“Lee, my leg burns for one minute and then I feel nothing for the other,” he groaned.
Lee shook his head. “Forget about it. If it falls off, they can replace it. You know some people like bionic limbs—they even surgically remove their own.”
“I’m not some people. I’m traditional. I like my limbs. I want to keep them.”
“And keep them you will. I promise, Vee.”
Alvarez forced a smile.
Lee looked around. It was 02:00 local time. He didn’t see security forces or any indication any had responded to this disturbance at all. They must have received alerts from some citizens who’d seen them running. The audio report of the sidearms was minimal, but surely, the local security dispatch services had been swarmed with calls of crazy persons in the streets with antique weapons. Could the unknown pursers have compromised security to the extent whereby they could delay a response? He supposed that was possible.
If he and Alvarez were going to survive, he had to forget about local help and do like he’d always done. He held his side as a sharp piercing pain in his spine signaled something was very wrong with his back. He wasn’t sure how many times he’d been hit, but he pushed it from his mind.
Fight Lee, Fight.
“Vee, I’m going to tuck you up here out of sight. I’ll fling around and see if I can get a glimpse of the goons chasing. If I can, I’ll take them out, either way I’ll be back.”
“Go for it, Lee,” his wounded friend coughed. Each breath sounded like his last.
Before Lee moved half a step, a thunderous rumble filled the air. Instinctively he looked up. The sound grew deeper, the buildings vibrated and he had to press his hands against his ears. An atmospheric jet shot by overhead, followed by another.
The goons had air support?
He slowly lowered his hands. Another deep rumbling shattered the night, closer this time but not quite as powerful, yet with greater intensity. Then he saw it.
Over a high-rise structure, a sleek craft executed a sudden breaking maneuver. It switched to VTOL and lowered toward the street, near right on top of them! Right then another atmospheric craft rocketed by. What kind of crazy pilot lands in a city district!
Puff! Small dust clouds popped behind him. The goons were back and they were in a hurry. They didn’t like what was happening either. And if they didn’t like it, then maybe that was a good sign.
The craft hovered several meters off the ground and deployed a ramp. A figure emerged blasting two pulse laser pistols. How did the stranger bypass the energy-dampening field? He squinted through the haze. Commander!
“Lee!” the Commander yelled, and bolted down the ramp blasting his pulse laser relentlessly toward the goon squad. With that kind of firepower, the goons would have to fall back. “Come on, Lee!”
Lee looked down at his fallen shipmate. He’d probably passed out from the pain or blood loss. He shook him. “Vee, Aaron’s here! Come on.” He bent and looped the slumped ops officer by the waist over his shoulders and hefted him off the ground.
Ahead, Commander Rayne still blasted away with his pulse pistols firmly pinning down the opposing force. He was grinning as he shouted. “Come on, Lee! No one lives forever!”
Lee swallowed, gnashing his teeth. Now or never. He launched himself.
The inside of the craft grew larger. Almost there. The whizzing of projectiles cut the air. Whumpf! He made it half way and fell with the XO on top of him. His arms felt like someone had bolted them to the deck. The safety of the interior was just ahead, but Lee couldn’t move, he couldn’t even wiggle his toes.
Nothing.
Any second projectiles would carve him up like a fresh roast. So close yet—
A large black-clad figure stood over him. His vision blurred, he couldn’t see past the haze. Projectile impacts sparked around the ramp. The unknown rescuer shielded him from the incoming fire. The dark figure dragged him up the ramp toward the inside. His vision cleared slightly—Commander Rayne was firing with one hand as he dragged Lee along with the other.
Lee grabbed and held onto Alvarez. It was almost comical, the Commander dragged him, and he dragged Alvarez. Then the shooting stopped and they were inside. Now his eyelids wouldn’t cooperate and stay open. The last thing he saw was the Commander slapping the ramp control. He still couldn’t raise his left arm. But at least his back didn’t hurt anymore.
That can’t be good.
