“She can't blow up the reactor. She'll kill herself,” Harland said.
“A few explosives in the right places would cripple it for good, and spread contaminated material over half the city into the bargain. Don't think she can't or won't do it. If she thought she was going to make it out of this alive, she'd have taken your deal,” Cordova replied. “How do we get in?”
“The underground tunnels,” Petrov said, looking at a nodding Harland. “The same network we used to get in here. They connect a lot of the key buildings in town.” He frowned, then said, “They'll have it guarded by now. It won't be anything like as easy as it was before.”
The broadcaster looked up at the screen, and said, “Would it not be better to wait until the situation has been resolved in orbit? It strikes me that there is an excellent chance that all of the fighting on the surface will shortly be moot, should the rebels win.”
“We can't take the chance that they won't decide to go down in a blaze of glory,” Cordova said. “One loyalist maniac, and thirty thousand people freeze to death tonight. Jake, is the building secure?”
“All levels clear,” the rebel replied. “Everyone here is safe.”
She walked out of the studio, heading for the elevator, and said, “Then we'd better get moving.” Petrov looked up at the monitor one last time, nodded, and moved to follow, Harland only a few seconds behind them. The other two followed, crowding the elevator as it began its journey down to the lowest level.
“Got a pistol I can borrow?” she asked, waving her other one in the air. “This one's a dummy.”
“You took this station with a dummy firearm?” the director said in disbelief.
“Mine was real,” Petrov replied. “If that makes you feel any better.”
Harland nodded, pulling one of his pocket, warning, “No spare clips. Just eight shots. And we're not exactly overloaded with ammunition ourselves. Guns, sure, but they kept pretty tight control on ordnance. We took the armory, but they'd already shipped out most of the contents. God alone knows where. Could be somewhere on the planet, one of the orbital stations...”
“We don't have time for a search,” Cordova replied. “What sort of numbers are we dealing with? Defenses?”
“Ten to fifteen,” he said. “Hard to tell exactly. Improvised defenses only, but you can bet that they'll fight for every inch of territory.”
One of his comrades asked, “Why are we doing this alone? Give me five minutes, and I could get a couple of hundred people to storm the place. No way they'd be able to stop us.”
Cordova glared at him, and replied, “Use your head. Either they'd detonate their charges as soon as that mob turned a corner, or they'd open up with machine guns. And even if your army forced its way inside, God only knows what sort of damage they'd do to the equipment. This has to be a small, stealth operation, or it isn't going to work.”
“Agreed,” Petrov said. “I know that building quite well. It's pretty damn defensible.” He grimaced, and added, “It was where the Oligarchs made their last stand, during the Revolution. Pretty damned ironic, huh.”
The elevator stuttered to a stop, and Cordova pulled up the inspection hatch, nimbly sliding onto the ladder below, descending hand over hand into the stygian gloom. After only a moment, she dropped down to the floor, narrowly missing the foul water trickling down the middle of the passage, and looked up at Harland.
“Which way?”
“Straight ahead for the moment. Then first left, first right, second left. Not that complicated. Shouldn't be any security to worry about until we get a hell of a lot closer.”
She nodded, jogging down the side of the passage, not waiting for the others to follow, taking Harland's route. She quickly checked the pistol, making sure the clip was in place, and quickened her pace towards the reactor. From up above, drifting in through air vents, she could hear chants and cries, the noise of a people celebrating their freedom from oppression for the first time in decades. The fighting was almost over up on the surface, most of ColSec switching sides in the early moments of the revolt, the rest deciding to take the better part of valor.
All across the Federation, it might be the same story in a matter of days, maybe hours. The only thing keeping the rebels from rising was fear of failure, fear of the consequences of a Federation victory. Taking Sinaloa Station had been a major step forward in convincing them that they could win, and snatching Hyperborea from the jaws of a task force would be an even greater one. Everything depended on them, their march down this tunnel tonight, a tiny battle on an obscure planet that could change the fate of the galaxy.
She took the indicated turning, then froze as she saw something up ahead, a steaming brown pile that wasn't there the last time she passed this way, a foul smell emanating from the dung. She glanced back at Harland, who stepped carefully forward, looking from left to right.
“Tell me that isn't what I think it is,” she said.
Grimacing, he turned to Petrov, and said, “I thought they caught all those beasts.”
“All but one, and that one was roaming around here earlier,” he replied. “Last I heard...” His eyes widened, and he suddenly looked around, his eyes widening.
“What?” Cordova asked.
“They'd hold them in the pens. Which are near the power plant. I wouldn't put it past our bitch of a Governor to have released them down here.” Hefting his rifle, he said, “Damn it, Jake, there were eight of them this time.”
“Are you telling me that there are eight saber-toothed tigers running around in these tunnels,” Cordova said, taking a step towards him. She looked around, and said, “If they get up into the streets...”
“I don't see how they could,” Petrov said.
“Really?” Harland replied. “My imagination must be a hell of a lot better than yours, Micky. If the Governor's willing to let them loose down here, then she'll he more than happy to find a way to release the security gates. We've got to do something about them.”
“No,” Cordova said, shaking her head. “That's exactly what she wants. How far are we from the power plant down here?”
