To a man and woman, they each swore their loyalty.
“Vile, traitor scum!” Trufant cursed them as Pruitt led him away.
Orth ordered his Marines to stand down but remain close and ready in the event some proved to value their lives less than their word.
“Lieutenant Dyson, order primary batteries to fix firing solutions on the Tyroshi fleet.” It may have begun with Fenton, but Orth was determined that it end with the destruction of Clan Ndeeldavono’s entire fleet.
Leaving the command module behind, Pruitt led Trufant onto the lift. “I hope you don’t intend to give me any trouble, sir. It would be against your best interests.”
“I find it so very comforting to know you have my best interests at heart, Lieutenant,” Trufant responded, “though I do appreciate you continuing to recognize my rank.”
Pruitt said nothing.
“And if I were to give you an order? Would you recognize that, as well?”
Again, Pruitt said nothing.
“You’re a bright young officer. I can see that.” Trufant regarded him pointedly. “You see it, don’t you? Orth, he’s not himself. I’ve known Knolan many years, and I don’t recognize this man. He’s clearly suffered a psychotic break in the wake of—”
“Stop talking, sir.”
“You have the power to end this. It’s not too late. The Admiralty will celebrate you as a true corporate patriot. It would be only the beginning of a long and illustrious career, I have no doubt. And I would put my own name in favor of your advancement, of course.”
“I said, stop talking, sir,” Pruitt repeated, turning toward Trufant. The man timed his strike perfectly, lifting both his hands and striking Pruitt flat across the trachea. Gagging and gasping, Pruitt staggered back as the lift opened and Trufant bolted down the corridor toward his quarters. By the time Pruitt recovered enough to give chase, Trufant had armed himself with the ceremonial blade given to him by Zj Soliorana.
“It doesn’t have to come to this, Lieutenant,” Trufant said, swaying on his feet, shifting the blade from hand to hand. “I’ll speak in your favor if you help me end this. We can do it together. Help me gather a sympathetic force to counter Knolan and I will guarantee you a place by my side.”
Pruitt narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t be begging to bargain if you were confident you could win this fight.” He flexed his fists, inviting the first strike.
Baring his teeth angrily, Trufant raised the blade and charged clumsily toward him. Pruitt dodged easily. He snapped his elbow down between Trufant’s shoulder blades for good measure.
“You little…” Trufant charged a second time, feinting right, then trying to cut in low and left at Pruitt’s knees. Pruitt read the move well in advance, dipping clear of the blade’s reach and snatching Trufant’s wrist between his hands. He twisted violently, snapping the bone and pushing Trufant away as he took the blade from the man’s mangled hand.
Pruitt just smiled as he tested the weight, the feel of the blade.
“Think about what you’re doing, Lieutenant,” Trufant stammered, still holding his wrist as he backpedaled against the edge of his desk. His breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
Looking almost mournfully at the blade in his hand, Pruitt sighed, seemed to sag. “Maybe you’re right, sir. Maybe there’s been enough killing.”
“That’s the spirit, son,” Trufant said. “I like where your head’s at. Now, just hand me the blade and we’ll—”
Before he could finish, Pruitt lunged forward, thrusting the blade into Trufant’s expansive gut. Black blood poured forth, coating the blade, making it slick in his hand as Trufant wailed through gritted teeth. He tried in vain to wriggle away from the blade. Undeterred, Pruitt thrust it deeper still. He drove the blade into Trufant’s stomach until the man seized, his eyes going wide and the tiniest of gurgles escaping his throat. Grasping with both hands, Pruitt drew the blade up until he felt it notch against the sternum, rending flesh and tissue alike as he opened Trufant’s stomach. Pruitt withdrew the blade and Trufant fell limply to his knees. He clutched at his gaping, eviscerated gut and the blood and viscera slopping wetly through his fingers as if he had even the slightest hope of stemming the tide, but it simply wasn’t to be. With a wet, agonized rattle, Trufant pitched face forward into the pool of his own spreading gore and died.
