by Piers Platt
“We’re almost there,” Murson assured her. “This door, a short corridor, and then one more door and we’re inside.”
Atalia shook her head, watching as a sergeant from Murson’s team laid a flat panel of plastic explosive across the door, and then stepped back. “Set,” he reported. “Stack on the door.”
The officers hurried to flatten themselves along the wall to either side of the door. Atalia moved to join them, but Murson pushed her toward the back. “No offense, but let us take it from here,” he said. “Plus, Beauceron made me promise to keep you safe.”
Atalia scowled at him, but the captain’s expression told her that she was unlikely to win any argument. He moved to the front of the team, next to the door, and she took up a position at the rear.
“Breach!” Murson yelled.
Atalia winced as the charge detonated, blasting the doors off their hinges. The tactical team peeled around the corner a split second later, hurrying into the smoke-filled corridor. Atalia followed, her heart thumping. She was nearly at the doorframe when the machine gun opened up.
She heard screams, and a sustained burst of tracer rounds ripped through the open doorway ahead of her. The last officers in line paused instinctively, backing away from the door. Atalia saw two officers dash back through the door – one was limping badly, she noted. A third man appeared, dragging one of his comrades by his tactical vest, but before he could take cover out of the doorway, another burst of machine gun fire hit him in the back, knocking him over.
“Fuck!” one of the officers swore.
The machine gun fired again, bullets shattering the glass railing along the outside of the balcony level. Atalia grabbed one of the men that had made it out. “What happened?” she yelled, over the din of the firing.
“Crew-served weapon,” he said, panting, his eyes wide with fear. “Right at the top of the corridor. They have it behind cover of some kind.”
“Where’s Captain Murson?”
“Dead,” the officer told her. “They just took out half the team.”
Atalia glanced around the landing, and realized he was right – in addition to the two officers still providing rear security at the top of the escalator, just five other officers remained, and one of them was wounded, having taken a round in the thigh.
One of the surviving officers put his rifle around the corner and fired a sustained burst. On the opposite side of the doorway, a second officer lobbed a stun grenade down the corridor. It went off with a thunderous BOOM, but the machine gun opened up again a moment later, and both men moved back from the doorway hurriedly.
“I can see the entrance to the control center,” the officer who had fired his rifle said to Atalia. “There’s some kind of blast door. They’ve got the bottom half partway up, and the top half partway down, so there’s just a thin slit still open. It’s basically the perfect firing port for that machine gun.”
“Did the grenade do anything?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Didn’t even come close.”
Atalia heard a rifle fire behind her. She turned and saw the two officers at the top of the escalator aiming down into the atrium.
“More troops incoming,” the closest officer said. “They’re starting to maneuver toward us.”
“How many?” Atalia asked.
“Ten or so.” The officer fired a short burst, and then ducked as several rifle rounds flew past his head. “Make that fifteen to twenty.”
“Shit.” Atalia looked back at the doorway to the control center, where the hidden machine gun waited.
“We’re trapped.”
19
Paisen fired her suit’s forward maneuvering thrusters, and brought herself to a stop just before she touched down on the transfer station’s upper hull. Vence landed next to her, and the two women hooked on to the station using magnetic grapples attached to the suits’ harnesses. They stood, legs splayed, surveying the Jokuan fleet.
“Scan from the outside in,” Paisen said. “The Guardian’s the linchpin in this whole operation. They’ll be protecting it deep inside the formation.”
“Think I got it,” Vence replied, a moment later. She sent the location to Paisen’s heads-up display. “Smaller black ship, a cruiser on either side.”
Paisen zoomed in on the ship. “That looks like it.” She frowned.
“What?” Vence asked, sensing her hesitation.
“I don’t know. I just thought it would be harder to find.”
“Well, it is right in the heart of the formation,” Vence said. “Might not be hard to find, but we’re going to need to fly past most of the fleet to get there.”
“Yeah,” Paisen agreed.
