Last of The Nighthawks: A Military Space Opera Adventure (Lady Hellgate Book 1)

by Greg Dragon

  “Planets, you’re actually serious. Joy, come on, I just want to talk. All ESOs aren’t psychopaths, despite what they told you in cadet academy,” she said. “What am I going to do, anyway? Lead you over there, kill you, and then hide your body inside of your phantom? Even if I could get away with it, I wouldn’t want to. You’re my friend, even if you’re wrong about me crushing on your boyfriend.”

  When they were far enough from the campsite, Helga felt safe enough to talk freely. She glanced back at the fire, hoping that her voice wouldn’t carry when she spoke. “They were saying that there is a rumor about your Commander Lang,” she said. “They say that he has family, and property on this planet.”

  “That sounds ridiculous,” Joy Valance said, hissing through her teeth. She touched the top of her cornrowed hair, using her forefinger to scratch an itch. “Those talking heads back there, I love them to death, but they drive me crazy when they’re not in a cockpit. All they do is gossip the most ridiculous schtill. When would Tyrell Lang have time to establish a family on Meluvia? Are you saying that you believe it, Helga? How does that even work? I just don’t see it being possible. We’re in different systems throughout the year.”

  “They say he takes two months shore leave, same time every year, and that is when he stays with his family down here.”

  Joy Valance stopped walking and closed her eyes. She looked like a child that was about to have a tantrum. Her face reflected anger as she stood frozen beneath the spotlight. “He does take that time off, but … I don’t like to talk about this, Ate,” she said, opening her eyes to regard her friend. “It makes me question my commander’s motives, and if I do that then how can I lead?”

  “You’re right,” Helga said. “And you are smart enough to realize this. He needs you in his corner to carry out his commands. The minute you start to question them, you’ll freeze and get yourself killed. Even if it’s true is it really any of our business? The man has a family, so what? I’m sorry, Joy, I don’t know what I was thinking. I feel bad for putting it in your head now.”

  “Don’t be,” Joy said, her breath visible in the cold air. “I mean, none of us get paid enough to afford a Meluvian home. What I’m trying to understand is, how he could afford property on a planet? Property and a family on Meluvia, the most expensive planet in the galaxy.”

  “Not in the galaxy. None of us have been to Louine but I’m betting that if they allowed us to live there, it would cost way more than here,” Helga said. “Plus, couldn’t he have saved up enough credits over the time he’s been an officer? I imagine that after twenty years, his credits could be substantial. Plus, he’s a commander. They have to pay him enough to afford the accommodations wherever he’s needed.”

  “I’m a step below him, and I save my credits. Cilas could be a commander soon, and even he isn’t making that kind of money,” she said, seeming disgusted. “Anyway, let’s head back before they send a spy down here to see if we’re thyping. If those bored Revenants of mine run out of topics to squawk about, we will be the subjects of interest.”

  “Who cares?” Helga said. “Let them talk their schtill. Besides, they already think we’re thyping. They just won’t come out and say it.”

  As they made their way back in silence, she thought about Tyrell Lang. He had been given command of the Inginus after Lester Cruz moved up to be Retzo’s XO. Sho had commanded the Soulspur, but beat out Cruz for the top position, and since Lang was Cruz’s first mate, he won the command of the Inginus while the Soulspur was given to Jit Nam.

  Not much had been known about Lang before his promotion, but the Inginus had gone on to have successes against the Geralos. They barely docked with the Rendron, so Helga knew nothing about him or his ship. What she did know was that on the day they were rescued, she’d seen something in his eyes that had frightened her.

  They walked back to the fire and sat down with the rest, who were now singing old Vestalian songs. Helga knew the one they were singing; it was a folk song from one of the main continents. So she picked up the tune, humming at first, and then singing along, despite the look she received from Joy.

  It had been ages since she sung anything, and she had been known to have a good singing voice. The others heard her above them, and met her with smiles. This emboldened her to sing even louder.