Pruitt lifted a hand to wick the man’s blood from his face, realizing too late they were both similarly covered. He succeeded only in smearing it unevenly across his cheeks and forehead. The face that greeted him in Trufant’s washroom mirror was a crazed distortion of his own, finger trails of dark black blood streaked below his eyes like war paint. He started the tap, intending to wash himself clean, but decided he rather liked the look.
Let them see, he thought. Let them see the price of defiance.
He stepped into the command module without a word. At first his return went unheralded. Slowly, however, a woman manning the comm station turned her head toward him. Perhaps she smelled death on him. Perhaps she heard the steady patter of Trufant’s blood as it dripped from the edge of the blade to the deck below. Either way, she nearly threw herself out of her station at the sight of him. Her reaction brought the attention of others, all of whom looked upon him as if he were some terrifying vision of death come to claim their souls. Even the battle-hardened Marines seemed to blanche at the sight of so much blood.
Only Commander Orth stood mute, without reaction. Taking in the sight of him, he lifted an eyebrow. “The prisoner?” he asked.
“Attempted to escape and bribe me,” Pruitt said evenly. “When that failed, he attacked me. I defended myself.”
Orth shrugged dismissively. “No matter. The man was of no practical value in any event.” He smiled wryly. “Rather poetic touch,” he said, indicating the blade.
Pruitt seemed to notice it for the first time, as if he wasn’t even aware he was still carrying it until that moment. “Yes. I was thinking I might keep it. A memento, of sorts.”
“It seems only fitting.” Orth stepped forward, clapping Pruitt on his shoulder. It was one of the few parts of his uniform that wasn’t sodden with blood. “You honor me with your service, Lieutenant. Come. We have a battle group to address.”
45 • PROXIMITY
The ambush was right out of Morgenthau-Hale’s playbook, and she had missed it. She’d allowed their bloodlust and the promise of easy prey to lure them into the empty, indefensible space between the enemy fleet and their own—No Man’s Land—and now they were paying for it in blood.
At such close range it was only a matter of time before the Morgenthau-Hale rail guns crippled the fleet and the Tyroshi moved in to finish them off with their plasma cutters. Already several precision strikes had rent a handful of the smaller support vessels. Dozens upon dozens of tiny pinwheeling figures danced away from the shredded decks like dead little snowflakes into oblivion. It was infuriating. Terrifying. She didn’t know these people—hell, she barely knew half the people flying her wing—but she felt the loss of each one acutely.
“Multiple contacts inbound on your position!” the voice of Marshal Harm informed them over the comm.
Combat instincts kicked in and Ohana snapped out of it. She couldn’t afford to think like that, she reminded herself, couldn’t allow herself to become emotional or overwhelmed. The numbers didn’t matter, not right now. All that mattered was protecting the fleet and each other.
All that mattered was surviving.
“Alright, people, you know the drill,” Dell chimed in. His voice was effortlessly commanding, cool and even but with an authoritative edge she knew he must have picked up from serving with Marshal Harm. “First we thin the herd, then we go after the big dogs.”
“Remember,” Ohana added, “they may have lighter payloads, but they’ve got the same speed and maneuverability we do. These aren’t those Tyroshi fighters from that turkey shoot before. Whatever you do, don’t let these pilots get their birds behind you.�
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“Sound advice, folks.”
“All wings, prepare for contact!” Harm said. Inside her cockpit, Ohana’s HUD went from red to green, indicating they were in range. “Weapons free!”
The initial clash was explosive, a maelstrom of wild fire and near-miss collisions. At least two were not so near-miss. One of the unfortunate pilots still showed a heat signature on scan and had more than likely ejected clean; the other was off the board altogether. Ohana fought back a grimace as she pulled back into the fray, dropping in behind a pair of Morgenthau-Hale birds chasing and strafing a pair of Blue Wingers.
Hang in there, she thought, juking and twisting, trying to predict their path and lead them with her guns.
She squeezed off a quick burst and caught one, sending it wheeling off before its engine went up. The other broke off and suddenly the hunted were the hunters.
“Fuck yeah,” Blue Ten’s voice crackled over her comm. “Owe you one, Red Seven!”
