Hallverson calls me over the ship comms in the middle of a chat with Henna.
“This is it. We’re going into system on the next bounce. Check on Harpoon and then come to the bridge.” Hallverson’s voice is level, professional, with just a touch of excitement.
The bounce alarm sounds.
“See ya on the flip side,” I say to Henna. My stomach rumbles; I’m not terribly hungry, but I feel that adrenaline kick seeping in.
“Hey?” Henna says.
I turn just in time for her to give me a peck on the cheek. “For good luck.”
“For good luck,” I reply with a wink and head to the bridge.
The Good Hope system is the farthest the ConFed officially claims. Fifty-seven light-years from Sol and over one hundred and fifty from the other side of human space. Mankind spread out where it was easy and for the most part left the Tyroleans alone.
Now the Tyroleans are backed up against an older region of stars, one that extends for some distance. Fewer habitable planets but more minerals. So as they see it, or so the eggheads think, the Tyroleans have to strike before mankind gets the upper hand.
As far as systems go, it’s kind of a dump. A trio of gas giants, some dirty ice balls farther out, and one undersized planet that houses our only colony here: Good Hope.
The moment the Orca clears the bounce, our sensors go wild. Fifty different starships light us up with every manner of laser tracking, radar, or microwave.
Just as quickly, they all die away.
“Well, that’s a warm welcome,” Hallverson mumbles. “Get us away from these whales. Three-quarters velocity—”
Baskin speaks up. “Sir, command priority comms. It’s Admiral Klaus.”
“Raj, get us onto the milnet and then piece together the last known position of the Queen. Katzen, verify patterns of movement and see what sort of capabilities she has left.” Hallverson stops talking and then looks at me slowly. “Good God, man, what if she’s already dead?”
“Uh, the admiral, sir?” I say.
Hallverson straightens himself up and faces the viewscreen. “Put her on.”
Now, I’ve never met the admiral in person, but Roberta Klaus has a reputation for being one hell of a fighter. She cut her teeth skirmishing with the MaoQin thirty years ago. Then when the SouPac tried to annex Frisco’s Star, she singlehandedly led a group of cruisers to hold out. In Good Hope, she’s the ranking officer, the big fish.
Admiral Roberta Klaus comes onto our viewscreen with a boxer’s smile. That’s with one black eye and a chipped tooth. The bridge of her flagship, the Athens, is alive with activity. About half of it looks to be repairing battle damage.
“Magnus,” she says in a firm voice, “took your sweet damned time, didn’t you?”
“Admiral,” Hallverson says with a salute. “Where is the Queen?”
The admiral ignores the question. “Coordinate with the other Orcas in the system and hunt down the resupply ships. We’ve got four freighters in system, and we need to kill them all before they can resupply the Tyrolean fleet. We’ve got sweeps out all over, but they’re running before my ships can corner them.”
Hallverson’s face goes a shade of red that’s just about the point of anger. He catches himself before he lets loose with a few choice words. “Yes, ma’am. But—”
“And listen.” Admiral Klaus leans closer to the camera. “You kill these goddamned freighters, you hear me? If that fleet can resupply, we’re fucked. You hear me, Magnus? Fucked. I’ve got three ConFed fleets here, and we’re getting our teeth kicked in.”
I’m a bit taken back by the admiral’s language. Never before have I heard a sixty-five-year-old woman speak like that.
“Yes, Admiral,” Hallverson replies dryly.
Admiral Klaus leans back from the camera. “And tell your lieutenant to shut his damn mouth. He’ll start catching flies.”
I snap my mouth shut.
A smile grows on Admiral Klaus’s face. “The Queen is trying to reload. She’s out of iridium-enhanced rounds. You find those freighters, and you’ll find the Queen.”
Hallverson’s face lights up. “Consider it done.”
“Klaus out.” The admiral’s face snaps off of our viewscreen.
Hallverson stands slowly and surveys the bridge. All eyes are on him. Then he lets loose with a string of orders.
