Three engine signatures. One’s a patrol corvette. The other two were intermittent, so I’ll have to work backward, see if I can get a better analysis.”
“Mark those two as Tango 112 and 113. Highlight for me. I want them watched.” Either could be their stealth friend. Zhou knew the only way to get him to appear was to make moves of his own. “Tactical station, generate targets. Pick a few more of the Border ships—and an Ajax destroyer.”
The tactical officer gawked at him. “Sir, I—”
“Target locks, mister. As ordered.” Zhou spun his chair. “We won’t fire until 9091 is in a position to fire back. Wait for Kiel’s command. As for our fellow wolf, well, if he shows his face, I’ll be happy to bloody his nose.”
Kiel was in the mood to break things, but nothing was available besides his coffee mug—so he smashed it with the last dregs of his tea.
“No luck with comms to or from 9091.” Ferenc and his damned calm. He sounded as if he were giving the scores from the latest grav-dart tournament. “The reactor powered down. They’re as useful as a rock.”
“I can see, thank you. What of Zhou?”
“He’s standing by with weapons ready. He could fire on a few more Border ships, try to provoke them.”
“I doubt he’ll have luck. Someone higher up the rungs of command
must be giving them a hold order, given how many of the ships have doors open yet aren’t shooting back.”
“Yes, sir.”
However, if Zhou had the presence of mind to target a CDF warship, the outcome would be the same as Kiel desired—news network imagery of Terran Coalition military firing on civilians. The political fallout would be devastating, which would distract the Terrans from the League’s larger endgame in the Sagittarius Arm.
Kiel accessed the hangar bay cameras. “See to our exit, Ferenc. It’s time to prepare for the next venture.”
Major Mancini didn’t like the way the tactical display was shaping up. Too many civilians running around and too many armed vessels in the mix. Lots of overlapping comms chatter. It would be easy for mistakes to happen. “Pilot, what’s our range to the firing coordinates?”
“Ten thousand kilometers, Skipper.”
“Cutting it close. TAO, repopulate the board.”
“Aye, Skipper,” Olesen called. “Repopulating the board.”
Godat pointed at the newly adjusted spread of markers. “Here. This bunch is separating. They’re redistributing themselves and merging with the larger flotillas.”
“I see them, XO. Which one is our stealthy Leaguer? Sensor Room, best guess?”
“Conn, Sensor Room. Got a lot of drives burning out there, sir.”
“Give me the best scans you can. I want to match one to our friend from before.”
“Active sensors, sir?”
“Passive if you can manage it, but if we come up empty, we’ll go active to flush him out. All we’re waiting for him to do is make a mistake.”
“Aye, sir. Sensor Room out.”
Mancini puzzled over his display. The control center was crammed with crew, hushed conversations overlapping alongside the chirp of sensing equipment. Which one’s the hunter? What would I do if I were in my opponent’s boots? I’d be looking for me.
“TAO, Conn. Targeting sensors on one of the TCFE corvettes—it’s gone, sir.”
“Tight-beam them a warning!” Mancini snapped. “They need to hold their fire if—”
“Missile launch! Two shots fired!”
The missiles streaked into the narrow gap between the refugee transports and the three nearest corvettes. One of them, designated BPC 7176, dropped countermeasures, which splintered the first of the two missiles.
The second one burst into four projectiles. One exploded off the flank of a refugee transport, and two more turned into blazing lights by TFC 9091. The fourth caught additional countermeasures and fizzled out.
“Backtrace!” Mancini ordered. “Sensor Room, what’ve you got?”
“Conn, Sensor Room. Three probables for launch vectors. Engine signatures—it’s too diffused, Skipper. Confirm active sensors?”
Mancini ground his teeth. They had to act fast, which meant the advantage of stealth was out the airlock. “Confirmed, Sensor Room. TAO, paint target as Master One, and plot firing solutions as soon as we have confirmation. Pilot, lock in a new course to the corresponding coordinates and engage at flank speed on my mark.”
The chorus of “ayes” melded into one note of assurance that his people were ready to do their jobs and their duties.
Godat leaned away from his mic. “Damage control standing by, Skipper.”
“Roger, XO.”
“Conn, TAO. Target acquired. Designated Master One.”
The pilot added, “Course plotted and laid in, Major. Standing by.”
Mancini crossed himself. God in heaven, protect us as we wade into the unknown. I commend my soul to the Almighty and His Savior. “Mark.”
26
TFC 9091
Aphendrika—Terran Coalition
1 August 2464
Jackson stumbled against the bulkhead. The corridors shook under the impact of whatever had hit. “Keep moving!”
Sev rounded the corner ahead of him, crouching as he went. Gina followed, aiming high. Between the three of them, they had the corridor covered in case they encountered resistance. So far, though, they’d seen only three crew, all technicians wearing the same jumpsuits. They were curled on their sides, moaning, with good reason.
Jackson’s helmet display warned him of toxic gases, courtesy of Brant’s rerouting shipboard coolant. Jackson checked his seal, for paranoia’s sake. What kind of spy would I be if I didn’t worry about those small details?