Chapter 10 – Brutus Bannon
Imperial Warship—Phalanx
War with the United Star Systems was inevitable.
At least that’s what Brutus Bannon kept telling himself. Lord Praetor of the Empire and special personal Advisor to Emperor Soto himself. That being the reality, it was only wise to launch a pre-emptive strike.
Five long years he toiled in the background to prepare the Imperial Space Navy for war. Not just to prepare them for it, but prepare them to win it—convincingly. Far from the Imperial home world, secret shipyards under his command constructed a new fleet of warships, deploying the Empire’s most advanced laser systems and other long overdue upgrades. A new fleet of advanced warships, upon which several thousand Imperial Navy personnel trained.
Bannon ensured rigorous vetting of all candidates, most of them hailing from families whose entire generations had served the Baridian Empire. Their loyalty was unquestionable and their devotion unwavering. This fleet would be the vanguard of the United Star Systems destruction. He intended to strike hard and fast, blindsiding the United Star Systems Fleet.
He kept telling those fools in the Senate the time to strike was now. He didn’t need to alter any intelligence reports this time around. A careful blend of truth and exaggeration worked well enough. Imperial spy craft reported unusual activity within the United Systems core worlds for months. Large freighters laden with heavy materials on flight paths not previously recorded. They also reported significant movement of personnel in their engineering and logistics wings.
Still the Senate played it down. “The United Star Systems has no will to fight”, “We have enough habitable planets nearby to expand for years”, they said. The Empire almost defeated the weak United Systems 70 years ago. The Imperials were on the verge of winning that war when the USSF developed a new class of stealth warship with advanced warp capabilities.
The Imperial Navy had already occupied and controlled half of USSF space. Planning was well under way for the invasion of Sol. Before the operation could be launched, reports of attacks deep into Empire space circulated. No one had a clue. Only years later would the Empire learn that what the USSF called Sentinel-class destroyers had warped behind their defenses undetected. During the ensuing months, the squadron of phantom ships razed key military installations and shipyards, before attacking Hosque. One of the USSF ships entered orbit undetected and bombed the senate. Although orbital defenses destroyed it before it could disappear again, the damage was done. Having no means of detecting these new ships and with likely more on the way, the Empire sued for peace. Under the terms of the subsequent treaty, they yielded their conquered territory and ceded many nearby resource rich and habitable zones.
The United Systems maintained aggressive expansion on the wave of their new space superiority. A new era began—a galactic cold war. Not long after the treaty, the Empire withdrew all diplomats and completely closed their borders. They had severed all relations and communications with all other independent worlds.
Now no miracles would save the United Systems. First, their colonies along the border will burn, then the fleet won’t stop until they reach Earth. Bannon had no interest in occupying the grotesque water world. He would raze Earth to the ground, giving no quarter. He wanted the citizens of the USS to feel the same his ancestors did during the bombardment of Hosque. A feeling they passed on through the centuries in their writings and their wishes for revenge. They rallied for it to be the sole duty of all soldiers of the Empire to see to it this day would come.
Bannon would see that day.
****
Bannon ran his fingers through his dark hair, pulling it back. The figure on the screen tapped a finger repeatedly.
“I’m busy, make this quick,” Bannon said.
The man on the screen raised both eyebrows. Bannon despised everything about the man right up to his perfectly parted hair. The annoying and permanent false smile grated Bannon’s nerves.
“Bannon, the separatists are moving quickly. A vote is pending soon, my people tell me the public will vote to leave without even a single shot being fired. They will no longer be a viable scapegoat. What’s the holdup?”
“An operation of this magnitude takes careful planning and attention to detail, do not presume to hurry me.”
“Listen, Lord Praetor, if they get that vote, I don’t get what I want and you don’t get what you want. If your attack comes off, the separatists will be blamed. That will give us the excuse we need to authorize a military intervention. We keep the Border Worlds in check and you get to cause some serious damage to a USS target. That is what you extremists do isn’t it.”
