by Terry Mixon
Once he was ready, he headed for the bridge at a jog.
Shelly looked up as he entered. “The bridge is yours, Captain.”
“Thanks,” he said as he sat in his chair and brought up the repeaters. “Jason, what have we got?”
The tactical officer pressed a key that flicked his display to the main screen. A small graph in the corner indicated it was showing a sphere of space three hundred thousand kilometers across. A green triangle floated at the center of the screen with only its vector marked. That was Heart.
About thirty thousand kilometers above the green triangle was a golden one. Its vector was oriented along the same course as Heart’s, and the icon also indicated the vessel’s mass and armament information. Big, full of rich people, and almost unarmed.
That was Tempest. Those two light codes had been on the screen in nearly identical positions since Heart had snuck up on the liner and started shadowing her.
New to the screen was the red circle in the lower left quadrant of the screen. Data flowed underneath it, changing as the sensors refined their data.
“She’s about thirty thousand klicks away from us and about fifty thousand from Tempest,” Jason said. “Her current velocity is about five klicks per second.
“She’s pulling four meters per second squared, and her thermal signature is consistent with ion/fusion drives pushing a ship of about our weight. Emission signatures fit a quartet of Falcon IVs pulling maximum acceleration.”
Brad nodded. Heart, with her trio of newish Skylark VI drive units, could outdo that by only five percent. “What’s his course?”
“If he’s headed for a zero-range intercept, he’ll cross Tempest’s course in just under sixty-seven minutes. He’ll be in weapons range quite a bit before that. If he goes for zero-zero to board, he’ll reach them in one hundred and two minutes with turnover in forty-one.”
Brad studied the screen for a moment. “Does Tempest know they’re there?”
“I doubt it. Even if she does, Tempest can only pull two meters per second squared. All she could do is delay the inevitable for a few minutes.”
Brad nodded, and then glanced at Shelly. “Do we have an intercept course?”
“Plugged in and auto-updating as we speak,” she confirmed. “Marshal will confirm it as soon as he gets here. We caught him in the shower and he thought we’d appreciate not seeing him naked. I heartily concur.”
Marshal came striding into the bridge just in time to hear that last. “Plenty of women are very happy to see me naked. Just not under these particular circumstances. Not so far, anyway.”
He planted himself at the helm console and double checked the course. “It looks good, Captain. Ready to execute.”
“Do it.”
For a moment, acceleration pushed everyone back into their seats, and then the artificial gravity compensated, bringing them back to the standard point five g’s it was set to.
The main viewscreen continued to show a repeat of the tactical displays. Now a green arrow extended from Heart toward the red arrow projecting from the bogey on an intercept course. The pirate had to have detected them by now, but he hadn’t reacted.
“Jason, what’s our time to weapons range?”
The tactical officer shrugged. “I could hit them with the mass drivers at this range if I was lucky and they didn’t maneuver.”
Brad nodded. The theoretical range of a mass driver was infinite, but the hundred-gram steel slugs only moved at about a thousand kilometers per second. At long ranges, that meant all your opponent had to do was alter his acceleration by a minute amount and you’d miss.
“Time to torpedo range?”
“We’ll reach our ten-thousand-kilometer powered envelope in twenty-seven minutes. That’s about ten minutes before he’ll turn over if he continues on a zero-zero course.”
“Thank you. Hail him for me, Shelly.”
“You’re live in three, two, one,” she said.
Brad let a cold expression cover his face. “Unidentified vessel, this is the Guild warship Heart of Vengeance. Identify yourself and heave to.”
Seconds ticked past—far more than it would take the message to cross the gap between the two ships.
“Unidentified vessel,” Brad repeated, “if you do not heave to, we will assume hostile intent and destroy your ship.”
Again, there was no reply. Brad felt his mouth tighten with dark satisfaction, and killed the communications channel from his repeater.
“Can you put a driver round across their bow?” he asked Jason.
“Easily. Should I use an explosive round and detonate it in front of him to make sure we have his complete attention?”
“Do it.”
Jason turned to his console and manipulated the controls. On Brad’s repeater screen, a tiny green speck appeared on the display.
“Warning shot fired,” Jason reported.
Brad watched the round cross the twenty thousand kilometers between the two ships and vanish.
“Warning shot detonated,” his tactical officer said.
“Shelly, let’s try one last time.” That was more than his demon wanted to give the bastard, but he wanted the record to show he’d done everything right.
She hit a key and nodded.
Brad faced the camera one last time and he knew his expression was even colder than it had been before. He wanted them to see his rage. “Unidentified vessel, that was your final warning. Withdraw immediately or be destroyed.”
Once again, there was no response, so Brad killed the channel with a satisfied smile.
“He’s shifting course towards us,” Jason said. “Time to effective mass driver range is now six minutes.”
That at least made the enemy’s intentions clear. Now no one could blame him for what he was about to do.
He studied the tactical display on his repeater. “Set Gatlings five and six for torpedo defense and engage with one through four at twenty thousand kilometers. We’ll open fire with torpedoes as soon as we reach powered engagement range and I give the order.”
“Copy that,” Jason replied, keying commands into his console.