“Once we land and emplace the mines, are you thinking dynamic entry?” Vence asked.
“Maybe,” Paisen said. “But I was hoping to make it covert. If we go in shooting and something goes wrong, they could launch all of the PKDs before we make it to the bridge.”
“What about simultaneous explosive decompression?” Vence suggested.
“The whole ship?” Paisen asked. She shook her head. “Too messy. And Rath may still be on there.”
“Well then, we’re back to dynamic entry,” Vence said. “The moment we breach the hull, they’ll know it.”
“Were they still teaching the Keppler Maneuver when you went through Group training?” Paisen asked.
Vence snorted. “Were they teaching it? Sure. But they definitely weren’t encouraging it.”
Paisen stayed silent.
“I think my training avatar called it an ‘option of last resort,’ ” Vence continued, “and then he spent a while describing all the different ways it could kill you.” She shrugged. “But in this case … if it actually works … it might do the trick.”
“Yeah,” Paisen said. She turned and faced Vence. “You up for it?”
Vence exhaled noisily. “No.”
“You have a better idea?” Paisen asked.
“No,” Vence admitted.
“Then let’s go.”
They pushed off of the hull. Paisen pointed her helmet at the distant Rampart Guardian, and they fired their thrusters, accelerating down toward it. They flew alone for nearly a minute, two tiny black dots amidst a sea of stars. Then they passed the first of the fleet’s sentry ships, and suddenly, the fleet was all around them, massive gray ships hanging in orbit on all sides. Paisen found herself holding her breath, praying that the myriad ships’ sensors would not detect them.
All it takes is one sensor array pointed at the exact right location just as we pass by.
Their path took them along the underbelly of a large destroyer, and they dodged to one side, avoiding the ship’s landing gear. Paisen saw a pair of fighter escorts pass ahead of them, patrolling through the fleet, but they continued on without spotting the two women.
“Nearly there,” Paisen noted. “Aim for the stern.”
“Roger,” Vence acknowledged.
Movement caught Paisen’s eye – off to her right, a tug pushed away from a smaller, white vessel.
Doing some repairs, probably.
She looked ahead again, at the approaching form of the Guardian, but something made her look back. The tug had disappeared from view, but there was something familiar about the white ship. She studied it for a second, and then her eyes went wide.
“Pull up!” she told Vence.
“What?”
“Do it!” Paisen fired her forward thrusters, yanking herself to a stop several hundred meters from the black ship’s hull. Vence braked to a stop a few meters ahead of her.
“What?” she repeated, as they hung, spinning slowly, in space.
“Something’s not right,” Paisen said.
She surveyed the Rampart Guardian, and then looked at the cruisers on either side of it. “Look at the cruisers’ weapon systems,” she said.
Vence looked. “They’re all pointing inward, toward the Guardian,” she said, confused. “Why?”
“Because that’
s not the Rampart Guardian,” Paisen said, with growing conviction. “It’s a hologram. A neat little trap, for anyone trying to take out the drone command ship.”
“Shit. So where’s the real Guardian?” Vence asked. “I didn’t see any other black landing ships in the fleet.”
Paisen pointed up at the white ship, above them and to the right. Vence turned and looked at it.
“They just finished repainting it,” Paisen said.
“… but it’s the same ship type,” Vence finished. “Slick.”
Paisen took a final look at the decoy below them, and then lit her thrusters. She cut them off immediately, and let herself glide in toward the real Guardian, which glittered, bright white against the backdrop of space. She pulled her feet up in front of her as they approached, and then flared her thrusters one last time, and came in for a soft landing just above the ship’s aft landing ramp, below the engine nacelles. Vence joined her a second later. For a brief moment, their matte-black space-suits stood out plainly against the white hull of the Guardian, and then the photo-receptors built into the suit sensed the new backdrop, and each woman’s suit changed color, blending in seamlessly with the newly-painted ship.
