Traitor Winds - Kestrel Saga: Vol. 0 (Kestrel Saga - Origins)

by Stephen A. Fender

  “Damage report,” Rothchild asked quickly.

  “The Halifax has taken two direct hits, sir,” Quel-Sa replied. “All weapon batteries are down. All maneuvering abilities are offline. Power generation has dropped to below twenty-five percent. There is severe damage to the ship’s superstructure, and I can no longer raise the Halifax on any communication channel.”

  “Life readings?” Stephen asked, his mouth feeling instantly dry.

  “Sporadic, sir. They seem to be peppered throughout the hull.”

  From behind him, Rothchild could hear a slow, rumbling laugh. He turned again to the image of Krador on the main monitor. The bastard traitor looked extremely satisfied.

  “You’ve just committed a wanton act of aggression against Sector Command personnel, Krador!”

  “And it won’t be the last, I assure you.” Krador was still smiling as he stroked the armrest of his chair lovingly. “Do you like it? My ship, I mean. It’s taken me nearly my entire life to realize the sum of it. Everything I am, everything I have become, is a part of this.” He petted a series of controls on the right arrest of the chair. “It is…perfection.”

  Stephen could see the futility in attempting to stall Krador any longer. There was one was last card to play. “Maros, let my people go. You know we are no longer a threat to you. Our ship is disabled, and you’ve seen to the fact that we now have no more defensive escorts. We are easy prey, and there is no honor in killing easy prey. You know that.”

  Krador leaned forward, his piercing eyes drilling into Rothchild, his tone low and cold. “Are you begging for mercy, Stephen?”

  Rothchild didn’t turn from the monitor to look at the faces of his crew, the faces he knew were all staring at him. He stepped forward, as if trying to draw closer to Krador.

  If only I could reach into the monitor and wrap my fingers around that smug throat of his.

  “If doing so will guarantee the safety of my crew, and whoever else you haven’t killed today, then I do so.”

  Krador laughed a throaty chuckle. “And I thought begging was beneath you, Captain. You surprise me. I like that. It means you can be trained.”

  “I’ll arrange a shuttle to bring me over to your vessel, Captain Krador.”

  “The Eximer,” Krador replied evenly. “And I am a Fleet Admiral, Captain. We here do not subscribe to you outdated naming conventions. And…I want you to repeat it. You see, I know that every word you speak on your ship is recorded in your computer for posterity. I’d like it recorded that you gave yourself to me and my ship, with proper titles.”

  Stephen released a slow sigh. The gash above his eye had somehow opened once again, and he dabbed at it with his uniform sleeve. He tried to muster all the civility left in his tired body. “Fleet Admiral Krador, I will arrange a shuttle to bring me aboard the Eximer at your earliest convenience.”

  Krador leaned back in his chair. “And your purpose?”

  Clenching his jaw, it took all Stephen’s fortitude to relax the muscles so he could speak. The action wasn’t lost on Krador. “For you to accept my personal surrender. And, in doing so, to accept that you will insure the safe departure of my remaining forces.”

  Krador let out a rolling laugh. “You know, Stephen… Just as you were saying that, I think I’ve had a change of heart.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I’ve yet to test all the weapons systems on the Eximer. Some of them are quite exotic. In fact, I’m sure you’d like to see them firsthand.”

  Rothchild was enraged. How dare anyone toy with the lives of his crew. “By finishing what you started on the Halifax? I won’t let you get away with that, Maros! Not while I’m in command.”

  “Oh, I think I can find a much more suitable target than an insignificant destroyer, Captain. Much more suitable.”

  Out of the forward view port, Stephen watched as the large dorsal turret on the Eximer turned to face his ship. He was staring directly down the barrel of the weapon, and he knew whatever it was about to unleash was bound to devastate the bridge and everyone on it. Feeling something brush against his side, Stephen turned to see the beautiful Quel-Sa standing beside him, her sparkling dark eyes staring into his. Rothchild reached his arm around her waist and brushed at her face with his free hand.