“Query milnet, find freighter signatures. I want patterns. They have to coordinate somehow. Jager, see who the other Orcas are but don’t put out a ping. We’re going to use them as our eyes. Battle stations, everyone! Sound the alarm!”
It’s time for the final round.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
My eyes scan through the incoming milnet. A massive data dump surges into our systems. Even the AI is temporarily down as it sorts it all out. But the human eye can see patterns that the AI can’t. Or so we like to tell ourselves.
“Mr. Jager, which other Orcas are in system?” Hallverson says as he studies the system map.
“No org sheet yet, sir.”
Hallverson grunts.
While we wait, I watch the previous day’s battles unfold on the main viewscreen. I’m not the only one; every person on the bridge is sneaking glances at it.
Massive.
Three fleets have never been together in a maneuver like this. Normally they each hold their zones and coordinate where boundaries meet. But this time, someone upstairs had one helluva hunch to commit all three.
It’s a good thing too. Sixth Fleet alone is barely at half strength. A part of me even hopes that Captain Lahtinen is still kicking.
Icons flash and surge as the hours are compressed into minutes before us. Blue, yellow, and green mark our fleets while an occasional flash of red tells where the Tyroleans came to brawl. It’s beautiful. Like digital fireworks that ebb and flow.
As the minutes stretch on, more and more flashes explode onto the screen. Then, bit by bit, the blues, greens, and yellows disappear. The Tyroleans punch above their weight. Well above it.
Finally, we come to where we were now. The three fleets have the Tyroleans wedged into the inner planets. On top of that, we hold all of the exit nexus points: five in this system, though they’ll likely only want to exit at one.
The AI chirps at me. I snap up my tablet and key down to the Orcas. “We’ve got Sailfish, Dorado, and Nantucket.”
Hallverson looks up from his display and stares ahead. “Sailfish three or four?”
I check the list. “Five.”
Hallverson shakes his head. “Kids. The whole lot of them. You’ve got more experience than they do, Jager.”
Then he sits in silence and replays the battles over and over again. We clear the nearest of the heavy ships and coast with our nose toward the inner planets.
A notice catches my eye. A dim green light blinks on my tablet. A light I haven’t seen in months. I have mail. My heart skips. I haven’t thought of my parents much, and I realize they probably thought I was dead.
Should I mail them back a quick note? But what will I say? I’m alive now but may be dead in an hour? At least I’ll show up as being alive, and hopefully some chaplain will find my parents and tell them I’m still kicking.
Home. God, I can taste it. It’s so close. Never before have I yearned so strongly to be home. A vision flashes in my eyes of me with my own freighter, a couple of whining kids back on some orbital, and a cold beer in my hand.
It brings a tear to me. By God, it really does.
“Jager!” Hallverson snaps.
I break free from my haze and look up. Raj and Baskins are both grinning at me. What did I miss? “Sir!”
“Sound quarters, please, we’re going in. Dorado has contact.”
I call out the fire control teams and send out the order. All throughout the ship, the Orca comes to order and straps on her gloves. Is she were a boxer—and I think she has that streak—the Orca would be strapping on the tape while some fat Turk rubbed her shoulders.
Instea
d, the engineers keep the reactor purring. The maintenance techs prepare for damage. The crew take positions all throughout with fire retardant and sealant. The doctor, somewhere way back, lays out his instruments. They’ve done it all before. Today might be the last time.
Dorado’s report shows a small contingent of Tyrolean ships. A few bishops, a wing of rooks, and two freighters. It’ll take us two blinks.
My palms start to sweat. At least an infantry soldier can brandish a weapon; I have nothing but the ship around me. Even when I boxed, I had the luxury of a set of red-and-white gloves. Leather. Tape. Thread. And it felt like more of a weapon than I hold on to now, which is just my mind.
Take that, ConFed Navy. And all you thought I was good for was a supply ship.
“Sauce on land?” I ask.
Hallverson shakes his head. “We’ll save that. I expect the other Orcas to arrive before us. If they engage well, maybe it’ll bring the Queen in.”
He doesn’t sound convinced. But he can’t miss out on the chance.