Paisen and Vence tethered themselves to the hull, then attached their Forges to the hull as well via magnetic clamps. Paisen slaved the two devices together to combine their construction capabilities, and sent them a command via her neural interface; she watched as the nanobots sprung to life, starting on the base of a large device.
“Going to take them a few hours to build and assemble,” she observed.
“Then we’ve gotta install the damn thing,” Vence said. “And prep our entry equipment.”
“Mm,” Paisen grunted. “It’s going to be a long night. Well, let’s get started on emplacing the mines while we wait. I’ll work along the starboard side.”
“Roger,” Vence said. She unhooked an equipment bag from the back of her deep-space maneuvering rig, clipped it onto her chest harness, and then drew a mine out of the bag. “I’ll take the port side, meet you at the bow. Discovery procedures?”
“If you’re spotted, give me a warning if you can, get off the ship, then blow your mines,” Paisen said. “We’ll have to hope we have enough of the mines in place to take out the ship and prevent them from launching the drones.”
“At which point the entire fleet will know we’re here,” Vence pointed out.
“Yup,” Paisen agreed. “I never said it was a good plan.”
“I had hoped it would be survivable,” Vence said, but she turned away, and began pulling herself hand-over-hand along the hull.
20
Senator Foss clasped his hands under his chin and leaned back in his seat. The rest of the committee members remained silent, watching the senator with tired, bloodshot eyes. General Childers opened his mouth to say something, but Foss held up a finger, and the general stayed quiet. Finally, Foss sighed.
“This plan is ambitious,” he said. “To strike back at the Jokuans … it’s daring, but it makes me very, very nervous.”
“What alternative would you propose, Senator?” General Childers asked.
“We will reopen the negotiations with General Yo-Tsai,” Foss said. “Our hands are somewhat tied, but from what he told me during our first discussion, it seems he does not have designs on the entire Federacy. Our aim at this point is to limit the damage his forces inflict, and save as many citizens as we can, without letting this break out into a full-blown war.”
“But what leverage do we have?” Childers asked. “With the drone systems in place, Yo-Tsai has us up against a wall.”
“Yo-Tsai believes that the Fleet Reaction Force has already been activated, and is nearly ready to deploy,” Foss said, smiling. “A little piece of subterfuge I employed to catch him off guard. So our backs are not quite up against the proverbial wall. Not yet.”
“But it’s not true, sir,” the public relations rep pointed out. “We sent the FRF orders to activate a few hours ago, but they’re weeks away from being ready.”
“Rescind those orders,” Foss barked, sternly. “A sudden flurry of activity will surely tip off General Yo-Tsai that the FRF is not ready.”
“Then what about the people of Tarkis, Senator?” the public relations rep asked. “Have we just written them off completely?”
“No,” Foss said. “My negotiations may allow us to send them aid. But this plan that Hawken concocted – that is clearly not the answer. The risks it carries are too grave. Far too grave.”
At the end of the table, the head of the fire department nodded. “It’s very dangerous, Senator.”
“We weighed the risks,” Childers explained. “But for lack of a better alternative, District Attorney Hawken opted to go forward with the plan.”
“That,” Foss said, tapping a finger on the table, “is my biggest concern. Mr. Hawken approved it, and now we know that he was conspiring with the enemy. That tells me that we can ill afford to gamble on his plan. This course of action may be playing directly into General Yo-Tsai’s hands. I can’t in good conscience allow us to proceed down that path.”
“You’re aborting the operation?” Childers asked.
“I am,” Foss said, nodding.
“Sir,” General Childers pointed out, “the team we sent to Tarkis is already moving into position. They’re likely committed at this point. They might not be able to make a clean getaway even if we ordered them to.”
“That is their concern, not ours,” Foss said.
“I made a promise to them,” Childers said, his face reddening. “They’re counting on thousands of reinforcements arriving from other planets in the next forty-eight hours. I promised them those additional officers would be there.”