  “I…I’m sorry, Talia. I wish we had more time.”

  “As do I,” her sing-song voice cooed.

  It was then that everything went black.

  Chapter 1

  As the small, multi-engine transport glided into its approach vector, the turbulence resulting from an incoming cold front over New Seattle caused the craft to begin shaking rather violently. In truth, it would have been considered mild turbulence by any pilot who had flown for as many years as the pilot of this particular craft had. Yet, to the lone passenger shifting anxiously in her exceedingly comfortable leather seat, it was a sweat-inducing encounter, worthy of being considered a form of inhuman torture.

  And if anyone knew anything about torture, it was she.

  Angelika Jordan, her slim fingers curled securely around the edge of her armrest, hated flying with a passion. It was one of the few things in life that she truly loathed, and she put it at the top of her personal list of dislikes, right above people who absently popped bubble wrap or drivers who failed to yield to oncoming traffic. Given the right time and proper equipment, she could easily handle the latter two. However, because she had yet to master her fear of flying, the interstellar transport she currently found herself incased in was a necessary evil in her life. With all the tight turns and stomach-turning descents, the pilot of this particular craft seemed to be the devil himself, treating the graceful shuttle like it was his personal sleigh ride into the pits of Hades itself.

  “We’re descending through three thousand feet now, ma’am,” Satan chimed serenely over the craft’s address system. “We’ll be on the ground in just under ten minutes.”

  Angelika closed her eyes just as a final blast of turbulence rocked the craft. She offered a silent prayer—the same as she’d done a thousand times over a hundred landing pads on dozens of worlds—that she would land safely, just as she had nine hundred ninety-nine times before. Slowly opening her emerald eyes, the blonde-haired woman peered out the generous window at the same moment the transport shuttle broke through the final layer of the gloomy-gray clouds of Third Earth’s Northwest Territory.

  Thankfully, Angelika mused, with the twin suns still so high in the sky, the diffused beams of light managed to break through at odd intervals and stream down to the patchwork of concrete, steel, and greenery below. Off in the distance, the skyscrapers of New Seattle whittled down in size until the buildings were scarcely three or four stories tall at the southernmost point of the sprawling metropolis. Then there were the sports stadiums, the largest of them lit up like a monolithic coliseum straight out of Roman mythology. Angelika watched as the remnants of the city faded quietly, watched as the smaller city and suburbs sprang up and melted away just before the shuttle neared the small city of Hanville and her final destination: the shared Sector Command and Unified Marine joint base, which consisted of both Patterson Field and Fort Blake.

  As the transport made its final approach, Angelika called out the names of the landmarks in her mind. There was Ketron Island, then the calm waters of the three-mile-wide Lake Tresse, where she and her boyfriend had shared their second date. She watched as the transport descended past the imposingly large gate that surrounded the military installation, then fell even further until all she could see was the green of the lush grass that surrounded a series of raised landing pads near the long stretch of tarmac designated as runway fifteen. All around the base, there was a litany of activity, with personnel and craft darting here and there. The frontlines of the war with the Kafarans, while still light-years distance from the relative safety of the inner sphere of the Unified Collaboration, still required the immediate attention of every member of both Sector Command and the gruff and vigilant Unified Marines.
/>
  This was a second home to her, and it wasn’t until that moment that she truly realized it. She knew who would be waiting for her; she even knew what make and model of conveyance he would be piloting. In her mind Angelika could see him now, in his meticulously pressed suit and tie, an umbrella in hand, the rear door of his hover car open as he waited patiently not far from the bottom of the shuttle’s ladder.

  The shuttle touched down without incident, and it wasn’t until Angelika heard the high-pitched whine of the engines’ reverse thrust that she realized the craft had landed. It was then that Lucifer’s voice came over the PA once more.

  “We’ll be maneuvering out to hanger sixteen in just a moment, ma’am. Please remain seated until the transport has come to a complete halt.”

