by M. R. Forbes
The bodyguards moved to block Director Eagan, hands falling to their sides and drawing laser pistols. Too slow. Ursin and Trin pounced on them, grabbing them and throwing them into the walls, smashing their skulls against the hard metal and leaving them in a heap on the ground.
“Who are you?” The Director said, backpedaling. “This is a secure area.”
“Clearly, it isn’t, ma’am,” Ursin said.
The Director raised her hand, tapping a band on her wrist.
“Nobody can hear you,” Trin said. “The signal’s being jammed.”
“What do you want?” Director Eagan said, straightening herself and pausing her retreat. “Are you with Tritium? How did you get clearance onto my station?”
“It’s nothing personal, ma’am,” Ursin said, though that wasn’t completely true. Anyone who built weapons for the Republic was complicit.
“We require the access codes for the Fire and the Brimstone’s command terminals,” Trin said.
“What? How do you know they have key code access?”
Most ships used biometric access. Eyeballs. Fingerprints. DNA. All of it could be faked. Codes were old-fashioned, but they worked because of it. With a code, it could be one and done with no external prompting. You either entered the numbers you had memorized correctly the first time, or you lost access. Simple.
“You should pay your people what they’re worth, ma’am,” Ursin said. “They won’t take classified intel to the highest bidder if you take better care of them.”
“A mole?” she said, indignant. “What else did they sell you?”
“Enough,” Trin replied. “Give me the codes.”
“What makes you think I have them?”
“Don’t you?” Trin reached out, grabbing the Director’s wrist and squeezing hard enough that she cried out in pain. “I can make it bad for you. Very bad.”
The Director registered fear for the first time. “You. You won’t be able to use them. You’ll never get on the ships.”
“No, we won’t, ma’am,” Ursin agreed. “But you see, we don’t need to get on the ships.” He glanced over at Trin, who nodded. “Our people already are.”
7
“Admiral Cortez.”
The Vice Admiral turned around at the sound of his name, searching for the source. He found it a moment later in the form of a bald, heavyset man in a tuxedo, still a few meters back but approaching quickly, a wry smile on his round face.
Cortez did his best to disguise his disappointment at the sight of the man, while at the same time wishing he hadn’t reacted to his name in the first place. It would make it harder for him to escape from the clutches of Tritium Heavy Industries’ favorite envoy.
“Mister Toyo,” he said, putting on his bravest face. “I hadn’t realized that Mars invited competitors to this event.”
“To gloat, no doubt,” the man replied, holding out his hand. Cortez took it, shaking firmly and trying to ignore the dampness. “Congratulations on your purchase of the Apocalypse fighters, by the way.”
“I don’t have to like you or the people you work for to recognize quality,” Cortez said, his eyes darting past the man, searching for a way out.
Toyo laughed. “That’s my favorite way of doing business, Emil. Continue to make the buyer uncomfortable until they place an order, if only to get my fat ass out of their face.”
The way he said it gave Cortez a chill. As a man who had been in the business of war for more than half of his life, it was an achievement.
“Oh. It looks like the demonstration may be starting,” Toyo said. “Curious. I didn’t think Mars would play it on the sly like this. She loves to talk too much to show and then tell.”
“What?” Cortez said, turning to face the large viewport that ran the length and width of the concourse. He found the stardock in the distance, noting the movement from the other side of it.
“Really, an interesting approach,” Toyo continued. “Certainly more dramatic this way.”
The rest of the assembly was beginning to notice the movement as well, the buzz amongst them slowly fading as they stopped talking to look.
There was definitely movement at the far end of the star dock, Cortez decided. He started angling away from Toyo toward the viewport, trying to get a better view.
The bow of a starship appeared behind the dock, sliding slowly into view, framed by Sol Three. It was long and narrow, and a little bit rounded, much sleeker than any of their current starship iterations. It was also larger, at least one and a half times the size of a current generation battleship. He watched it intently, waiting for the bow to turn into an island, eager for the full reveal.
He was so intent that he didn’t notice the second, smaller ship that made its way around the stardock from the other side, moving much more quickly, turning to face toward the station.
The other guests did, and they pointed and gawked at the glimmering sliver of metal as it headed their way.
An alarm began to sound.
The volume of it shocked the crowd into sudden silence, leaving a stillness on the concourse that seemed to hang, thick and timeless, as the ship in front of them opened its gills in a strong breath, releasing a handful of projectiles on the exhale.
It took Admiral Cortez two heartbeats to realize that the starship was firing on them. He was moving by the third, running from his position near the viewport toward the nearest exit from the space.
What the hell was happening?
He made it a dozen steps before the ring began to shake, the missiles striking some part of the structure and detonating. The guests shouted and cried out in alarm, starting to move in the same direction as him, pushing and shoving one another in an effort to escape. The alarm tone grew louder, a mechanized voice urging people not to panic, to file out of the space in an orderly fashion.
“It’s firing again,” someone shouted. Someone who was looking back at the starship.
Admiral Cortez reached the steps leading to the promenade, looking back toward the viewport as his head cleared the onrushing crowd. He looked just in time to see a half dozen missiles detonate early, breaking apart and revealing hundreds of smaller warheads. Those missiles streaked past the viewport, moving perpendicular to the ring and heading directly for one of the spokes where the shuttles were docked.
