Scornful Stars

by Richard Baker

  —standing in front of a row of grounded transport flyers in the long shadows of afternoon, arms clasped behind their backs in the position of parade rest. Nawab Dayan climbs up to stand on the back of a cargo tow car so that he can be seen more easily by the assembled soldiers; Colonel Nayyar joins him on the narrow perch. Sikander and Gamand remain on the pavement with the rest of the nawab’s command group. Sikander knows what his father has in mind, but he has no idea how the nawab will explain it to his soldiers.

  “We are faced with a difficult situation,” Nawab Dayan begins. His voice is strong enough to carry clearly to all the Kashmiri soldiers on the field. “This morning’s attack on the Blue Horizon signals a new and dangerous phase in this dispute. Blood has been spilled; the governor-general has ordered the Chandigarh Lancers to secure the cargo facilities so that replacement workers can be brought in tomorrow to reopen Bathinda’s port. The strikers are certain to resist any effort to disperse them short of deadly force.” In fact, that’s not all of it; Sikander also knows that the governor-general warned Nawab Dayan that he’d instructed the Srinagaran troops to begin mass arrests of strikers who refuse to return to work after the demonstrations are broken up.

  Nawab Dayan continues: “I believe that this strike is the wrong way for Bathinda’s port workers to bring about changes in their working conditions. It is confrontational and driven in large part by reckless rhetoric from a few radical voices. Worse yet, five people are now dead, and those murders demand justice. But the vast majority of the strikers are not responsible for the freighter’s bombing, and those who aren’t are within their rights to assemble and protest so long as vital services are not interrupted by their actions. We will take action to punish the guilty—and we will also take action to protect the innocent.” He nods to Colonel Nayyar.

  Nayyar steps forward and raises her voice: “Dragoons, attention! Stack … arms!”

  Some of the soldiers glance from side to side, not entirely familiar with the rarely used command. But after a heartbeat of silent hesitation, the two battalions move forward to lean their mag rifles together in neat pentagons, hooking the bayonet rings to one another. Within two minutes the entire force disarms itself and returns to its parade positions.

  “Stand at ease!” Colonel Nayyar orders when they finish. “We are now going to board our transports and deploy to Pier Six, where we will bring a transport loaded with critically needed goods into port. Most of you will be assigned to perimeter security—your job will be to stand unarmed in between the demonstrators and the Chandigarh Lancers, and protect each from the other. Transportation and cargo-handling specialists will conduct the off-loading of the Fair Horizon. Additional fully armed units are standing by at deployment areas nearby; if they are needed, they will be called in. But until that happens, you will not respond to any provocation short of immediate physical attack.”

  “I am asking much of you,” Nawab Dayan says. “It is a difficult thing for a soldier to not fight back. But tonight it falls to us to show both our Aquilan allies and our own independence movement that we wish to move forward in peace, not conflict. Your courage may provide the example—and the time—we need for cooler heads to prevail. Good luck.”

  That night, eleven Jaipur dragoons are injured by rocks and bottles thrown from the crowd … but the ship, just one of the fifteen waiting to make port, is unloaded. The strike leaders grudgingly return to the negotiating table the next day, while the governor-general refrains from ordering the Chandigarh troops into action. And, to Sikander’s amazement, the crisis seems to slip by without becoming a disaster.

  Until, of course, Devindar and his friends seize the statehouse—

  “This is not your place, Nawabzada,” Darvesh said quietly, bringing Sikander’s mind back to Decisive’s hangar bay. He spoke in High Panjabi, moving close and making a show of checking Sikander’s harness to keep his words private. The Kashmiri bodyguard wore a small pakul instead of his customary turban, but was otherwise fitted out in the same battle dress the rest of Decisive’s sailors wore. “You should remain in command aboard Decisive. Leading this landing force is a job better delegated to your executive officer or one of your senior department heads—you are limiting your awareness of the overall situation, as well as exposing yourself to unnecessary risk.”

  “I am afraid that I disagree, Darvesh. I think I’m going to be needed over there.”

  “Do you lack confidence in your subordinates?”

  “I believe that Fraser or Herrera could execute the plan perfectly well,” Sikander admitted. “The problem is that I don’t think this plan is going to work. There are too many things we don’t know, and we haven’t had a chance to properly prepare.”