  Remain seated, Angelika scoffed as she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. As if I had any intention of doing otherwise, you sick, sick maniac. Where did you learn to fly, anyway? Besides, I’m the only one on the shuttle, and you’re sitting less than ten feet away. Why use the bloody PA when you can just as easily turn around, talk to me, and pretend you’re human and have a soul? Yet with all her internal bickering, all she said was, “Thank you, Captain.”

  She unfastened her belt and reached over to the rearward-facing seat in front of her to retrieve her messenger bag, a recent addition to her luggage ensemble and given to her by her boyfriend. Hefting the dark leather case by its strap, something near one of its corners caught her eye. Angelika lifted the satchel until the offending area was inches from her face. She held up her right index finger and was able to snugly insert it into the near-perfectly round perforation.

  That son of a bitch shot a hole in my bag…my brand new bag!

  She set the bag down, flipped it open, and pulled out her lightweight computer, which had suffered no damage. Removing a strip of material from the bottom of the case, she withdrew her standard issue sidearm: a silver and black concussive accelerator. Looking over the weapon, she was pleased to see that it was also unharmed.

  “If he weren’t dead already, I’d kill him,” she muttered to herself as she placed the items, first the weapon and then the electronics, back into the satchel. With newfound frustration, she slung the bag over her shoulder and headed for the shuttle’s forward exit.

  “Have a good night,” the captain offered as she passed the cockpit on her way out.

  Have fun sticking your pitchfork into unfortunate souls. “You too,” she said with a forced smile. “Thanks for the lift.”

  The pilot threw out his best smile. “Anytime, ma’am.”

  Stepping out of the jet onto the small metal ladder that extended from the side of the craft, Angelika wasn’t a bit surprised to see who was waiting for her, and the exacting way he always oriented his hover car in the same manner with relation to the shuttle. It was maddening how obsessive he could be over the little things at times—and in other circles, it could prove a fatal trait for a covert operative. However, seeing as he was only a desk agent, he had little to fear in the daily humdrum of his life, save for the occasional paper jam in the office printer or, heaven forbid, when the interoffice message system went down for five minutes.

  After all, nations and governments had toppled over less.

  This afternoon, however, there was a decided formalness to his usual prim and proper attire. His three-piece suit, a usually colorful staple of his attire, was now all black. It had a sheen to it, and Angelika recognized the material as pure silk. His tie, made of the same material, was speckled with small white polka dots. The gleam of his white dress shirt was equaled only by that of the square in his left breast pocket.

  Placing one heeled foot in front of the other, Angelika descended the stairs and approached the waiting gentleman. After all, when all was said and done, despite his lack of humor and his occasional aloofness, the slightly older man was decidedly a gentleman.

  “Angelika,” he said with a soft voice and even softer smile. “It’s good to see you.”

  “You too, Harold.” She returned the smile, and the two briefly shook hands.

  Within moments, the all-too-familiar rain of the seemingly ever-present fall seasons began pouring down. Harold Terrance Carlisle, always punctual, had his oversized umbrella covering the two before the first drops touched their clothing.

  “I trust your flight was agreeable?” he said, his pure British accent punctuating every word with preciseness as the corners of his mouth threatened to turn into an actual smile.

  Angelika sighed, thankful to be on solid ground once more. “You know how much I hate flying in those damn things.”

  “And yet, being that it’s a prerequisite to nearly every one of your numerous objectives, you do it anyway.”

  Angelika snorted in rebuke. “I’m a glutton for punishment.”

  “Yes. It would seem so.”

  “Come on, old friend. You know me better than that.”

  He bowed his head graciously. “Indeed I do, ma’am.”

  “I’ve told you a thousand times, Harold. It’s Angelika.”

  “A thousand times a thousand, ma’am. It makes little difference.”

  She cocked a mischievous eyebrow at the older man. “You know, you keep saying that, Harold, but someday you’re going to slip up and call me Angie, just like everyone else.”

  “I don’t slip, ma’am.”

  “Oh really, how’s that?”

  There was an unmistakable twinkle in his eyes. “Because I’m British, Miss Jordan.”