“One, this is Home. You guys holding up okay in there?”
“Rattled but otherwise unhurt, Home. What about from outside?”
“Well, the blasts didn’t shake us loose, so that’s a good thing. Sparks is sealing minor breaches in the fuselage, and there’s a rip in the cofferdam connecting us to where we cut through 9091’s hull. Nothing we can’t handle. You should see how many ships are swirling around, though. Like leaves in a dust devil.”
Jackson preferred not to imagine the chaos. “We’re coming up to the bridge. Standby.”
His sensor feed showed five heat signatures beyond the bridge hatch, which was locked down. They were moving but barely. The coolant leak must have successfully infiltrated even that compartment.
Sev tried the controls. The console blatted a negative response. He popped the panel and tugged on the manual override. It budged. “Ready.”
“Hold on.” Jackson took up position on one side of the hatch and Gina the other. “Okay—go.”
Sev cranked the control. The hatch rumbled apart slowly—nothing.
Jackson glanced at Gina. They didn’t need comms. He indicated to her then the floor then the hatch. She acknowledged with a subtle dip of her chin.
Gina went first on the left, with Jackson on the right. Jackson’s helmet tagged the five bodies inside. Two were on the deck, crawling. One clung to the tactical station, another to the comms console.
The guy in the middle was the key. He was a bruiser, like the two who’d drawn on Jackson down in Engineering. He was also the one in charge. Jackson knew it the second he saw him, even though the man could barely stand.
“Nobody moves.” Jackson’s helmet speakers amplified his demand throughout the bridge. “Give up your weapons, and you live.”
The captain turned around.
“Plasma pistol.” Gina shifted her aim.
“Hold your fire.” The man was armed—Jackson knew it before he’d turned—but his stance hadn’t been the kind one took before shooting. It was the body language of a man considering his options. Jackson wanted to give him better ones. “You—you’re in command? Surrender the ship. Your vessel is incapacitated, and so is your crew. Everyone still alive will be arrested.”
“It’s—that’s not what we’re paid to do.” The man’s voice was ragged, like he’d gargled on hull plating. His eyes went unfocused. He swayed and reached for the chair. His pistol rose.
Boots clinked as Sev came up behind Jackson. His carbine’s shadow fell over Jackson’s helmet. “Ready,” Sev said through the comm.
“Activate the safety and place the weapon on the deck.” Jackson took a step toward the captain. He lowered his pistol.
“Jack, don’t,” Gina warned.
“Not gonna get guarantees from anybody,” the captain slurred. “Boss won’t like it if we don’t get the job done.”
“You’re through with the boss. We can get you out of here.”
“Nah.” The captain shook his head. The pistol wavered. “Got to clean up.” His arm whipped up, planting the barrel above his right ear.
Jackson lunged for him, shoulder lowered. A single blast went off. Jackson’s impact pushed the captain against his console, jogging his aim. A bloody line marred the side of the captain’s head. A scorch mark creased the ceiling.
“Hold him!” Jackson ripped the weapon free, fending off flailing arms.
Sev put the captain in a restraining grip, dragging him away from Jackson. The captain snarled and swung for Sev’s face. All that earned him was damage to his own face as Sev planted him nose-first into the bulkhead.
> Gina was busy binding the rest of the bridge crew’s wrists. “They’re not going anywhere. Can we have Brant clean the filth out of the air now?”
“You copy, Home?” Jackson asked.
“Roger, One. Scrubbing through the air filters. I’m assuming you want comms unlocked.”
“Just enough for a secure link to Base.”
On cue, a light flashed on the comms console. Jackson unloaded and secured the captain’s pistol before punching up a new transmission. “Base One, this is Echo One. We have control of TFC 9091. All opposition ended.”
The British accent answering was filled with relief. “Very well done, Echo One. We will pass the word up the chain. Do you require extraction?”
Jackson glanced around the bridge, at its incapacitated crew, and took in the red warnings flashing on every systems panel. “Not needed, Base, but we wouldn’t say no to a tow.”
Sinclair smiled at the request. “Affirmative, Echo One. We shall see what we can do. Await further instruction. Base out.” He turned to Tamir. “Get me the Marcus Aurelius.”
“Aye, sir.” Tamir brought up a new secured transmission.
“This is Colonel Sinclair aboard CSV Oxford. TFC 9091 is under CDF Intelligence control. Our operatives have captured or killed combatants who appear to be local cartel muscle as well as privately employed technicians. This vessel is not TCFE. I recommend you broadcast a warning to all civilian ships to disperse and reinforce with TCFE command to refrain from engaging any vessel that may fire upon them. I’m sending our report of the situation with data from the boarding.”
Sinclair didn’t know if Milliken deliberately kept him waiting or if there was a lag in communications aboard Marcus Aurelius. Either way, it was all he could do to mask his frustration when the general finally appeared on the screen.
“Your gamble paid off, eh, Colonel?”
“Yes, sir, it appears it did.”
“Well, I’m not one to argue with results. I’ll have comms relay the good news to our units. What about this supposed stealth freighter, then?”