  The song was about perseverance and eternal love. A woman who had been taken from her home by bandits was eventually rescued by her family. As she sang the lyrics, she appreciated them now more than ever. Her mind went to Cilas on that fractured ship. What was going on up there, she wondered, and would there be an Inginus left when they flew up to rejoin the fight tomorrow?

  For the longest time her only dream was to get back to her tiny compartment on the Rendron. She wanted to see her mother’s face, and kiss the frame that held her image. She even missed her lumpy cot and the mildewed smell that wouldn’t go away. Most of all—more than anything else—she wanted to get back to being herself. This hard woman who sung with the Revenants felt like a machine that she was trapped inside of.

  Going home was still a mystery with the conflict in space. Were they winning, were they losing? Not even Joy Valance could know. Tomorrow, Helga thought, tomorrow we will find out. She looked up at the stars, her voice bellowing out the tune, wondering if she’d ever see her crummy compartment again.

  32

  The damage the Soulspur caused to the destroyer was monumental in scale. This didn’t stop the Geralos from retaliating, however, and with the infiltrator stuck, they focused all of their gun batteries on its hull.

  Everything I do seems to turn into disaster, Retzo thought. “Genevieve, tell Commander Nam to brace for impact,” he said. “There are shield reserves on the Soulspur, and he will need to use them now.”

  As he made to get up to walk around, he noticed that a young girl—who couldn’t be older than thirteen years of age—had come onto the bridge to stand next to his chair. She had hair so blonde that it shone like silver, but it held traces of green which hinted at a Meluvian heritage.

  She wore the full sun of a colonel—cadets had their own ranks emulating the military—and handed him a cup of tea. What is this now? he thought, as he looked around to see who was responsible. It had to be a practical joke, right? Why would there be a cadet on his bridge?

  He forced himself to smile at her as he tried to imagine her commanding her classmates. She’s so little, but the rank says it all. Kid must be something special if she’s on my bridge, he thought. “Won a contest to get in some bridge time?” he said when she met his eyes, and her cheeks immediately turned red.

  She seemed so frightened that he touched her shoulder reassuringly. “It’s okay, Colonel. Thank you,” he said, and lifted the tea for effect.

  “Commander Nam says they are shielded now, Captain,” Genevieve said, and then looked past him to shake her head negatively at the young cadet. The girl, getting the message, retreated quickly after a strong salute. How cute, Retzo thought. She must be one of Genevieve’s relatives.

  “Mr. Ranks, put a torpedo on the aft of that destroyer,” he said. “We need only one, and for the love of humanity, do not hit our infiltrator.”

  He sipped at the tea. It was his favorite flavor, and the temperature was absolutely perfect. It had to be Genevieve’s doing, sending over this cadet. They had worked together long enough for her to know what he needed.

  “This tea is excellent,” he said to her, and looked back at the cadet and winked.

  “She’s a good kid,” said Genevieve. “I apologize for her timing. That tea was supposed to be given to you during a time of inaction.” She touched her ear where the comms was attached, and looked up at him suddenly, her eyes widening. “Skipper, it’s Captain Tara Cor,” she said.

  “Patch her through,” Retzo said.

  He got up and walked to one of the large bay windows, taking the teacup with him. The torpedo was a direct hit on the aft of the destroyer, and with its shields failing, it shattered arou
nd the Soulspur. More cheers went up, but Retzo wouldn’t join in since he knew his decision had crippled the infiltrator.

  “I’m going out in the passageway to take this call,” he said to Genevieve, and she gave him a look of understanding.

  He walked past his tactical action team and flashed them a confident smile, and patted the cadet on her head as he made his way out the door.

  “You okay?” he said to Tara Cor, after connecting the comms to his earpiece.

  “Still here trading blows, but shields are dwindling. There’ll be more coming in if we don’t hurry this up.”

  “I’m taking the Rendron around to the broadside of that beast, and together we will wear it down to nothing,” he said. “If we can kill the FTL drive as soon as the shields go dead, we can take down a battleship. How’s that for your record, beautiful?”

  “I won’t get my hopes up. The lizard’s captain is smart. They will jump out of the system before we get a chance to disable anything. Okay, so we’re sandwiching the bastard then. What do you need for me to do?” she said.