  Angelika feigned a look of shock. “Why, Harold, did you just make a joke?”

  “No, ma’am. As I said before, I’m British.”

  It was an old argument, one that didn’t look as if it were going to be won this gloomy day on the tarmac of the military base. Still, there was always tomorrow.

  “So,” she said, hefting her messenger bag into a more comfortable position. “Where are you off to all dressed up?”

  “Oh, it’s not just me, Miss Jordan. You’ve been requested to accompany me as well.”

  Angelika knew exactly where this was heading. “Oh, no, you don’t. Not this time, Harold. I’ve been in space for the past twelve hours—not to mention a reentry from hell…literally. I’m tired, I’m hungry—”

  “They’ll be serving lobster tail and brioche at the party,” he interrupted.

  Now she really didn’t like where this was heading. “I’m going home. I phoned Michael from the shuttle. You remember him, don’t you? My boyfriend? The man I love and will hopefully get asked to marry someday.”

  “I’m fully aware of the relationship status between yourself and Mister Wade.”

  “And are you aware that, if I don’t see him like I’ve promised, there will be a new status for you to get updated on…one that says ‘terminated’?”

  “I’ve taken the liberty of picking out a suitable cocktail dress for you, ma’am.”

  “I said no, Harold.”

  Her old friend looked far from convinced.

  “No,” she repeated.

  “It’s the ambassador and his staff from New Paris on Delta III, ma’am.”

  Why on Third Earth did humans have to have so many ‘new’ places? You would think that, being on an entirely different planet, colonists could make up more inventive designations. “He can go sit on the brioche for all I care.” She dismissed his words with a wave of her hand. “I’m going home, Harold.”

  While his expression was blank, Angelika knew he was inwardly scowling. “Deputy Agent Martell will not be pleased,” he replied.

  “He can sit on the brioche, too. He and the prime minister can use it like a seesaw.”

  For the first time in ages, Angelika watched as a soft smile played across her assistant’s countenance. “Thirty minutes, Miss Jordan. Then you have my word that I will make sure you get extricated from the affair with all the haste afforded a professional of your vocation.”

  There seemed to be no way out of her predicament, and if there was one thing
she hated, it was a no-win scenario. “Fine,” she huffed. “But just for you, and just for thirty minutes. At exactly thirty-one minutes, if I’m not out of there, I’m coming after you.”

  Harold opened the rear door of the exquisite black hover car. “Thirty minutes, Miss Jordan. You have my word.”

  Sighing, Angelika reached out and brushed Harold Carlisle’s arm before she stepped into the waiting vehicle. “It’s good to be home, old friend. I missed you.”

  Harold smiled, just as he did each time Angelika showed him the least amount of affection—something she seemed to do more often these days. “It’s good to have you back, ma’am.”

  Slipping inside the spacious backseat, she found a box sitting beside her, with a delicate pair of expensive high-heeled shoes placed on top of it. As she opened the box and studied the dress, Harold entered the driver’s seat, and the two began their journey.

  The party was just as Angelika had assumed it would be. There were dignitaries, diplomats, politicians and some of their more well-to-do constituents. Most of the faces were familiar to her, and only a smattering were completely foreign. All of them were engaged in small talk when Angelika arrived, and from what she could discern with her impeccable hearing, nothing Third Earth-shattering or politically charged was being discussed. She had wined and dined with this crowd before—who were very much not her crowd at all—on a hundred different worlds. She much preferred the smaller crowd of her close-knit group of friends, those who knew her and understood the value of friendly banter in a pub-like environment. That she was able to so effortlessly comingle with the upper crust of society was a testament to her years of training, even if doing so was at odds with her personality.

  Angelika had been whisked from the door to her assigned table. And, as usual, there was the deputy director of the agency, waiting for her as he always did with a look of supreme confidence. His black tuxedo, the same cut as most others in the room, did well to mask the importance of the man. He could have been anyone, even a waiter…just another face in the crowd of high-ranking officials that very few paid any real attention to.