Wolf's Bane (The Empire's Corps Book 14)

by Christopher Nuttall

  The sensor console bleeped. “Captain, I’m picking up five ships heading to Trieste,” the sensor officer said. “Two warships, three freighters.”

  Christopher rose and walked casually over to her console, burying the excitement beneath his professionalism. This was more like it. He’d always known he was lucky, but this time Lady Luck had outdone herself. If it was a simulation, he would have been suspected of hacking the computers to rig matters in his favour. The enemy ships would have to reverse course in order to escape, a difficult task with his squadron breathing down their necks.

  “Two light cruisers,” the sensor officer added. “They’re both pre-Fall designs.”

  Christopher allowed himself an unpleasant smile. Five on two ... he liked those odds. A Commonwealth ship would be a nasty customer - he was sure their sensors and weapons would have been updated, even if there were limits to what could be done with their hulls - but he had them outnumbered and outgunned. And while the warships might be able to turn and run, they’d have to abandon the freighters in order to escape. Either way, he won.

  “Helm, take us on an intercept course,” he ordered. This would be a better victory, worthy of his time. “Tactical, prepare to engage the enemy.”

  “Aye, Captain,” the helmsman said.

  The commissioner caught his eye. “Is it wise to intercept the enemy ships?”

  “Yes,” Christopher said, flatly.

  “Our orders are to raid the planet and then get out,” the commissioner said. “Captain, I urge you to reconsider.”

  “We have the advantage,” Christopher insisted. “And a chance to obliterate two enemy ships - perhaps five - at minimal risk.”

  He returned to his command chair and sat down, studying the display. The enemy ships had noticed them, too late. They were taking evasive action, but they couldn't hope to alter course in time to escape. Their commanders would be put in front of a wall and shot for this, if they ever returned home. The Commonwealth might not even bother with the formality of a court-martial.

  They probably expected the system to be safe, he thought. Trieste had a handful of asteroid settlements, but no major interstellar ships - or starships - of its own. They weren’t ready for trouble.

  “Enemy warships are assuming combat formation,” the sensor officer reported. “The freighters are still altering course.”

  Christopher smiled, coldly. The smart move, given how badly they’d been mouse-trapped, would have been to abandon the freighters and run. No naval officer worth his salt would have liked the idea of fleeing, but there was no choice. The freighters couldn't escape, not now. There was no way they could build up the speed to reach the Phase Limit before Christopher’s ships caught up with them. Their escorts were going to die for nothing.

  “Launch two probes to keep an eye on them,” he ordered. It was just possible that the freighters might go doggo, although it was unlikely to work. His sensors already had a pretty solid lock on their positions. “Tactical, inform the squadron. I want rapid fire as soon as we enter missile range.”

  “Aye, sir,” the tactical officer said.

  The commissioner looked displeased. “Wasting missiles ...”

  “Better the missiles than the starships,” Christopher told him. “Think of this as a cheap victory.”

  He allowed his smile to widen as the squadron counted down the last few seconds to missile range. The enemy ships were holding position, neither trying to flee nor attempting to surrender. He saluted them, mentally, even though he knew they were wasting their lives and ships. The enemy CO might deserve to be shot - his little fleet wasn't that far from the front - but his crews didn't deserve to die. And yet ...

  It’s too late, he told himself. They can't escape now.

  The display sparkled with glittering red icons. Christopher leaned forward instinctively - he heard a sharp intake of breath from the commissioner - and silently counted the enemy missiles. Fifty-seven ... they hadn't enhanced their throw weight, it seemed. The light cruisers had probably been deemed too old for real service. He didn't blame the Commonwealth, either. The light cruisers would still be enough to deter pirates, even if the Wolves didn't see them as a threat. It would be cheaper to build a brand new ship than refit the older vessels to modern standards.

  “Return fire,” he ordered, quietly. “Point defence, prepare to engage.”

  “Point defence standing by,” the tactical officer said. His voice was calm. “Datanet primed, ready to engage. Enemy missiles entering engagement range in ten ... nine ...”

  Christopher braced himself as the missiles slipped into his engagement envelope. He’d drilled his crews relentlessly, pitting them against simulated missiles that were twice as fast and half the size of the latest enemy missiles. They’d done well, in simulations; now, it seemed they were doing well in the real world too. Dozens of enemy missiles flew into a tightly-coordinated web of fire and evaporated, blasted into dust before they had a chance to go active. They didn't even have any decoy missiles or penetration aids to help them to slip through the defences. The handful of missiles that reached their targets didn't do enough damage to matter.

  He turned his attention to the missiles his ships had launched and felt his smile grow wider. The Commonwealth CO had drilled his crews too, he noted, but they just didn't have the firepower to make a significant difference. He’d fired too many missiles for them to take them all out before it was too late. Nuclear warheads slammed into their targets and detonated, laser beams tore into undefended hulls ...

  “Target One destroyed,” the tactical officer reported. Powerhouse rocked as a missile got through her defences and slammed into her hull. “Target Two has taken heavy damage ... she’s launching lifepods.”

