He scowled at the two crewmen, who cringed under his gaze. His brothers had both written letters from the front, telling him of the infidels running from their missiles and how they’d brought countless worlds under their thumb. To hear them talk, they’d won the battles personally; they’d certainly made it clear that they’d played a major role in the coming victory. It wouldn’t be long before the Theocracy was firmly in control of Tyre and the war came to an end. Ruthven would have no real chance of glory . . . at least until the next war.
“Well,” he said angrily. “Do you have anything resembling an explanation?”
The two crewmen exchanged glances. “It was just a spot of fun, sir,” one protested. “She was asking for it.”
“Aye, she was,” the second said. “Wearing sluttish clothes and walking down . . .”
Ruthven nodded to the janissaries, who stabbed the two men with shockrods. They screamed in pain, but somehow managed to remain standing. Clearly they knew better than to show weakness when they were in deep trouble. He sighed in irritation—like their commanding officer, his crew deeply resented their posting to the rear—and then leaned forward, allowing his anger to show on his face. It was well within his authority to have them executed out of hand and they both knew it.
“Let me explain something to you,” he said calmly. “The inhabitants of this asteroid cluster bent the knee to us. They submitted to us. We allow them to maintain their beliefs, their way of life, as long as they serve us. And they do serve us. The items they produce are a vital component of this sector’s economy.”
He sighed, again. It was unlikely the two crewmen really understood what he was telling them. They’d probably had nothing more than a basic education; they would have learned to recite the holy words from memory, but not to actually think. He would have been surprised if they could even read more than a few words.
“They submitted to us,” Ruthven repeated. “And, because of that, they are granted protection as long as they obey. We swore we would grant them protection, and safety, in order to keep them working for us. And part of that, as I believe you were informed, is that their women are not to be touched. It would upset them.”
He glowered at the crewmen, who looked back at him as if he’d started speaking in tongues. They didn’t understand, of course; to them, women who were believers were kept under firm control, while any other women were fair game. The concept of certain societies being left alone, in exchange for submission, was probably beyond them. They certainly hadn’t taken any of the warnings to heart before they’d dragged a woman off the streets and raped her until she was bleeding. No doubt they expected nothing more than a pat on the back . . .
“We cannot be seen to break our word,” he warned. “When a society bends the knee to us, we must grant protection in exchange for submission. You chose to ignore the warnings and harm someone under our protection. For this, you will both be flogged to within an inch of your lives.”
He nodded at the janissaries, who dragged the two men out of his office. The sentence would be carried out, of course, and then the men, if they survived, would be reassigned to the punishment units, where they would be given suicidal missions to complete. If they survived for six months, their record would be wiped clean, but he hadn’t heard of anyone surviving more than a couple of months. Even outside wartime, there was no shortage of suicidal tasks that needed warm bodies.
Idiots, he thought. But perhaps it wasn’t surprising, given their upbringing. Idiots who shouldn’t be allowed to breed . . .
The ship’s alarms started to howl. Ruthven jumped to his feet, then practically ran through the hatch and onto the bridge. Red icons were shimmering into life on the display, enemy starships jumping out of hyperspace gateways and advancing towards the asteroid cluster. He didn’t need the lines of text below the starship icons to know that they were the same ships that had attacked Verdean. The size and composition of the flotilla was identical.
“Red alert,” he snapped as the enemy fleet oriented itself on his ship. “Prepare to engage the enemy!”
He thought fast. His orders admitted of no ambiguity. If the enemy had superior firepower, enough to make his defeat certain, he was to withdraw at once. But there were ten freighters in the system . . . he’d be blamed for their loss, even though he’d only been following orders from his commanding officer. He’d be lucky to keep his head, let alone his command, once word spread. Any hope of being sent to the front before the inevitable victory would vanish faster than a snowflake in hell.
“The freighters are to cast off and jump into hyperspace,” he ordered. Some of them hadn’t finished loading, but there was no help for it now. “Freighters that don’t have hyperdrives are to follow ships that do. They’re to head straight to Aswan and inform the admiral that this system is under attack.”
“Aye, Captain,” the communications officer said.
Maybe I can salvage something from this after all, Ruthven thought coldly. Saving the freighters might be enough to save his career. The Theocracy didn’t have anything like enough bulk freighters, not when they tended to have the worst and least-motivated crews in space. Protecting the freighters is more important than protecting the unbelievers.
“Target the lead enemy warship and open fire as soon as they enter missile range,” he added, addressing the tactical officer. “Helm, I want you to hold the range open as long as possible.”
“Aye, sir,” the tactical officer said. “Bringer of Word is moving up to support us.”
Ruthven nodded. He knew better than to think he could do more than delay the enemy, not if he had to preserve his command, but at least he could try to give them a few lumps before his inevitable withdrawal. And if he actually hit one of their ships . . . maybe, just maybe, he would emerge looking good after all.