“Like hell,” she said tersely. Cutting her momentum, she flipped in place and blasted back toward the main knot of combat. God, how she preferred space combat to atmospheric combat.
Yet even with the tech and the training, many of the wings were outnumbered and in no position to aggressively put those advantages to use. Calls for assistance were coming fast and furious over the general comm, starting to overlap each other, drown each other out…
She flinched as a flurry of fire chased past her cockpit. Instinctively pulling the yolk in the opposite direction, she fired off a round of chaff to confuse the targeting computers of any potential pursuers and rolled steep to starboard. With the chaff cloud scrambling their sensors, she eased back on her thrust and rolled in hard to port behind the two who’d put her on blast. She let into them hard. Her guns shredded their engines, blowing them apart one after another. The explosions flared bright before her, though thankfully her Banshee’s mirrored cockpit shielded her from the blinding blast as she flew through the atomized cloud of her former enemies with a mighty whoop.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Dell said as he lined up alongside her.
She was just about to respond when Marshal Harm’s voice cut in over the comm. “All wings, all wings! Liberator has been breached and boarded. We remain in control of the command module and all primary functions. Repeat, we remain in control of the command module and are executing a priority shuttle launch out of Liberator Bay One in need of immediate escort.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Marshal,” Dell replied, “we’re damn glad to hear you managed to hold command, but we’re a little busy flying and dying out here to run escort duty.”
“Not up for debate, Red Leader. The Major needs an escort, the Major gets an escort.”
“The Major? Shit, what’s he got up his sleeve now?”
“No idea. But has it ever been anything less than spectacular? Personally, I’m inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Point taken. Red Seven and I are on it.”
While Marshal Harm barked out instructions to the others, Dell and Ohana made time to rendezvous with the emerging shuttle while the rest of Red and Gold Wings gave them cover. Meanwhile, Blue and Green Wings were preparing to wage capital warfare against the Morgenthau-Hale fleet.
“This is Green Leader,” a voice unfamiliar to Ohana announced over the comm. “Targets acquired. Vectoring in with Green Two. Three… two… launch.”
“Green Two confirming launch.”
Ohana could barely contain the grin tugging at her lips as the comm erupted with a chorus of cheers and wild whoops seconds later. Somewhere beneath it all Marshal Harm was fighting to be heard, declaring critical hits on one of the Morgenthau-Hale vessels and their primary weapons pods.
“… on the Morgenthau-Hale fleet. Repeat, focus all heavy fire on the Morgenthau-Hale fleet.”
“You heard the Marshal, Green Wing,” Green Leader said. “Let’s show these corporate assholes what it means to make the noise!”
“Green Wing makes the noise!”
“Blue Wing, Blue Leader here. Let’s give our brothers and sisters in green a hand, shall we?”
“Blue Wing goes the distance!”
Ohana formed up with Dell while the bombers took the fight to Morgenthau-Hale’s capital ships in earnest. He tipped his wings, welcoming her on his wing. She reciprocated gratefully. Fighting and dying for the ones you care about, even those you barely knew, has a funny way of clarifying, even expanding perspectives. She certainly felt it, and apparently he did, too.
Just as quickly, the moment passed, replaced by a cold fire fueled by the grim realities of war. Twice, the momentum had swung dramatically. In that limited span, hundreds if not thousands had died on both sides. Now there was a window for them to act, but it was closing fast. They had to seize the opportunity while they could. They had to move quickly and efficiently, to make their enemies’ prospects for victory so pyrrhic as to be unacceptable.
To that end, and above all else, whatever Major Wilkes was planning in that super-genius head of his had to work, and it had to work fast.
Speak of the devil, she thought with a wry little smirk as Fenton’s shuttle dropped into formation behind them.
“Red Leader, Red Seven,” the shuttle’s pilot said over a private comm channel. “I’ve got Major Wilkes here for you.”
“Nice of you to join us, Major Wilkes,” Dell answered. “Mind giving us an idea of what you’re up to?”
“Or at least where we’re escorting you to?” Ohana put in.