  “Just keep pumping out those cannons. The rest is entirely up to me,” he said. “Keep giving it to them, Tara. It will all be over soon.”

  “I hope you’re right,” she said. “When I’m at twenty percent, I’m getting my ship out. I miss you, Strut. It’s been too long since we caught up. Let’s win and fix that, what say you?”

  “Sounds wonderful, just like you,” he said, and then switched off his comms. He exhaled the stress and placed his back against the bulkhead. He could talk a good game but he was unsure. The Geralos battleship was something out of his worst nightmare, and words wouldn’t be enough to kill it.

  He looked down the passageway with its ugly aesthetic of exposed pipes and wires. It was supposed to have been repaired over two months ago, but here it was still, as if the crew didn’t want it repaired.

  The Rendron wasn’t the oldest ship, but it was old in many ways. A direct hit from that battleship would kill many of his Marines, and exposed pipes and wires made this certain.

  He thought about the cadet who had served him the tea and imagined her getting thrown from a collision with the hull. It was the worst kind of thought but he couldn’t seem to shake it. At any moment he knew that he could literally lose it all.

  An alarm started to blare and he glanced at his wrist pad. Another ship had jumped into the system and the computer was letting him know. He exhaled, shaking. This would be it for them. Another Geralos destroyer or even a battleship would be enough to take them out.

  He closed his eyes to regulate his anxiety, cautious to not jump to conclusions before knowing the truth. His eyes opened, and he brought up his hand, reading the message on his wrist pad that had come in from Genevieve.

  “New ship is Alliance, Captain. A battlecruiser known as the Scythe.”

  Retzo gestured with his fingers across the wrist pad’s interface, syncing to his station on the bridge. Once established, a hologram appeared, showing the details of the new ship.

  Seeing the Scythe hovering above his wrist pad gave Retzo Sho a sliver of hope. The Scythe was the last of the Vestalian battlecruisers. It was one of the few that took on the Geralos back when Vestalia was filled with humans.

  The fact that the other battlecruisers were now extinct spoke volumes of the hardiness of the Scythe. It looked like a wraith, freshly come from the grave. It was bigger than an infiltrator, but still much smaller than the Geralos battleship. To call the vessel ugly was an understatement. Calling it frightening was closer to what he felt. In that hologram was a metal golem that seemed comprised of salvaged parts.

  Like all the originals, the Scythe had been built when shield technology was in its infant stages. To compensate, the captains of these vessels would layer the hull in salvaged scraps. The Scythe’s strength, however, was that it was a mystery. The Geralos would be in for quite a surprise.

  Shield management was optimum in modern spatial warfare, but the Scythe was from a different time when it was about brute strength. Beyond the ability of the old warship, Retzo knew who was at the helm. It was Gerald Hal, Admiral of the Vestalian fleet. He hadn’t announced his arrival, but Retzo knew it was him.

  He contacted his communications officer to put him through to the admiral. Ten painstaking minutes of waiting followed before Genevieve confirmed a link. “Retzo Sho,” said a gruff voice, sounding annoyed and distracted. “Why are you playing with this reptilian thing instead of using your weapons to kill it?”

  Retzo rolled his eyes at the old man’s tone. It was the standard I know better than you attitude of an Alliance Admiral. Gerald Hal especially, who was a legend across the galaxy, and it wasn’t as if he could offer up any kind of retort.

  “Admiral Hal, with respect,” he said, “this enemy has proven difficult due to its shields. It is stalling us purposefully while they run amuck on the planet. Every time we get some traction, a new set of ships jump in. If you have some wisdom, sir, I would love to hear what you think.”

  The comms went silent and Retzo stared at his feet, noticing that the one on the right had a small white mark that stood out. Grabbing his handkerchief he dropped to a knee and cleaned it off methodically. Why isn’t he replying? He must be gloating, he thought, annoyed at the fact that the admiral was even there.

  “It sounds to me that they know us very well,” Gerald Hal finally said. “They know that we’re spread thin, and that communication is a joke. They can keep throwing warships at us, and in time the planet will be lost. It’s how they got our ancestors, Captain. It’s why I’m here now.”