Bannon opened his mouth to rebut the man’s assertions about their motivations, but thought it better the fool be left with his assumptions.
“Your concerns are noted. I assure you, the operation will be executed in less than 35 days. Marginally longer than our original estimated time window.”
“See to it, Bannon.”
Bannon closed the comm link. Too bad the United Star Systems wasn’t populated with fools of the magnitude of his contact. It would have made the coming war far easier.
The intercom beeped.
“Lord Praetor Bannon, the target is within range.”
Ah, the target . . . he would enjoy this. He exited his personal quarters and walked with a brisk pace for the command center.
****
The massive warship dwarfed her helpless prey. The largest ship in the Imperial fleet measured 1500 meters from bow to stern. It bristled with the latest laser turrets and missile batteries. Her armor as thick as an asteroid.
A mere ten thousand kilometers ahead a large transport ship carrying six thousand Imperial Slaves drifted—disabled moments ago by a precision laser strike.
“Lord Praetor, the ungrateful, are disabled. Awaiting further instruction,” the weapons officer reported.
Praetor Brutus Bannon stood staring at the 3d holo-display, his hands clasped behind his back hidden by his flowing red cape. Imperial Slaves enjoyed more privileges than even United Star Systems citizens . . . why should any of them rebel against their adoring masters?
Yet here they were six thousand of them, huddled in fear aboard a doomed transport. A transport bound for the Border Worlds Alliance and the “haven” of the United Star Systems. Didn’t these wretches understand they could have been ordinary slaves sold on the black market?
The Emperor felt these “small” legions of absconding slaves did little to influence the psyche of the others. Brutus disagreed. If these ungrateful few escaped without fear of reprisal, it may set a trend. And he would not have escaping Imperial Slaves become a trend.
“Ship to ship,” Brutus ordered.
“Link established, Lord Praetor,” the young centurion replied.
“This is Lord Praetor Brutus Bannon. By attempting to abscond Empire space, with Imperial Citizen Property, you have committed an act of treason against the Empire and the Emperor himself. I am charged to ensure this act is punished and the punishment will deter future misguided attempts to flee.”
The comm was silent for a moment and then it crackled to life.
“This is Joniah Quinn, I speak for the occupants of this vessel. We surrender to the authority of the Empire and are prepared to submit to the authority of our owners. Please provide assistance, we have critical damage and a coolant leak in the engineering section.”
“There will be no surrender. The maximum punishment for your transgression is death. Your judgment is hereby delivered and your punishment is summary.” Bannon turned to the weapons officer. “Sub-Lieutenant, lock weapons onto that ship’s reactor. Stand by to fire.”
“Please no!” the man’s voice cracked. “We’ve surrendered, we have at least a thousand children on board, you must—”
“I must do nothing.”
Lord Commander Quintus Scipio stepped forward. “My Lord, the Emperor would frown upon such an extreme action. It may only incite or inspire widespread armed rebellion.”
No doubt, the Lord Commander’s thoughts had turned to the Imperial Slave rebellion fifty years ago. A short but brutal uprising. When it was all over, the Empire culled nearly half of all Imperial Slaves. Brutus turned to face the upstart Lord Commander. His black eyes bored into the subordinate.
“What the Emperor doesn’t know will not hurt him. The absconding vessel detonated their core rather than return to the Empire. That will be your official report.”
Scipio swallowed hard. “My Lord, I must ins—”
“Silence, Scipio! Or a similarly twisted tale might befall you! Weapons officer?” Brutus called.
The young officer looked uncomfortable. “Locked and awaiting your order, My Lord.”
“Very well then. The order is given. Fire.”
Phalanx’s main laser battery briefly ignited space dust and other particles as it burned into the hull of the transport and quickly found the reactor. Moments later, a blinding but brief flash filled the holo-viewer. Thousands of pieces of scattered debris—organic and inorganic—drifted outwards from the obliterated transport.
“Scipio, see to it the necessary reports are taken care of appropriately,” Brutus said.