“Hundred meters.”
“And the access point,” she pressed. “Does it lead directly into the plant?”
“Into the basement,” Harland replied, nodding. “Used for storage, mostly. That's probably how the Governor got in. It'll be defended, though.”
“That might not matter,” she said, a smile spreading across her face. “I think I've got a way of killing two birds with one stone. Or eight tigers, anyway.”
“I'm scared to ask what you've got in mind,” Harland said.
“Jake, I need you to head towards the entrance. Don't get close enough for the guards to see you, and make sure that you have an escape route. Micky, you'll be next in line. Stay here. When the time comes, you'll know what to do. Just make sure that you can run faster than the tigers.”
“Wait,” Harland said, grabbing her arm. “Those beasts are the most ruthless predators on this planet. They aren't just the same creatures that lived on Earth all those years ago. The Oligarchs managed to breed them for even greater ferocity, a challenge for the rich idiots who used to hunt them. If you're going to mess with them...”
“What choice have we got?” she asked. “If we don't deal with them, then they'll break out into the streets, and hundreds of people might die before they get brought down. This way we can handle the Governor and the tigers at the same time. Have you got a knife?”
“I do,” one of the rebels said, passing her a combat blade. “What do you want it for?”
Slicing the tip of her finger to reveal a bead of blood, she said, “I'm going fishing.”
Chapter 23
The mood on Canopus' bridge was somber, all eyes periodically darting from console to viewscreen, watching as the ship inexorably raced towards its doom, towards the four cruisers ahead
with sufficient firepower to wipe them from the universe. Behind them, the auxiliary ships converged, ready to finish the work their stronger brethren had begun. Mike sat back on his chair, trying not to show the fear he felt, knowing that he had to remain strong for the sake of his crew.
They still had a job to do, even now. Admiral Yoshida's force outmatched that of his father by just enough to make the difference, and the two men were of equal tactical skill. It would be a battle that would be studied in textbooks for generations to come. Mike could prevent that from happening. Careful shots, precisely-calculated damage on the enemy ships ahead, would provide his father with the edge he needed to win the day despite everything.
Lieutenant Schmidt, now alone at tactical, her assistants fleeing to the theoretical safety of Hyperborea, carefully set up the attack pattern, sacrificing their defensive fire to place the ship's powerful kinetic warheads precisely on target, a last gift he could provide for his father in this desperate hour. He looked up at the sensor display, spotting the Federation fighters as they curved towards their shuttles, and his heart sank as he realized that he had saved them from one death to doom them to another. He still couldn't quite conceive that officers wearing the same uniform that he had worn would commit such atrocities.
Theoretically, those pilots had been through the same training as those on Canopus' bridge, had sworn the same oath, followed the same rules and regulations. In practice, it was a very different world, and he was beginning to realize how far his fellows had fallen while he had been nursing his wounds on the frontier. Most of his comrades had similarly been exiled, either through the influence of a rival with greater influence or out of disgust with the creeping favoritism that had rippled through the ranks.
In many ways, it was embarrassing that it had taken him so long to decide that the Fleet he had sworn to serve, the Federation he had sworn to protect, no longer truly existed, but had passed into history on a tide of greed and corruption. Thousands of others felt the same way, had switched sides to join the rebellion. And perhaps, thousands more would follow suit, as a result of this battle.
“Contact in two minutes, ten seconds,” Kenyon said, her hands fixed on the helm. “Enemy formation is holding course, slow and steady. We're running right down the gut.”
“Don't expect them to stay on that course,” Mike warned. “They'll do everything they can to throw us off during the approach. Most of those commanders are arrogant as hell, but Yoshida-san isn't the sort of man to take unnecessary risks.” He gestured at the screen, and added, “Better watch out for Sirius, as well. She's closing fast.” Frowning, he added, “Pretty damned fast. If Meg isn't careful, she'll burn out her engines.”
“Maybe she's trying to get into formation for the attack on Polaris,” Petrova moved. “I suppose it doesn't matter much any more.”
Stabbing a control, Mike said, “Commander to crew. By now, all non-essential personnel are off the ship. That leaves about seventy of us to do the work of four hundred. If it is of any consolation in our last moments, we're going to do enough damage to those enemy ships ahead that our comrades will win the day. I have never been prouder to serve alongside any crew in the Fleet as I am at this moment. I can't promise anything other than that our blood will be well spent. Good luck. Bridge out.”
“I have firing solutions on Regulus and Bellatrix,” Schmidt said. “I'm concentrating on their defensive systems. I think I can punch a few holes in their network, gouge out some weak spots for Polaris. The trick will be staying alive for long enough to press our attack home.” She looked up at her display, and added, “Sirius will be on us forty seconds after we enter the battlespace. Looks like they're getting ready for a backstab.”
“After forty seconds,” Kenyon replied, “There might not be enough of this ship left for that to matter.”
“Still time for you to get out, Lieutenant,” Mike replied.
“Not a chance, sir. Nobody gets to fly my girl but me. Especially for the last dance of the night.”