  Darvesh frowned in disapproval. “That hardly reassures me, sir.”

  “My point is that something unexpected is going to go wrong, and when it does, I need to be on hand to recognize that moment and make a decision. Like it or not, you and I have had more experience with this sort of improvisation than any of my officers, and our experience may make a difference.”

  “There is nothing in that orbital yard that requires the son of Nawab Dayan to hazard his life.”

  “Perhaps not, but the commanding officer of CSS Decisive feels that he’s obligated to do anything he can to give his people their best chance for success,” Sikander told him. “If all goes well I don’t expect a shot to be fired, Darvesh. Now let me do my job.”

  Darvesh’s eyes flashed; he was as angry as Sikander had ever seen him. “Very well. But if all does not go well, Nawabzada, then I require you to let me do mine. Do not forget.”

  “I won’t.” Sikander headed for Orbiter One and the boarding team he’d decided to personally lead. Reed Hollister waited for him by the Cormorant’s stern ramp; Sikander clapped the younger officer on the shoulder. “Are you ready, Reed?”

  “Yes, sir, although I’m a little anxious about what we’ll find. My college Nebeldeutsch is pretty rusty.”

  “It’s better than mine, I promise you.” Sikander couldn’t manage much more than “good morning” or “thank you” in the language—he’d never found the time to study it, although he was able to get by in Jadeed-Arabi after years of off-and-on practice. He would have preferred to leave Hollister in charge of Decisive’s power plant, since Amar Shah was leading one of the other teams, but the fact that the sublieutenant was an engineering officer who spoke Nebeldeutsch made him indispensable to the mission; Sikander had reluctantly left the destroyer’s engineering watch in the hands of Ensign Warren, the auxiliaries officer, and senior enlisted personnel like Chief Power Tech Ryan and Petty Officer Cruz. “It’ll come back to you if you need it. Come on, let’s take our seats.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hollister replied, and followed Sikander and Darvesh into the orbiter. Sikander paused to hit the button for the stern ramp, then continued on past the sailors filling the sling seats in the cargo bay to the orbiter’s cramped cockpit. Hollister and Darvesh found places at the front of the cargo bay, while Sikander took the jump seat behind the pilot and copilot.

  “Good morning, sir,” Petty Officer Kersey said. “We’re preflighted and buttoned up, and so are the other boats. We can launch whenever you like.”

  “Good.” Sikander checked the Cormorant’s tiny tactical display, studying the planet’s space traffic one last time before launching. At the top of the display, High Port drifted by thirty-two thousand kilometers above Mersin in its geosynchronous orbit, a bright white-and-gray ring with cluttered piers. It didn’t appear to be moving all that fast, but that was a mere illusion—High Port was pulling away from Decisive by more than a hundred kilometers every minute. The rusty-looking open-space scaffolding of Dahar Naval Shipyard in its medium orbit was moving nearly twice as fast as the Zerzuran spaceport. Decisive, only five thousand kilometers above the planet’s surface, raced along fastest of all, but even so the destroyer wouldn’t return to the area below the shipyard for another six hours without some rather obvious orb
ital adjustments … and Sikander didn’t want to tip his hand too soon. The more warning he gave the Zerzurans, the more likely it was they’d decide to resist.

  He keyed his comms and linked into Decisive’s command circuit. “Bridge, Captain,” he announced. “We’re ready in the hangar bay. Break orbit and get us under way, if you please.”

  “Break orbit, aye,” Amelia acknowledged. She occupied Sikander’s command position on the bridge. “Mr. Darrow wishes you luck, sir.”

  “Thank him for me,” Sikander replied. Darrow and his immediate staff had come aboard just an hour before departure; the special commissioner was observing the day’s operations from the bridge.

  Decisive shuddered gently as her helmsman applied thrust, beginning the short climb up out of Dahar’s gravity well. Sikander watched the tiny tactical display in the orbiter’s control console while listening in to the routine chatter of the command circuit. With the smooth nonchalance of a ship making a completely routine departure, Decisive began to pull up and away from the planet below … and, apparently by coincidence, settled on a course that passed close in front of the Dahar Naval Shipyard in its orbit nearly fifteen thousand kilometers above them.