He didn’t hear an acknowledgement.
“Helmsman, signal the fleet, resume course and execute. Continue onto Atlas Prime. Conceal Phalanx in the X-1501-D nebula on arrival. Those are your orders. Carry them out efficiently and precisely.”
The helmsman acknowledged.
“Scipio?” he called, still staring at the holo-display of the wrecked transport ship.
No response, the Lord Commander had left the bridge. A possible sympathizer. He would have to monitor him closely. Brutus swept his cape behind him as he turned for the exit to the command center. They were three weeks from Atlas Prime. When the operations officer alerted him to the absconding slaves, he immediately changed course. Imperial border patrols must be full of sympathizers—like Scipio—too many of these transports “slipped” by.
He would deal with this problem later. The real mission took precedence.
Chapter 11 – Phoenix
Star Runner
Rigel
Aaron guided the craft manually through the atmosphere, triggering a direct burn into low orbit. The two atmospheric fighter craft, which buzzed them earlier, banked for another pass. He’d ignored their calls to land immediately, when Star Runner deviated from the flight path to the hospital.
A piercing alarm informed him of a weapons lock. Undoubtedly, the scrambled fighters now had authorization for the use of deadly force.
He glanced at her before he refocused on the tactical readout. “Lieutenant, what defenses does this thing have?”
Her face looked a little flush and sullen. The feel of atmospheric combat differed in many ways compared to deep space. Likely, in this situation, she felt helpless. He could empathize with that feeling.
“This isn’t a warship, it’s a high-speed courier!” she blurted.
“It’s used by intelligence services, it must have something special!”
Her face brightened somewhat—a light bulb moment. “Chaff! It’s got chaff! And a grade two jamming suite that’s it . . . I think. But I’ve never used them! I don’t see how they’ll help against fighters.”
He snickered. “Weapons are just one way to establish a tactical advantage. We’ll use what we’ve got.”
The atmospheric patrol fighters had the advantage while in the atmosphere, but soon the pursuit would clear the stratosphere. Orbital defense patrols would be t
he next problem.
Crazy things happened from time to time, a bored kid stealing daddy’s space yacht—a USSF lunatic on a covert mission. The local system navy never sat idle orbiting a planet twiddling its thumbs. They patrolled deeper out system. Orbital or planetary incidents fell under the purview of local security forces. But this wasn’t an ordinary outlaw.
And this outlaw wasn’t piloting an ordinary ship.
Since when had he started referring to himself as an outlaw?
He finished computing the sequence to jam the radar specific to the pursuing fighter craft. “Jamming their radar now, that should give us a few minutes up front.”
Another warning alarm signaled some form of impending doom. Then again maybe not!
“They’ve locked on! Incoming heat-seeking missiles!” she shouted.
“Well . . . maybe I was wrong.”
She glared at him. “Maybe?!”
“Cool it, spy girl, this is a space affair, you stick to the spying—I’ll handle the flying.”
“You’re barely a level three pilot!”
“Oh? And what level are you, here why don’t you fly—”
“Rayne!”
He smirked. “Hang onto something and stand by to punch the chaff when I say.”
A few moments later, the interior rattled and groaned. The tiny courier rocketed through the atmosphere. The missiles were seconds away.
“Aaron!”
She called him by his first name?
He grimaced, straining with the flight controls. “Stand by!”
“The missiles are almost on us!”
He cut the engines and shoved the manual control stick forward, putting them into a deep dive. “Now!”
She obeyed.
The chaff released and the missiles slammed into it. The shock wave tossed the ship like a sea going vessel on a twenty-foot wave.
“Woowee! I’ve never had an atmospheric ride like this! Spies must have all the fun!”
He yanked the stick back and Star Runner climbed. They’d earned precious seconds until the fighter craft could bank, by then Star Runner would be twenty thousand kilometers away and into high orbit. He pushed the throttle to full.
Border Worlds (United Star Systems Book 1) Page 8