“Fire as soon as they enter missile range,” he repeated. “And then prepare to withdraw once the freighters are on their way.”
“Enemy ships are almost within engagement range,” Roach reported. “Freighters are casting off from the asteroid now.”
“Target the enemy ships and open fire as soon as they enter range,” Kat ordered. Someone on the other side was reacting coolly, very coolly, to her arrival. There didn’t seem to be any panic as far as she could tell; they were calmly trying to get the freighters out before her ships could fall on them like wolves on sheep. “And broadcast the surrender demand, all frequencies.”
“Aye, Captain,” Linda said.
“Entering missile range,” Roach said. He paused as new icons flashed to life on the display. “Enemy ships have opened fire; I say again, enemy ships have opened fire.”
“Return fire,” Kat ordered. The enemy broadsides matched what she’d expected from a pair of light cruisers. It wouldn’t be enough to break through Lightning’s point defense, although her smaller ships might have problems if the enemy focused on them. Luckily, the brief and violent battle over Verdean had exposed flaws in her point defense datanet. “Repeat the surrender demand, then prepare to target the freighters.”
She watched, coolly, as the enemy missiles flew into her point defense network and flickered out of existence. There just weren’t enough of them to pose a threat, even if they’d been fitted with the latest penetrator aids. Her own missiles, on the other hand, were overkill; one of the enemy cruisers staggered out of formation, spewing air and debris, while the other altered course, hoping to bring more of its point defense to bear. She smiled coldly, remembering the nightmarish seconds when 7th Fleet had been caught like a rat in a trap, then muttered a command. A second spread of missiles roared towards its target . . .
“Two of the freighters are offering surrender, Captain,” Linda said. “A third is charging a vortex generator, preparing to jump out.”
They can’t have been expecting us, Kat thought with heavy satisfaction. If they’d been expecting a raid, they’d have kept their vortex generators powered up, even though it would have shortened the life of the compo
nents by months. They certainly weren’t ready for us.
“Target that freighter and take it out,” she ordered. If the crew wasn’t prepared to surrender, there was no point in trying to board the ship. They’d probably try to self-destruct when the Marines arrived. “And then target any other freighter that looks like it’s trying to run.”
“Aye, Captain,” Roach said. He keyed his console. “Missiles away.”
Kat smiled. The freighter didn’t stand a chance. Two missiles slammed into its puny shields and it vanished into a brilliant fireball. The remaining freighters hastily started to power down their vortex generators, signaling surrender. All she had to do was destroy the cruisers . . .
“Captain, the enemy is targeting us,” the tactical officer warned.
“I can see that,” Ruthven snarled. Bringer of Word was dead—or close enough to dead that it made no difference. Captain Zed had always been enthusiastic about closing with the enemy, which was suicidal against a much larger ship. “Open a gateway and get us out of here.”
The helmsman swallowed audibly, but nodded. “Aye, Captain,” he ordered. A gateway blossomed to life in front of the cruiser, allowing them to lunge forward and dive into hyperspace. It closed behind them seconds later. “We’re clear.”
“Set course for the edge of the system,” Ruthven ordered. They’d observe the enemy formation for as long as they could while the courier boat hastened back to Admiral Junayd to make its report. The admiral wouldn’t be pleased about the loss of Bringer of Word; Ruthven knew he needed something—anything—to make up for that failure. “Best possible speed.”
He leaned forward, cursing under his breath. They’d failed; they’d lost the freighters, unless the enemy decided to be exceptionally foolish, and they’d lost the asteroids. The locals might remember who had looked after them, ever since they’d offered their submission, or they might remember the rape and decide the Theocracy’s promises weren’t worth anything. And if that happened . . .
The admiral issued the orders, he thought. But the admiral might choose to disavow them if he feels I acted wrongly. And then I will be blamed . . .
He shook his head. He’d done the best he could. Everything else, including his life, was now in God’s hands. And God helped those who helped themselves.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Admiral,” Captain Haran said. “A courier boat has just arrived from Ringer. The system was attacked.”
“Download the tactical report to my console, then call a staff meeting for one hour from now,” Admiral Junayd ordered. “And inform the fleet to be ready to move at a moment’s notice.”
“Aye, sir,” Captain Haran said.
Admiral Junayd nodded, then studied the tactical display thoughtfully. Verdean had been quiet since the fleet had entered orbit . . . which hadn’t stopped Inquisitor Frazil from calling down fire on a hundred targets over the last couple of days. In the absence of orders from any higher authority, Admiral Junayd hadn’t raised any objection. At least it looked as though they were doing something, even though it was largely pointless. The enemy resistance had faded into the countryside, just waiting for outside forces to liberate the system and reclaim the high orbitals. As far as Admiral Junayd was concerned, they could wait forever.