  “Nothing but routine traffic on the tactical board, Captain,” Amelia reported to him over the command link. “Sixty seconds to our waypoint.”

  “I’m watching from the orbiter’s cockpit,” Sikander replied. “So far, so good. Carry on.”

  Decisive continued climbing on its departure course. Sikander watched the distance to their deployment point tick down to zero, and silently whispered a prayer to steady his nerves. God, I ask for success not for myself, but for these men and women who follow me into danger, he concluded. Don’t let me lead them into disaster.

  The distance reached zero; Sikander spoke into his mic. “Bridge, Captain. Execute!”

  Decisive spun suddenly on her axis, pointing her nose at the orbital shipyard, and roared to full military acceleration. A moment later, the hangar bay door slid open, and one by one the ship’s boats launched. The Cormorant’s comm unit picked up Amelia Fraser’s broadcast from the bridge: “Attention, Dahar Naval Shipyard. This is the Commonwealth destroyer CSS Decisive. We are sending over a boarding party to impound the Zerzuran vessels currently docked in your facility under the authority granted by the Interstellar Convention on the Law of Open Space to confiscate vessels intended for use in or support of piracy. Any attempt to interfere with our boarding operations will be met with force. Attention, Imperial Navy vessel Neu Kiel. Please instruct any of your personnel currently at work in the shipyard or vessels undergoing refit to stand aside or return to your ship. We have no intention of boarding Neu Kiel or detaining your personnel. Decisive, out.”

  “The XO sounds like she means business,” Kersey observed to her copilot. She gunned the orbiter’s induction drives to cross the open space between Decisive and the Zerzuran shipyard as swiftly as possible. “Let’s hope they believe her over there.”

  Sikander nodded in agreement behind her. He’d worked with Eric Darrow to script Amelia’s challenge, hoping that by citing the letter of the law they’d maintain at least some justification for their action. Of course, they were stretching the definitions provided in the Law of Open Space treaty to the very limits of what might be considered a defensible action; the claim that Drachen, Meduse, and Zyklop were supporting piracy was thin, at best. He couldn’t even imagine what sort of protests, disputes, and charges would be leveled at the Commonwealth Navy for this operation … but while the diplomats wrangled with the official protests, the three cruisers would be safely interned out of Marid Pasha’s hands.

  The three Aquilan craft split up as they raced across the open space between Decisive—now furiously decelerating to remain nearby—and the shipyard. The launch, under Michael Girard’s command, headed for Drachen. Orbiter Two, with Amar Shah’s detachment aboard, headed for Zyklop, and Orbiter One continued straight ahead for Meduse. Each craft jinked and bounced in frantic evasions as they approached their targets; Sikander felt himself thrown against his restraints, and hoped that anyone not strapped in behind him had managed to secure a firm handhold. He doubted that the Zerzuran shipyard had any defenses that could be swiftly manned, but the Dremish repair ship had point-defense lasers that could riddle any of Decisive’s boats if they were caught in transit.

  An alarm buzzer sounded on the Cormorant’s console. “Oh, shit,” Kersey swore. “We’re being illuminated by fire-control systems, sir!”

  “Keep going,” Sikander told the pilot. “Get us to the airlock!” And let’s hope they talk before they shoot, he added to himself.

  Decisive’s own fire-control systems came to life, and her K-cannon turrets swiveled to point their deadly weapons at the Neu Kiel. “Neu Kiel, this is Decisive,” Amelia snapped. “If you even think about firing on one of my boats, you’ll receive a full salvo from my main battery at point-blank range. Are you sure you want to do that, over?”

  “Decisive, this is Kapitan zur Stern Beck of His Imperial Majesty’s starship Neu Kiel. Suspend your operation at once! You have no legal right to board this facility or any of the ships currently docked here. This is tantamount to an act of war!”

  “Your protest is noted, sir, but this is between the Aquilan Commonwealth and the Zerzura Sector government,” Amelia replied. “No Dremish property or personnel will be harmed today—so long as you don’t fire on our landing force. So stand down and let’s all get through this without any more trouble than we need, over.”