“You should not have made that promise,” Foss said. “Those reinforcements stay where they are.”
“And the team we sent? The officers on Tarkis who are preparing to fight back?” Childers asked.
“Casualties of war, I’m afraid,” Foss said, shaking his head sadly. “Yet more victims of Mr. Hawken’s involvement in this affair.”
“Sir,” Childers said, clearing his throat. “We can’t just—”
“My decision is final, General,” Foss said, interrupting him. In the uneasy silence that followed, Foss stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have much to attend to. For the meantime, we’ll adjourn – we can reconvene again in a few hours.”
Foss made his way down to the lobby accompanied by General Childers, who insisted on assigning an extra contingent of Senate Guards to Foss’ personal security detail, and sending several patrol cars to escort Foss to his office. Foss made a show of protesting this additional attention, feigning humility, but eventually he let Childers have his way.
In the backseat of his car, Foss took out his holophone and dialed Patriarch Rewynn.
“Gaspar,” the old man said, by way of greeting. “I have been praying that you were not among the dead at Anchorpoint.”
“And Simi heard your prayers,” Foss said. “I was on Jokuan, attempting to reason with Yo-Tsai. He nearly killed me, too, that barbarian.”
“Simi is watching over you, it seems.”
“We are doing his work,” Foss said. “And he has rewarded us amply. Patriarch, this attack has handed us the Federacy on a silver platter.”
“What about Hawken?” Rewynn asked. “The news said he had been appointed the interim leader.”
“He was,” Foss said. “And he was getting closer to us, Thomis. He came to Anchorpoint to arrest me. He was arresting my aide, Shofel, when the attack occurred.”
“What does Shofel know?” Rewynn asked.
“He coordinated the mercenaries that attacked Hawken on Sipadan,” Foss reminded the older man. “He’s recovering in the hospital right now, but he’s becoming something of a liability. I’ll deal with it.”
“And Hawken? Surely when he hears you’re back …”
“Hawken is no longer a concern. I just had him arres
ted for treason,” Foss said, smiling smugly.
“You’re in charge now?” Rewynn asked.
“Indeed I am.”
The line was silent for a moment. “Then we truly are living in the prophesied time. ‘The steady trickle of lifewater shall become a flood.’ This is the moment, Gaspar,” Rewynn said, his voice heavy with emotion. “The long-awaited rise of the NeoPuritan Church.”
“It is,” Foss echoed. “And we shall see it come to pass. But I must move cautiously for the time being.”
“Of course,” Rewynn agreed. “We cannot be too hasty.”
“I’ll need to call for emergency elections,” Foss mused. “Then we can use the Church’s influence to ensure our own candidates are well placed in a plurality of senate districts.”
“What of the Jokuans?” Rewynn asked.
“While I was there, I made a pact with Yo-Tsai,” Foss explained. “I will keep the Fleet Reaction Force inactive, and in return, his army will not attack any planets with NeoPuritan presence.”
“We’ll divide the galaxy between us,” Rewynn mused.
“For the time being,” Foss said. “And when the Church has grown sufficiently, I have no doubt we’ll be able to push his forces out, and reclaim those Federacy planets for ourselves.”
21
In the back of the Jokuan command truck, a battle captain slipped his headphones off and turned in his seat.
“Sir?” he asked.
Colonel Zhu, who had been studying a digital map, looked over his shoulder. “Yes?”
“We’ve lost contact with Charlie Company, sir,” the captain reported. “I can’t raise them at the spaceport anymore.”
“Are you getting electronic interference from the buildings again?” the brigade commander asked, moving a unit designator symbol across his screen.
“I don’t think so, sir.”
“When did they last report in?”
“Nearly an hour ago, sir.”
Zhu frowned. “Damn it.”
“The reserve platoon isn’t far from the spaceport, sir.”
“Send them. Tell the reserve platoon leader I want communications back up in twenty minutes at most.”