  “Invite her to surrender,” Christopher ordered. It was unlikely they’d recover anything worth having from the hulk - the Commonwealth officers would make sure to destroy their datacores and any advanced technology before they surrendered - but it would look good in the media. The reporters would have a field day. “Tell her ...”

  Target Two vanished from the display. Christopher sighed, telling himself he shouldn’t be too annoyed. He’d scored a tiny, but important victory. A few minutes either way and he might have lost the opportunity to intercept the enemy ships ...

  “Deploy shuttles to pick up the lifepods,” he ordered. “And order the enemy freighters to surrender.”

  “Aye, Captain,” the communications officer said.

  Christopher wondered, briefly, just what the freighters were actually carrying. Trieste would need to import all sorts of machined products, but the Commonwealth was in the middle of a full-scale war. He couldn’t imagine Avalon or Corinthian churning out farming equipment or mining tools or whatever else Trieste might need when there were more important matters on hand. Unless ... perhaps they’d uncovered one of the Empire’s old stockpiles. It was quite possible.

  “The freighters are surrendering, Captain,” the communications officer reported. “They’re shutting down their drives and opening their hatches.”

  “Dispatch naval infantry to take possession,” Christopher ordered. He considered, briefly, dumping the prisoners on Trieste, then decided it would be dangerous. The Commonwealth had a manpower shortage. Taking the POWs back to Wolfbane wouldn't have that much of an impact, but every little bit helped. “And then set course for home.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Christopher grinned at the commissioner, enjoying the sour look on the man’s face. They’d scored a victory ... a tiny victory, true, but still a victory. The Commonwealth’s shipping crisis wouldn't be made any better, either, by the loss of three freighters. If nothing else, they’d have to redeploy escort units to the sector, if they wanted to send more freighters along the front lines. There weren't many raiding squadrons out there, but the Commonwealth wouldn't know that ...

  He watched the shuttles detaching, heading to the enemy ships. The crews would be treated well, of course. Who knew? They mi
ght decide to join the Wolves. There was certainly no need to make their imprisonment unpleasant, was there? The ships themselves were the prizes, along with their cargo ... whatever it was. He’d make sure the prisoners were well-treated until after the war.

  “Captain, we received a manifest from the first freighter,” the communications officer reported. “They’re carrying farming supplies: equipment, tools and bioengineered seeds.”

  “Doubtful,” the commissioner said. He sneered at the communication officer’s back. “It’s a cover for something else.”

  Christopher was inclined to agree, for once. Farming supplies in the middle of a war? He shrugged, keeping his doubts off his face. They’d find out when the ships were carefully searched, just to be sure. Who knew? Perhaps they were farming supplies. If the seeds had been bioengineered specifically for Trieste, which was possible, they’d probably be useless elsewhere. He might have to decide to dump them on the planet or not.

  “Tell the infantry to check,” he ordered. There was no point in telling the commissioner that he thought the asshole might be right. “We’ll find out then.”

  A victory, he told himself, firmly. They'd destroyed two enemy warships and captured three freighters, all for minimal damage. The repairs wouldn't take that long. A victory we can boast about, no matter how small.

  His smile widened. Admiral Singh would be pleased.

  Chapter Ten

  “Hurry,” Jasmine urged. “Time is running short.”

  “Shut up,” Meade grunted. She didn't look up from her work. “This is delicate!”

  Jasmine watched, feeling a flicker of grudging admiration. As prickly as Meade was - and she was prickly - she was a very good engineer. Her careful manipulation of her tools was actually working. The FTL modulator she’d been given was well beyond Jasmine’s ability to repair, even though she’d practiced repairing nearly everything in the Marine Corps’ inventory. But Meade was working calmly, carefully restoring the modulator to working order ...

  “Done,” Meade said. She slipped her tools back into her belt and looked up, challengingly. “What do you think?”

  Duncan Patrick, another auxiliary, bent over the table to examine the device. “It’ll get a starship back into Phase Space,” he said, after a moment. “But it won’t last forever.”

  “Unfortunately not,” Meade agreed. “The stress of dropping out of phase space probably won’t help. I’d be surprised if it lasts for more than one trip.”

  Jasmine met her eyes. “Why?”

  “I had to strip out some of the shielding to do the repairs,” Meade said. Her voice was very calm, but Jasmine thought she detected a hint of mockery. “The influx of FTL radiation won’t do the modulator any good at all. I’d expect it to decay at a frightening rate.”

  She cocked her eyebrow. “Are you now confident that I actually earned my certificates?”

  “Yeah,” Jasmine conceded. “You did very well.”

  “Damn right,” Meade said.

  Jasmine kept her expression blank with an effort. Meade had come back, as expected, and gone into lockdown without any protest. And then she’d brushed up on everything from shooting to basic engineering, proving - quite thoroughly - that she had definitely earned her certifications. Meade didn't have what it took to be a marine, Jasmine suspected, but she was a very good engineer. She’d have no trouble proving herself when they finally reached Wolfbane.