  “If I knew you were coming, sir, I would have—”

  “What? Put out fireworks?” he said. “You wouldn’t have known, Retzo. That’s how we will win. Don’t you know that we are compromised on every level in this Alliance? Even this chat of ours, and that Genevieve girl. How do you know that she doesn’t have family under the gun from some traitor?

  “The lizards have mind control, son. Why would I announce myself? Now, stay your course and wait for me to hail you before you do anything else. You’ve already lost an infiltrator, and the other one seems eager to join. Pull them out now, then watch and observe. Today’s lesson will be a course on removing lizards that hide behind shields.”

  This is something I have to see, thought Retzo as he opened the door to the bridge. He’d be lying if he said that the admiral’s words had no impact, as he mulled over the loyalty of Genevieve Aria.

  Hal was completely right in his assertion that there could be a spy. Viles had committed suicide after sending the Nighthawks to their deaths. Even now he was clueless about his former CAG’s involvement. Did he have family under the gun? Was that what drove him to kill himself?

  “Captain on the bridge,” Genevieve announced as he walked back to his chair and took a seat. He depressed two buttons and a vid screen materialized, with a shot from the fore of the Rendron. He saw that the Scythe was now descending on the Nian, who shot a torpedo in response.

  Retzo’s breath caught in his throat when it struck the Scythe’s hull, but the payload merely dissipated. “What in the worlds?” Retzo whispered as he looked at Dino for an answer.

  “Absorption shields, Captain. Photon weapons get absorbed. It’s a rare feature of beautiful science, really. Admiral’s privilege, eh?”

  “Yeah, no kidding,” Retzo said. No wonder the old man’s cocky.

  The Scythe moved in front of the Aqnaqak’s position, absorbing all the shots that the battleship pumped out. After a time the firing ceased, and the Nian jumped out of the system before the Scythe could retaliate.

  That was anticlimactic, Retzo thought, but the bridge seemed to disagree. Every one of the crew began to cheer, offering up hugs and shaking hands. Even Genevieve was on her feet, applauding, and Retzo Sho felt pressured to join in. It was just like the admiral to show up late and steal the show, but the battleship was gone, and the Geralos on Meluvia would be without support.

  A
s they congratulated one another, Retzo got a new message on his wrist pad. He closed the channel and shut down the vid, then took a close look and saw that it was private. Getting up quietly, he slipped into the passageway, noticing that there were cheers coming from every corner of the ship.

  He walked to his cabin, not stopping even when hailed. “Good job, Admiral Hal,” he muttered. “You can now tell stories about the time you saved our skin.”

  33

  Retzo’s cabin was very posh, way too posh for someone as humble as he was. He’d inherited it from his predecessor, who was a man with a taste for the finer things. Retzo had never been comfortable with the fact that his cabin was nearly as big as the bridge. It was resplendent with whites and golds, plush carpeting, and even a couch.

  A large glass window showed the Soulspur in self-repair, floating between the Scythe and the Aqnaqak. Retzo walked past the king-sized bed to a large desk in front of the window. He sat in the chair and pulled up the message. It was from Misa Chase, his master-at-arms.

  “Captain Sho,” it began. “I am sending you this message in confidence. There’s a surveillance video attached. It was the last one taken of Commander Viles. I don’t know how to put this easily, sir, but the commander’s suicide was staged. The man on the video is a corporal named Ozie Arl. He is a Marine from the Inginus who we now have in custody.

  “Captain, we questioned him, and he is willing to talk, but he wants a guarantee—from you—that he will be absolved of the crime. Please watch the video, sir, and call my comms when you’re ready. I will await your word on what to do next.”

  Retzo read the message three more times in disbelief. “They committed murder on my ship?” he whispered, “They murdered one of my officers?” In all his years as captain, there had been three murders that he could remember.

  Two were from a lover’s spat, where a crewman found his woman with another man. The third was a teenager, a cadet, who killed another that had bullied him. They were unfortunate deaths, but he understood them. This one was still a mystery.