Fenton’s voice was tight, pitched with anxiety as it came back over the comm. “Just get me on the other side of the Tyroshi fleet, then get the hell away, all of you. Fast as you can.”
“That’s not much to go on and only slightly ominous, but we’ll see what we can do. Just let us know when we’ve got you where you need to be. You got my back, Red Seven?”
“Hell yes, Red Leader,” Ohana answered without hesitation. “Always.”
The question asked and answered, neither needed to say anything more. Dell lanced forward as they made contact, drawing the attention of a fresh wave of Tyroshi fighters while Ohana carved a path through those that remained for the shuttle. “Damn, they’re coming in thick,” she growled, limiting her shots to short, harrying bursts to conserve ammo. “Just stay close on my ass and follow my lead.”
“Glad to know we’re on the same page on that count, Red Seven,” the shuttle pilot responded. Then, a moment later, “Whoa, contact on my six! Four of them! Deploying chaff.”
“Son of a bitch!” Dell barked. He was just about to roll in behind the shuttle’s pursuers when the ochre cloud of gas and fine metal shavings burst from its back, forcing them to wave off. Now he had to break and engage them in pairs, a much more dangerous proposition. “No more chaff,” he admonished the shuttle pilot, rolling off to chase down the first pair of fighters. “You just fly, we’ll take care of the rest! Copy?”
“Yes, sir. Copy.”
Ohana swallowed, measuring her instinct versus the odds. They had a better chance if they each took one of the pairs, then regrouped on the shuttle, she knew. But the shuttle would be infinitely more vulnerable in that short amount of time they would both be too engaged to cover its advance beyond the line of the Tyroshi fleet.
“I’m on the second pair, Red Leader,” Ohana said, wheeling off to chase after them.
She swore she heard him curse beneath his breath over the comm. “Better get ‘em quick!” He was too busy chasing down the first pair to offer anything more in the way advice. Not that she needed it.
“You know it.”
But these pilots were better than their cannon fodder cohorts. Their tech may have been outdated, but they knew how to push it to the limits. They even seemed to know when she was about to open fire, juking uncannily out of the path of each burst of her guns, but she knew better. They were lucky, and the difference between luck and skill is that luck has a nasty tendency of running ou
t at the worst of possible times. But that could be any time, and she needed them dead and gone now. Every second she didn’t have the shuttle riding her six was one more its own ass was flapping in the breeze.
Ohana felt a single bead of sweat break free of her left temple, sliding inevitably toward the corner of her eye. Focus, she ordered herself against the salty sting as it made contact. She set her jaw so hard it throbbed, throwing off bursts of fire every few seconds, but each time the Tyroshi pilots dipped and dodged away cleanly. Drones, she realized; the first wave must have been drones. It would explain why they’d chewed through them so easily. Now they were up against the real thing, apparently. “C’mon, you fuckers,” she snarled, “c’mon, c’mon…”
“Quicker than that, Red Seven!” Dell barked in her ear.
After that it all happened so quickly. Ohana squeezed the trigger, grazing the stabilizer of one of the Tyroshi fighters. The pilot attempted to regain control but overcorrected, shearing off course and slamming into his wingman. The fighter began to break up on impact, exploding spectacularly as its core was breached. The second fighter was immolated instantly, but the cloud of debris from the first was unavoidable. Her proximity alert beacon started screaming half a second too late. A severed section of wing came spiraling at her end over end, obliterating the space that moments earlier had been her cockpit.
The last thing Ohana Cassel heard as she was claimed by the abyss was the sound of Dell’s voice calling her name over and over and over…
46 • SINGULARITY
“Ohana? Ohana! Ohanaaaa!”
Death. So much death. All Fenton ever wanted was to help people, and already thousands had perished fighting over something he created. And now, Ohana. Granted, Xenecia took her under duress way back when, but she had embraced her new life. She helped train the Irregulars and enlisted even after Marshal Harm offered her a nostrings exit strategy. Whether that was for the cause or just to stay close to Dell or both, he couldn’t say. Did it really matter now, though? He thought back to a night not long ago when Roon told him how Ohana had confided in her.
The Lazarus Particle Page 36