  “Good job, XO,” Sikander murmured. He looked up from the tactical display to the orbiter’s armored viewports, gauging the boat’s position. The scaffolding and structures of the shipyard raced past in the glittering vacuum outside the cockpit windows, and then the long, lethal teardrop-shaped hull of Drachen, the first cruiser in line. She was tethered to the Zerzuran space dock by half a dozen personnel tubes and power conduits, but appeared intact otherwise. She might have been an old hand-me-down, but the formerly Dremish cruiser bristled with powerful K-cannons and cut an impressive silhouette even in the shipyard’s scaffolding. Any one of the three possessed enough firepower to handle four or five Decisives; two of them together would be more than a match for all of Pleiades Squadron.

  The Cormorant kept going—Sikander had left the closest ship for the slower and more fragile launch, steering for Meduse while Amar Shah in the second Cormorant made for Zyklop. Petty Officer Kersey toggled the orbiter’s intercom. “We’re coming up on the target,” she announced. “It’ll be a hard stop, so brace yourselves, everyone.”

  Sikander set one hand against the back of the pilot’s acceleration couch, and tensed in anticipation. Kersey flipped the Cormorant end over end and rammed the induction drive to full emergency power, braking as hard as she could in the last few hundred meters of their flight before adroitly spinning the orbiter to line up its port-side airlock with Meduse’s midships accommodation tube. Sikander flinched, holding his breath as the cruiser’s side seemed to rush at the orbiter … and at the last instant, Kersey applied the attitude thrusters to slow down just enough. The contact was jarring, but not as bad as he feared: the sailors behind him swayed and stumbled, but no one was thrown off their feet. An instant later the automatic docking rings—standardized for virtually every ship and boat throughout human space—clamped shut, securing the orbiter to the cruiser’s side. “Airlock’s green!” Kersey shouted. “Go!”

  Sikander unbuckled himself and stood. “Great flying, Kersey,” he told the pilot. “I have no idea how we’re not splattered over the side of that ship.”

  “Ms. Worth told me to get to the target fast, and then she said that she’d be awful mad if I turned the ship’s captain into a bug on a windshield,” the petty officer replied. “Go get ’em, sir.”

  Sikander made his way to the orbiter’s airlock just as the last sailors in his detachment pushed their way onto Meduse. They didn’t have time to secure the airlock hatch on us, he noted.
Good! He’d been worried that whatever work crews happened to be on board the cruisers might have time to lock out the Aquilan orbiters and stall them at the airlock. His teams had brought heavy cutting gear and breaching charges to force their way through if they needed to, but that of course would have taken time he wasn’t sure they could afford to spare. Just inside the airlock, his boarding detachment worked to sort itself out into its mission teams: main control, power plant, bridge, perimeter, and security. Twenty-eight sailors was a ridiculously small number of people to seize control of something the size of a cruiser, but they had the advantages of firepower and surprise; he hoped that would be enough.

  “Mission teams, get moving!” Sikander called. “Mr. Hollister, call me when you secure the engineering spaces. Bridge team, follow me!”

  He turned to the right and headed forward, following what appeared to be a major fore-aft passageway with Darvesh and six enlisted hands escorting him. Decisive’s intelligence specialists had been unable to locate any sort of trustworthy deck plans or schematics for the Chimäre-class cruisers on short notice, so Decisive’s sailors had to make do with a certain amount of guesswork about the ship’s interior arrangement. The deck was covered in rust-red linoleum and the bulkheads were painted in eggshell white instead of the dark blue and taupe he would have expected inside an Aquilan warship, but otherwise Meduse’s interior spaces didn’t look all that different from Decisive’s. Power cables and air lines lay in tangles on the deck, and portable work lights glared in one darkened compartment where some refit job seemed to be in progress, but the ship seemed to be in better condition than Sikander had hoped. They made the transit to Dahar under their own power, he remembered. They couldn’t have been in very bad shape if they did that.

  Just ahead of him, Comm Tech Jackson and Quartermaster Birk turned a corner—and suddenly raised their mag rifles as a chorus of shouts in Jadeed-Arabi erupted in the new passageway. “What the hell is this? Who are you? You can’t be here!”