Frowning, Schmidt said, “Sir, I'm getting a comm laser from Sirius. To you, by name. They've set it up so that it would be impossible for anyone else to detect it.”
“You don't think…,” Petrova said, as the image of a gray-haired, aristocratic woman appeared on the screen, flanked by a pair of armed technicians. Curls of smoke drifted across the picture, the sounds of a fire extinguisher being deployed in the background.
“Commander Curtis,” Bishop began, “ten minutes ago I was engaged in the destruction of rebel forces in this system, putting down an insurrection that I believed would destroy the Federation forever. Then I received orders from Commodore McGuire, ordering me to shoot down unarmed shuttles, and to initiate surface bombardment on Hyperborea.”
“My God,” Kenyon said.
“My senior staff and I have had a little discussion, Commander, and we're now of the opinion that we have been fighting for the wrong side. I'm hoping that it is not yet too late for me to correct that error. Sirius is moving to support Canopus. We're going through the fire with you, and we're pushing our engines as far as we can to get there in time.” Leaning forward on her chair, she added, “Not everyone in the Fleet has forgotten the oaths we swore. Maybe we'll get a chance to prove that today.”
“I'd say you already have, Commander,” Mike replied, turning to the side. “Lieutenant Schmidt, tactical assessment, please.”
“We'll be on our own for forty-one seconds, sir, before we can rely on Sirius for defensive support.” She looked up at the monitor, and added, “What about your fighters, Commander Bishop?”
“All stripped by Admiral Yoshida,” she replied. “I am ashamed to admit that some of them are engaging your fighters now, though I have endeavored to recall all I could.”
“Then I believe we have two choices, sir. We could attempt to switch to full defensive fire, though even with two ships blocking four, I rate our chances of passing through without suffering significant damage as minimal. Alternatively, we can continue on our present path, and attempt to do increased damage to the enemy ships. Canopus will suffer the brunt of the hits, but we do have a slightly better chance of getting through than we would alone, and naturally, Polaris and our Commonwealth reinforcements will have an easier time in the next phase of the battle.”
Mike didn't need a second to make his decision, and replied, “Then we proceed as planned, Lieutenant.” Looking up at Bishop, he continued, “We'll make sure to leave lots of nice, juicy targets for you on the other side, Commander.”
“My gunnery crews will appreciate that. Good hunting. Out.”
Turning to Petrova, he ordered, “Get all personnel to the interior of the ship. Never mind exterior damage control. Anyone who doesn't absolutely have to be in the outer sections should withdraw at once. If there's a chance we might actually live through this, then I want to give our people the best possible chance.”
“You realize, sir,” Schmidt said, “that the turret crews will have to remain on station.”
He nodded, sighed, and replied, “I know, Lieutenant, I know. Kenyon, I don't have to tell you to do everything to can to shield vulnerable areas of the ship...”
“Evasion course already plotted, sir, but there's only so much I can do without risking a loss of target loss. It's going to be a wild ride, Commander.” Looking up at the screen, she added, “Twenty seconds to firing range.”
“Good luck, everyone,” he said, quietly, strapping his seat restraint into place. The battle began calmly, as space battles generally do, only a few pin-point contacts on the sensor display to announce that the fighting had begun. Outside, kinetic warheads rained into space, tactical officers on four ships probing carefully at Canopus' defenses, seeking out weak spots to exploit. Normally, Schmidt would be fighting back, move for move, trying to match their attacks by bolstering defensive fire at specific points, but this time she was choosing not to play the same game
, but instead to focus on replying with bombardment of her own, raining hell-fire on the enemy ships. She knew that she only had a few seconds to get her shots in, a limited window before the defensive fire of the enemy formation would come to bear, her opponents on four bridges realizing what she was doing and moving to counter her attack. Every shot had to be perfectly timed, perfectly judged, and she knew that the odds were that they would be her last.
Microscopic tissues of fire erupted from the enemy ships, her shots slamming into exhaust ports, antenna arrays, defensive turrets, sensor pickups. Nothing critical, nothing that the enemy would expect or even truly fear, but a catalog of calamities that added up to significant reductions to their combat capacity, worsening all the time as Schmidt pressed her attack home.
It couldn't last, and the joy of those first glorious seconds rapidly ebbed as the first wave of enemy kinetic projectiles slammed through the weakened defensive screens, gouging holes in Canopus' hull. They had no pretense of finesse, their simple goal to do as much damage as possible to the rebel ship, to smash it into as many pieces as possible as rapidly as they could.
As fountains of atmosphere raced into space from hull breaches spreading along the side of the ship, Canopus dived from side to side, Kenyon desperately attempting to maintain a straight heading, to keep the ship on the optimum flight path to take them through the nightmare ahead as rapidly as possible. To lose control would be to invite instant death, but every impact wiped out another critical system, made her job a fraction harder with every impact.
The hull yowled with the force of sustained impacts, armored alloy screaming in protest at the damage being inflicted upon it, sirens wailing across the bridge faster than the sole remaining technician at the engineering station could silence them, floods of red lights sweeping across the status monitor in constant anguished protest at the wrath being unleashed upon the ship.
Starcruiser Polaris: Terrible Swift Sword Page 16