The projectiles tore into it, small explosions flaring in the space beyond, the force of them punching into the spoke and the ships docked there. Something happened after the detonation, and a moment later the spoke and the ships began to crumble as though they had suffered from instant and complete molecular degradation.
Cortez cursed, continuing his exodus up the steps to the promenade. The ship was nearly on top of the station now, the sharp front of it showing no signs of diverting from a collision with the ring. The second, larger starship followed behind it, hanging further back like a protective parent.
“It’s cutting off our escape,” the officer next to Cortez said. He was a Republic Marine. He looked shocked and confused.
Cortez reached into his pocket, removing his communicator. He clicked it on, a projection of Commander Cusp appearing an instant later. The big Curlatin looked confused.
“Admiral,” he said. “What’s happening?”
“We’re under attack,” Cortez replied. “Organize the fleet, Commander. All ships are to target the Fire and the Brimstone and destroy or disable them. Do you understand?” He didn’t know why the ships were attacking, but it didn’t matter right now.
“Yes, sir,” Cusp replied. “It will be done.”
Cortez reached the promenade, one of the first to make it to the top of the steps. The exit was clear ahead of him, and he ran for it at full speed, thankful he had made an effort to stay in shape despite his years.
A fresh round of screams rose up behind him. He whirled in time to see the starship almost right on top of the concourse, no further than four or five kilometers away. A line of darkness creased it, creating the visage of a dark
, open mouth from which a third volley of projectiles emerged, streaking directly toward them.
The missiles hit the glass two seconds later, detonating against it and breaking through, immediately activating emergency protocols. Cortez looked away as the first of the guests were pulled out into the vacuum of space, pushing himself toward the exit. A heavy blast door was sliding down ahead of it, attempting to seal off the section.
The Marine cut in front of him, stretching out and grabbing the door and pulling himself toward it. Cortez reached him, taking hold of his shoulder and using it to pull himself ahead. He ducked under the closing blast door, turning and starting to stretch his hand toward the Marine. Too late. The door closed, a small glass slit in the center revealing the complete death and destruction behind it.
“May God help them,” Cortez said, returning to his communicator. “Commander, what is your status?”
“We have engaged the larger ship, the Fire, sir.”
“And?”
“Our weapons are ineffective.”
Cortez froze, leaning against the wall. “Excuse me, Commander?”
“I said our weapons are ineffective, sir. The Fire has some manner of energy shield or something. She’s coming about on us, sir. She’s firing. Oh. The Chrysalis is hit. An energy weapon, it tore her right in half. Sir, the Brimstone is floating broadside to the ring. You need to get out of there, sir.”
Cortez started to run, heading down one of the spokes leading to the center spire. He wasn’t sure exactly where he was going, but he wanted to get away from the enemy at his back.
Too late. The ring began to shake again, another round of fire slamming into it. The metal frame was creaking and groaning now, the damage to the structure causing it to begin coming apart. The warning sounds and lights continued to flash as he raced ahead. There was no sign of survivors behind him.
“Commander, target the Brimstone,” Cortez ordered. “Fire at will.”
“Aye, sir,” Cusp replied. “Fire torpedos on my mark.” Tense seconds passed. “Fire.”
Cortez couldn’t see any of what was happening. He reached the end of the corridor, where a small guard station with a sensor array was waiting. If there had been guards there before, they had already abandoned their posts.
“Negative, sir,” Cusp reported. “Two direct torpedo hits and they didn’t leave a scratch.”
“No damage at all?” Cortez replied, incredulous. That was impossible.
He ran through the sensor, ignoring the warnings as it identified the contraband beneath his coat. He always carried a sidearm, but he had forgotten it was there. He made it to the next hatch, which opened at his approach.
“No, sir. None,” Cusp replied. “We just lost the North, sir, and the Faraday is reporting critical damage. Their weapons are tearing us to pieces, sir.”
An entire fleet against two starships and they were losing? This couldn’t be happening.
The station shuddered again. A sharp, echoing crack followed by a heavy vibration knocked Cortez from his feet. He rolled over, looking back the way he had come. The hatch was closed, and there was nothing but open space behind it.
“Commander, what does the ring look like from your position?” Cortez asked.
There was no answer. Cortez picked up his communicator. His connection to the battleship had been severed, and there was only one outcome to explain it.
He felt a spear of sadness and dismay in the pit of his stomach. His greatest nightmare was becoming real. He got to his feet and sprinted ahead through the corridors, still headed inward. The ring had been destroyed, but the spire was still intact.
For how long?
8
“Did you finish all of your school work?” Abbey asked.
“Yes,” Hayley replied. “I finished it ten minutes after I got home from school. It’s boring.”
They were sitting on a park bench. There was a lake in front of them, ringed with evergreen trees. Boats dotted the water, some modern and barely touching the surface, others in the classic, centuries-old style with tall masts and deep keels. It was warm and sunny, and there was a pleasant breeze blowing in from the east.