Brad watched the range indicator drop. Once the enemy hit the twenty-thousand-kilometer mark, the tactical officer opened fire.
Green specks flashed onto the screen as each of the Gatling mass drivers fired its first barrel. Two seconds later, a second set of specks appeared as the next barrel rotated into position and fired. He watched them fly with hot approval.
Since each barrel took twenty-four seconds to reload and cool, a round every two seconds was the maximum rate of fire they could maintain.
The first set of green specks was two thirds of the way to the target and the fourth set had just flashed onto the screen when a set of red specks appeared.
“He’s returning fire,” Jason reported coolly. “Sensors reading six projectiles.”
“Evasive maneuvers,” Brad ordered.
He felt the ship shift before the artificial gravity dampened the change in momentum. On the screen, the first set of green specks flashed by the red circle. The enemy had also dodged.
A second set of red specks had joined the first. “I can confirm that he has six mass drivers,” Jason reported. “Four second lag between rounds. Odds are we’re facing hexabarrel Gatlings.”
Brad merely nodded, watching the specks on the screen that marked weapons trying to kill him and his crew. “Time to torpedo range?”
“One minute—we hit him!” Jason’s surprised exclamation was marked by a flash on the screen and data codes marking atmosphere loss next to the symbol for the enemy ship.
More complex data codes for the vectors began to appear next to the symbol as the enemy began to maneuver more aggressively. Then Heart seemed to shudder as Marshal failed to dodge fast enough and half a salvo of driver rounds slammed into their hull.
Brad keyed the intercom to engineering. “Mike! Damage report!”
“Doesn’t look like they made it through t
he reactive armor,” Randall said. “Hull integrity still good.”
Brad breathed a sigh of relief. “All right. Keep me in the loop if that changes.”
“As if I wouldn’t,” the man said before he cut the connection.
The reactive armor strips had been one of the more expensive refits to Heart, but they could deflect driver slugs away from the hull in some cases.
“Torpedo range,” Jason said.
“Fire at will,” Brad said savagely.
“I have no idea what everyone has against that Will guy. First salvo away.”
Even as the tactical officer spoke, Heart shuddered as the torpedoes blasted away from her. Four squares flashed into existence on the screen.
“The enemy is returning fire,” the tactical officer reported a moment later. “Three torpedoes inbound. Gatlings five and six engaging.”
Brad watched as the two sets of squares began the two-minute journey between the ships. It would probably be the exchange of heavy munitions like this that ended the fight. And end it they would, one way or the other.
The torpedoes weren’t much more than hundred-kilo slugs of metal strapped to small drives. It was the general consensus of those who used them that adding anything short of a nuke to them made only a negligible difference.
He didn’t doubt that many would like the extra boost a nuke would add, but the Commonwealth reserved those for Fleet units, with draconian penalties for anyone caught trafficking in them, much less using them.
“Enemy torpedoes destroyed,” Jason said thirty seconds later.
“How are ours?” Brad asked.
“Still good. The idiot focused all his Gatlings on us. He hasn’t managed to retarget to any of our torpedoes yet. Our tubes are reloaded. Do you want me to fire another salvo?”
“No. Let’s see how he deals with the first.”
A sudden shudder ran through the corvette. Then another. A display showed parts of the hull changing color from green to yellow as more of the reactive armor was expended stopping enemy slugs.
“Marshal,” Brad snapped.
“They got lucky. I’m varying our thrust a little more to get out of the hotspot.”
“Gotcha!” Jason shouted as their torpedoes overlapped with the red circle of the enemy. It flashed and turned into a flashing X.
“Three solid hits,” the tactical officer reported briskly. “No indication of continued acceleration, and he’s ceased firing. I’m still picking up his fusion reactor, so part of him is still intact.”
“Kill him,” Brad ordered, cold hatred seething through his veins.
Jason nodded wordlessly and pressed a button on his console.
All six Gatlings went to maximum rate of fire, emptying every barrel in four seconds to send seventy-two projectiles flashing toward the pirate ship at a thousand kilometers a second. Seven seconds later, the first of them impacted. A blue-white flash that was visible at that distance indicated the failure of the enemy’s fusion bottle.
“Enemy destroyed,” Jason said into the silence. “All screens clear.”
Shelly turned from her console. “Captain, Tempest is hailing us. Captain Vasilev is on the line.”
“Put him on.”
The main screen shifted to the image of a dark-skinned man in a white-and-gold uniform.
“Captain Madrid,” the other man said, inclining his head. “From the bottom of my heart, I thank you on behalf of my crew and passengers.”
Brad smiled a little. “I’ll pass your kind words on to my crew, Captain Vasilev.”
“Thank you. I don’t believe there’s much point in pretending Tempest is unescorted anymore. That being the case, I suggest you place your ship in a standard escort position.
“Then I’d like to extend an invitation to you and your officers to dine with myself and my senior staff aboard Tempest.”
“We’d enjoy that. Though I’ll leave half of my people on duty here in case our friend wasn’t completely alone. The rest of us can come over another time.”
“Excellent. Until then, Tempest out.”