  “We’ll be boarding the freighter at 1400,” she said, bluntly. She glanced at Patrick, then at her two fellow marines. “You have two hours to get a last lunch, rewrite your wills and then get some rest. If you have any letters you want to write before we depart, get them done and hand them over to the base’s censor.”

  “Aye, boss,” Thomas Stewart said, cheerfully. “Not that I have much to leave behind ...”

  “I'm sure someone will appreciate your wages if you’re no longer alive to spend them,” Henry Parkinson put in. “I’m leaving mine to the company funds.”

  Jasmine held up a hand. “Report to the shuttlepad at 1400,” she said, before the argument could get any further out of hand. “Dismissed.”

  She watched them go, resisting the urge to rub her forehead. Stewart and Parkinson, at least, had served with her before. She had faith in them, but Meade and Patrick were unknown factors. In theory, they had all the qualifications and experience they needed; in practice, they’d never been really tested. Or maybe she was just being bitchy. On Avalon, the auxiliaries had garnered quite a bit of experience under fire.

  And Meade has been doing better, she thought, as she turned and walked out of the exercise room. She’ll cope fine, I hope.

  The complex was large, but almost completely empty. There were no permanent residents, save for a handful of maintenance staffers who lived on the base and apparently had no lives outside it. Jasmine hoped they were being paid well for their services - a year in lockdown, whatever else happened, would be far from pleasant. And yet, given the complex’s vast library and other facilities, perhaps they were far from bored. She certainly hoped that was true. Bored marines tended to cause trouble.

  She stopped outside an unmarked door and knocked, sharply. There was a long pause, just long enough for her to start to worry, before the door opened, revealing General Mark Haverford. He was trembling like a leaf, sweat clearly visible on his forehead. The treatments he’d been given to change his DNA, just enough to spoof any detectors on Wolfbane, had unfortunate side effects. He was just lucky, Jasmine considered, that he hadn't had a reaction bad enough to confine him to bed. He’d be over it, she’d been told, by the time they reached Calomel.

  “I have looked better,” he said, as he stepped back to invite her in. “But I suppose I have looked worse too.”

  Jasmine studied him, thoughtfully. His appearance hadn't been changed that much, but the different hair colour and the slight - very slight - changes to his cheeks and eyes would be enough to fool any automated facial recognition program. Anyone who’d known him in the military would probably be fooled, as long as Haverford was careful. They’d certainly not connect him, automatically, with their former comrade.

  “You look younger,” she said, as she closed the door. “Are you ready to depart?”

  “I will be, once my legs stop trembling,” Haverford said. “Are you ready to depart?”

  Jasmine nodded, wordlessly. She’d checked and rechecked their supplies, then written her last letters and updated her will. It wasn't as if she was carrying very much with her, in any case. A handful of forged ID chips, some Trade Federation currency, a couple of sidearms that could have been purchased almost anywhere along the Rim ... there was nothing about her, save for her body, that screamed marine. And no one was going to get a close look at her naked.

  Unless they have pickups in our cabins, she reminded herself. Starship crews often quietly monitored their guests, just in case. Hotel staff did the same, although often with more perverted motivations. She was used to having no privacy - Boot Camp had cured her of any physical modesty she’d had - but being spied on when she was undressing could prove disastrous. We will have to be very careful.

  “I’ve gone through everything I remember from the last few years,” Haverford added, after a moment. “We should be able to make contact, once we reach Wolfbane.”

  And if we can't, we need to find ways to disrupt their war effort, Jasmine thought. Stewart and herself were the only ones who knew that Colonel Stalker intended to attack Wolfbane itself. Everyone else assumed they were going to undermine Admiral Singh and spark off a revolution. And who knows what we’ll do with you then?

  “Let us hope so,” she said. She glanced around the tiny room. “Do you have anything you wish to bring with you?”

  “Nothing I haven’t already packed,” Haverford assured her. “Everything in this room belongs to the base, not to me.”

  “Good,” Jasmine said. She wondered, absently, what would happen to the defector after they completed their mission. H
averford wouldn't have a home anywhere. “Then - perhaps - you would care to join me for lunch?”

  Haverford gave her a long look, then nodded. “I’ll leave the room unlocked,” he said, as he pulled on his jacket. “The cleaning staff can take everything back when we’re gone.”

  Jasmine took one last look around the compartment, then walked with him down to the mess hall. Haverford was clearly in a bad way - he stumbled and fell against her twice, forcing her to hold him upright as they staggered into the giant compartment. It was large enough to feed over five hundred men, but it was completely empty. Jasmine wasn't too surprised. Her team was probably getting a few extra winks of sleep before heading to the shuttlepad.

  And we’ll have to stay in shape while we’re on the freighter, she thought, sourly. We’ll be in transit for a month before we even reach our first waypoint.

  She walked over to the hatch and peered through into the kitchen. A lone staffer was sitting on the counter, reading a datapad. Jasmine cleared her throat, loudly. He jumped, then dropped to the floor and hurried over to the hatch.