I suit up while we wait for the bounce drive to recharge. Back in my old suit, not Winkelman’s. One of the last things Colby ever fixed was the water separator on this suit. Colby. I think of her for a good long minute and then put her out of my mind.
Such is our duty.
A bell sounds. The drive is ready. I picture Henna suiting up somewhere in the back and saying a little prayer to some odd god before acknowledging the most advanced technology known to man. At least I have her, my connection to the real world.
She’s my link out of the land of the dead.
Hallverson sits forward and gives the order. “Hit it.”
CHAPTER FORTY
We land fifteen kilometers away from the Tyrolean freighter. Tugs, shuttles, and even a medical barge are caught hauling ordnance between the Tyrolean ships. Two of the bishops are tucked up tight to the freighter. The other Tyrolean ships are already running.
Behind us is the mobile fleet, the big guns still in shape to level out an ass kicking. According to the AI, they are one minute out from landing right in the middle of this party.
Dorado suddenly uncloaks about five kilometers off our bow.
“Prepare to fire! Cover the Dorado. Lock onto the farthest bishop!” Hallverson orders.
The bridge comes alive.
Beneath my feet, I feel the reassuring thud as the torpedomen work and check everything.
I snap my eyes to Hallverson. Why aren’t we firing? “Sir?”
Dorado’s torpedoes slam into the freighter. Two nova-white charges explode out. A moment later, both of the bishops expand into the whiteness and are gone. The shuttles and tenders disappear. The other Tyrolean ships fire out at the Dorado.
“Captain? We need to—”
“Bah!” Hallverson yells. “Fire on that bishop!”
A single torpedo fires from our fore tube and blasts through space. The acceleration meter on our viewscreen shows over one hundred gravities. It barely takes any time at all, and our torpedo lashes into the bishop.
The bishop is nearly equivalent to one of our main line bruisers. It bristles with armor, a projectile launcher, ablative cannons, and enough single-point defenses to cream a wave of missiles.
But it can’t stop what it can’t see. Our torpedo is damn near invisible. It strikes just past the midpoint of the bishop. A jet of atmosphere blasts out, and then it detonates. The spine of the ship buckles like a mountainous ridge.
“Prepare to embark! Get the departure data once they go,” Hallverson says, almost nonchalantly.
Before us, the Dorado twists in space. Small spouts of flame geyser from the hull. Her cloaking gas drifts away and shows a distorted version of the wrecked and torn ship. An emergency beacon blares, and a handful of suits exit from the rear of the broken ship.
Raj turns to the captain. “Shall I set course for the wounded?”
“No. Where are the Tyroleans going? Have we received any other pings?” Hallverson’s voice is singular in his intent.
Raj looks at me with questioning eyes and then back to Hallverson. “Sir, the Dorado?”
“Captain, we could pick up some of those survivors while we’re waiting for the scan,” I say in a firm voice.
Hallverson turns to me and glares with his dark eyes. “We can win the war here, Jager. The main fleet is going to arrive any second. They’ll be fine.”
Hallverson turns his attention to Baskins, and the two work on collating the data and getting the analysis from the AI. One freighter down. Two bishops. A whole wing of support craft dead. The surviving Tyroleans barely even fired at us.
My throat is dry. The adrenaline seeps out slowly, but we’re still in the ring. I can taste metal in my mouth. There’s blood in the water. I taste it.
“Sir,” Raj turns and says, as much to me as Hallverson, “the Dorado is calling for help.”
“Set course—” I say.
Hallverson shouts me down. “Belay that order! That ship could go at any moment. Raj, lock in that third moon, bounce when ready.”
I watch in horror as the Dorado slowly breaks apart. We bounce a quick moment later.
“Goddammit!” I yell. I can’t take that; I’m not leaving a ship to die. Even if help is a minute away, what if the main fleet became engaged elsewhere?
“Good God, man, work with me or get off my damned bridge!” Hallverson says.
“Scans incoming,” Baskins calls. “We’ve got a wing of MaoQin light cruisers a few hundred kilometers out, sir.”