Abbey leaned back against the bench, enjoying the time she had to spend with her daughter. The last week had been a hard one for her, dominated by her efforts to crack the computer she had recovered and come up with some kind of answers to something.
She wasn’t used to being stymied, but the encryption on the server she retrieved was atypical and locked down harder than anything she had run across before. She had spent hours upon hours in the lab during the Nova’s return trip to the nearest Republic base on Gannai, cross-referencing the schema with known encryption methods, and even turning to the Worldbrain for assistance. Not only had she found few clues, but the more she had examined the device forensically, the more her instinct had told her the whole thing was a trick, and the storage had been irreversibly wiped.
In other words, the Outworlders, or General Kett, or both, had left it there to waste her time and distract the Republic from the real prize.
It wouldn’t have been the first time.
“Mom,” Hayley said. “Are you okay? You seem distracted.”
Abbey looked over. Ten years old, tall and lean, her daughter was almost the spitting image of herself when she was that age, save for the extra six inches or so in height. She was a pretty girl, not exceptional, but cute enough that the boys in her classes knew she existed. She was also intelligent, displaying the same boredom with regular curriculum that had brought Abbey to the Republic Armed Services to begin with. Maybe it shouldn’t have been a surprise, but Hayley wanted to be an HSOC, just like her mother. Abbey wasn’t sure about the choice. It was hard, dangerous work, and her protective instinct ran strong. She was also dead set on not being the kind of mom that didn’t support their child’s decisions regardless of her own personal preferences.
“Sorry, Hal,” she replied, sitting up again. “The last mission didn’t go the way I was hoping, and it left me with a bit of a conundrum.”
Hayley looked thoughtful. “Maybe I can help,” she offered.
“You probably could,” Abbey replied. “But you know I’m not allowed to tell you anything about it. Everything I do is classified.”
Hayley nodded. “I know. Hey, do you want to walk a bit? Maybe that will help clear your head?”
“Okay,” Abbey said, standing up. “Who’s teaching you to be so grown up, anyway? Aunt Liv?”
“I am grown up,” Hayley replied. “Age is a number.”
Abbey laughed. Hayley laughed with her. They walked along the edge of the lake, watching the sailboats and chatting.
“How long can you stay?” Hayley asked.
Abbey checked the time. “Another hour or so. You?”
“Dad’s going to be calling me for dinner soon, but I’ll stay as long as I can.”
“Thanks, kiddo,” Abbey replied. “You know, I’ve got two months left and then I’ll be coming back to Earth. We can see each other for real, all the time.”
“I’m excited about it,” Hayley said. “I can’t wait to have you here. I feel like you’ve been talking about it forever, but now it’s so close.”
“I feel the same way. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mom.”
She reached out and took her daughter’s hand, holding it as they walked. It was a good moment. A perfect moment.
Too perfect.
“Lieutenant Cage,” a voice said, tickling the back of her ear.
“Hayley, give me a second,” Abbey said.
She motioned with her hand, freezing the construct, including her daughter’s avatar. Then she reached up and removed the small band from in front of her eyes, returning herself to the Nova. The ship’s CO, Commander Kyle Ng, was standing in front of her in the darkness of the construct module, arms folded behind his back.
“Commander,” she said, saluting him. “How can I help you, sir?”
It was odd
that he had come down in person instead of pinging her communicator, but not unheard of. The Commander was a fit man, and he always said he kept that way by harassing his subordinates in the flesh, walking five to ten kilometers a day to cover the area of the battleship.
“I need you to come with me, Lieutenant.”
There was an edge to his voice that put her on alert.
“Is something wrong, sir?” she asked.
“Please. Just come with me.”
“I need to say goodbye to my daughter, sir. One minute, please.”
She reached for the eyeband. Commander Ng shook his head.
“Immediately, Lieutenant.”
Abbey looked up, noticing the soldiers flanking the door to her construct module. Something was definitely wrong, and it sent a chill down her spine. She took the band from her head. She hoped Hayley would understand her sudden departure. It wasn’t the first time she had been forced to leave without a word.
“What is this about, Commander?” she asked.
“I’ll let Major Klixix fill you in,” Ng replied.
Klixix? That was Plixian. Likely Military Police. What the hell was going on?
Abbey let the Commander lead her from the construct module, through the wide corridors of the Nova and down toward the hangar. The two soldiers walked behind her, nerve batons in their hands. She didn’t recognize either of them personally, but she did recognize the insignia on the shoulders of their uniforms. They were MPs.
They reached the hangar. The hatch slid open ahead of them, and when it did Abbey immediately noticed that Sergeant Coli was there, along with the surviving members of the Fifth Platoon. An entire platoon of military police were surrounding them.
The Sergeant’s face was grim, his large eyes downcast and ashamed.
“Sir?” she said, still feeling uncertain.
Her eyes danced across the space, passing over the half-dozen dropships hanging neatly in their launch cradles, sweeping past the five squadrons of starfighters magnetically clamped to the floor. A smaller ship was sitting beyond the platoon, wide and sharp, and bearing the marks of the Republic. There was a stack of equipment resting beside it, being carefully cataloged by a six-legged Plixian who scuttled over at her arrival.