Chapter Fifteen
Heart’s shuttle was designed for efficient movement of troops and supplies, not comfort. The cockpit at least, unlike the rear compartment set up for Saburo and his armored mercenaries, had padded acceleration couches.
Brad sat in the copilot’s seat, watching Tempest grow larger as Marshal took the shuttle in. Behind them, Saburo occupied the third seat in the cockpit. Jason and Shelly were keeping an eye out for trouble back on Heart.
Under a normal interpretation of senior officers, Brad would’ve brought Randall along with them, but the engineer had made his view on that very clear. He was busy replacing the reactive armor strips that had been used and checking the mass drivers for wear and tear.
Marshal murmured into his mic and released the controls. “Their approach computers have us now. Sit back and relax.”
A few bursts from the shuttle’s drive aligned them with one of the liner’s boat bays. For a moment, the hundred-ton craft—tiny next to Tempest’s hundred-thousand-ton bulk—seemed motionless as the bay doors opened. Then a short burn gently floated them into the bay.
As they entered, the craft slowed as it encountered the catcher field. A few moments later, the shuttle came to a halt, waiting in front of the bay’s inner door.
When the outer doors had closed behind them, the inner doors slid open. The catcher field reversed and pushed the shuttle forward into the main bay. Artificial gravity caught them and pulled them to the deck as soon as they were in place.
Once the shuttle had settled down, Brad glanced over at Marshal and nodded. The push of a button extended their ramp, and the three men stood. Glancing out the port, Brad saw a door in the side of the bay open, and a small group of people entered.
Brad smiled and gestured for Saburo to precede him—he quite literally couldn’t get out of the cockpit until the other man did—and then followed him out. The presence of breathable air on the other side of the airlock deactivated the normal overrides and allowed Brad to open both doors simultaneously.
He led the way down onto the deck just in time to meet their welcoming committee. Captain Vasilev led the group.
Vasilev took Brad’s hand in both of his, shaking it enthusiastically. “Welcome aboard Tempest, Captain Madrid.”
“The pleasure is mine. This is my pilot, John Marshal, and Saburo Kawa, my combat team leader.”
Vasilev shook their hands and then motioned for a young man in an exquisite dark blue suit to come forward. “This is Colin Johnson. He requested to be here.”
The young man seemed to half-glare at Brad, threatening to rouse the anger than never seemed to fully sleep inside him. “It seems my esteemed mother won’t hesitate to break her word when it suits her ‘best judgment.’” The last two words came out in a tone that could only be described as a whiny sneer.
Before Brad could respond, the man jerked as if kicked. Considering the capable-looking man standing behind Colin—whose demeanor screamed bodyguard—that was quite possible.
“Nonetheless,” Colin continued grudgingly, “in this case, she was correct. Thank you for your efforts.” He offered his hand in an almost-dainty gesture.
Brad studied the man as he took a deep breath to calm the demon and accepted the offered hand. It would’ve been kind to call the grip effeminate.
“I would’ve preferred an uneventful trip myself, Mr. Johnson, but needs must when the devil drives.”
Colin inclined his head and released Brad’s hand. “I hope none of your people were injured?”
“No. Heart took some damage, but it’s all repairable.”
“You are fortunate to have such a capable ship, Captain,” one of Vasilev’s staffers commented.
“Fortune has nothing to do with it,” Vasilev snorted. “I imagine it involved a great deal of hard work and money, da?”
Brad shrugged. “Our lives depend on that ship. It was worth every credit.”
Brad watched Tempest slot into her docking bay on the massive Mars Orbital Station One, more commonly known as MOSO. The attack had provided the sole excitement of the multi-week journey from the Jovian system to Mars.
Now Heart’s contract was officially fulfilled, though Tempest had been perfectly safe since they’d entered the ten-light-second radius around Mars that the Commonwealth patrolled most heavily.
Bringing the liner to MOSO and under the guns of the Mars Defense Command forts and the Commonwealth battleship Eternal had simply made it formal.
“Shelly, do we have our docking clearance?” he asked.
“Yup. Docking bay one-seven-zero. The beacon code is niner-four-niner-five, and it’s already in the computers.”
“Thank you. John?”
“Underway,” the pilot said, his hands busy on his controls. “Be nice to see some land for once.”
Jason snorted. “Not all that much land on MOSO. Just metal.”
The pilot made a rude noise. “At least there are bars. And women.”
“Very true.”
“Watch your step, Guns,” Shelly said with a mock growl. “You wouldn’t want to have to sleep on a nice, hard deck for the next few weeks, would you?”
Brad sat back and smiled as his bridge poked at one another. They were good people and he was damned lucky to have them.
Brad sighed as he attached the final appendix to his official report and leaned back in his chair. He hated paperwork, but it was the one unavoidable thing in this business. Everything had to be documented when you killed someone.
While the contract had authorized lethal force in defense of the governor’s son and the liner, Guild regulations and Commonwealth law required him to explain the events in as much detail as possible.
In this case, he had the sensor records and his bridge security recordings to document how he’d given the pirates every opportunity to change their minds. Some bureaucrat might whine because he’d finished the pirate off at the end, but the law gave no cover to pirates caught in the act.