There I stand, caught between my duty and my conscience. An order isn’t necessarily right and just, and now my protest will do little to save anyone. So I put it behind me and rack it up as one more reason to hate him.
But would I do the same? With a chance to tip the scales of war? Maybe. Even if my reason were victory and not revenge,
Hallverson groans. He leans forward and holds his head in both of his hands.
“Light cruiser wing is calling in; they’ve got probable contacts. Resolving with our scans now,” Baskins calls.
Raj stands up with his eyes locked before the captain. “Call for the doctor!”
I step up close to Hallverson. “Captain? Are you all right?”
The crew members on the bridge keep watch on their consoles and sneak glances at Hallverson. I stand by his side, one hand on his shoulder, but I can’t get him to respond. His skin burns under my fingers like a furnace rages inside of him.
Dr. Mohammad rushes onto the bridge with a red medical bag at his side. The doctor pushes Hallverson’s head up out of his hands. One eye is completely bloodshot, like he’s taken a sharp right hook that connected right with the orbital bone. The other eye is titanium white, the pupil a tiny pinprick.
Hallverson’s face is blank. It’s like he’s gone, staring off into nothing, his mind stepping out for a bite to eat.
“We’re bringing him to his cabin. Help me carry him,” Dr. Mohammad says. He drops the medical bag, snaps open the cover, and pulls out the pneumatic pistol.
I’ve seen this before. Instead of waiting, the doctor is going to sedate Hallverson now.
The doctor seats a vial into the rear of the pistol, checks the charge, and moves to push it against Hallverson’s arm.
Hallverson lashes out. His fist drives up and slams into Dr. Mohammad. A deep growl bursts from inside of him, and he snaps up the doctor’s hand in his own viselike grip.
Dr. Mohammad cries out. I yell in surprise and step to Hallverson’s front to break the grip.
That is my mistake. I should cold-cock him right in the back of the head. Nothing like a swift smash to the back of the noggin to set things right.
Hallverson slams me back with his other arm and sneers. “Stay at your post!”
The doctor falls to the floor, silent. He’s knocked out cold, only the rising and falling of his chest signaling that he isn’t dead.
Hallverson tucks the pneumatic pistol into his vac suit and sits slowly. One hand rests on
it, while the other taps at his console. He clears his throat. “Call Hartford, get the doctor back to the med bay. Now, where’s my data? We’ve got a Queen to kill.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
I’ll put up with a lot of bullshit. I’ll watch as a callous officer goes about his business in the worst possible way. I’ll even humor an asshole.
But a man who strikes a doctor that sought to help? Well, that’s too much. Some things can’t simply drift away.
In my months on the Orca, I’ve walked in step with the others even when I knew it wasn’t the right thing to do. Because sometimes orders are orders, and doing our job steps beyond our own wishes. It’s what can make us great. Tens of thousands of people all working for that one common goal: victory.
Which makes it even more painful to see someone like Hallverson, someone who could have been the finest among all of us, stoop as low as he did.
“Hallverson!” I step to face him.
A crooked little smile grows on the edge of his mouth. He looks up at me. One hand slides onto the butt of the pneumatic pistol.
I judge the angle that I’d punch and realize he’d get me with the pneumatic plunger right about the moment I connect with his jaw. Not good enough. Either it’s a knockout, or I’m out of this fight.
“Step back to your post, boy. This is a war zone, and I’ll have you shot.” His tone is steel, no emotion.
“Captain,” I say through clenched teeth, “you struck down the doctor.”
Hallverson glances down at Dr. Mohammad. His eyes dart back up to me, and he slides the pneumatic pistol out. “We’ve got a mission, Mr. Jager, and by God I’m going to see this through! No man will stop me now. I can do this!”
He seems to be talking to himself as much as to me. Then he jerks quickly and puts a hand to his ear; he seems genuinely surprised to see the blood that has trickled out.
Does he really know what he’s doing? Is he even himself?
I’m lost at this point. I know what he did is wrong, possibly even illegal, but I have no one to confer with. No second officer to back me up. No marine captain to know the law. It’s just me and a sense of right and wrong.
Cloak of War Page 23