He pushed the thought aside, then frowned as the tactical report appeared on his console. The mystery spy, it seemed, had told the truth; the enemy had attacked the Ringer system and, as of the last report from the courier boat, had engaged both light cruisers. It hadn’t looked good, although Admiral Junayd was hopeful that the cruisers would have followed orders and evaded the enemy rather than sacrifice themselves in a display of futile heroics. And if the last update from Captain Ruthven was accurate, the locals might have a very good reason to sign up with the Commonwealth.
So the spy was telling the truth, he thought. And that means . . . what?
He scowled, rubbing his goatee thoughtfully. Spies could never be trusted fully, not when they’d betrayed their own side for money or power or whatever else made sense to a moronic spy. The fact the enemy had attacked Ringer was a point in the spy’s favor, but the enemy could be carefully trying to manipulate him into believing the spy¸ just so the crushing betrayal would be even more of a shock. Or the spy might grow frustrated with risking his life for nothing and give up if Admiral Junayd didn’t make a show of believing him. It was hard enough to guess at the actions of someone he knew, at least from the files, but harder still to guess which way a spy would jump. If only he knew the man . . .
There were just too many possibilities, starting with the simple fact that the enemy had launched another attack and would presumably be moving on to the next set of targets. As long as he was perpetually caught off guard, without ships in position to intercept, they could practically run wild throughout the sector. There was no reasonable chance of ever being able to catch them without the spy, but that was what bothered him. The spy was precisely what he needed, at just the right time. It suggested, very strongly, that it might be a trap.
But I don’t have a choice, he thought. I have to rely on the spy.
He keyed his console. “Order a squadron of light cruisers to prepare for departure to Ringer,” he said. It would take at least three days to get the squadron there, more than long enough for the enemy to finish destroying the system’s industries and pull out. But he couldn’t leave the enemy in place, not when Ringer held so many discontented citizens. Who knew what they could do if they had time and willing help? “And then start working up a sphere showing where the enemy might be.”
“Aye, sir,” Captain Haran said.
It was the same enemy flotilla, according to the reports. There had been no attempt to disguise Lightning, let alone her older companions. That suggested, very strongly, that there was only one squadron of enemy ships behind the lines. Quite apart from the logistics issue, he was sure the Commonwealth Admiralty would be reluctant to cut entire squadrons of modern ships loose for raiding missions, not when they needed them for screening elements and convoy escorts. God knew the Theocracy had the same problem. And that meant . . .
He activated the star chart and considered the matter, carefully. Commonwealth ships weren’t any faster in hyperspace, as far as he knew, than anything from the Theocracy. Logically, assuming the enemy had departed just after the courier boat, they had to be somewhere within a sphere centered on Ringer. It looked good, but the sphere covered over a dozen light years, an area of space so vast as to be completely impossible to search. Every ship in the combined navies of the entire settled galaxy could hide within that sphere and remain completely undetected, save by the most extraordinary stroke of luck. But it did offer one possibility, at least. He could say which worlds might come under attack next.
Aswan is probably out, he thought. But there are other targets . . .
His intercom chimed. “Admiral,” Captain Haran said, “the staff meeting will start in ten minutes.”
“I’m on my way,” Admiral Junayd said.
He rose, then copied his conclusions to his terminal and left the office, walking through the corridors to the briefing room. This time, thankfully, the Inquisitor was taking his spite out on the planet’s inhabitants rather than Admiral Junayd or any of his staff. He wouldn’t have had anything to contribute, Admiral Junayd was sure, but he knew from bitter experience that anything resembling a “secret” meeting would be reported to his superiors, who would take a jaundiced view of the whole affair. No doubt the fact he had a cleric and several intelligence officers attending the meeting wouldn’t be good enough, if his enemies caught wind of it.
Good thing we invited the bastard, he thought, as he stepped into the briefing room. He can’t complain he wasn’t invited now.
He smirked at the thought, then sat down as the steward served coffee before withdrawing into a side room. Captain Haran closed and locked the hatch, then put the reports from the courier boat on the main display. The staffers, none of whom had seen the
m, watched with grim expressions. There would definitely be enough blame to go around if their ultimate superiors decided so.
“The enemy has struck again,” Admiral Junayd said when the recording had finished. “This time, however, we may have an advantage.”
He keyed a switch, displaying the expanding sphere centered on Ringer. “We know they have to be somewhere within this region of space,” he said. “Every red world”—he tapped another switch, altering the display—“must be considered a possible target. Therefore, it is my intention to move the squadron to a position where we can respond quickly to any attacks within this sphere.”
And be ready to set an ambush if the spy gets back to us, he added mentally. He didn’t want to share any information concerning the spy with anyone who didn’t already know about him, not when it might lead to trouble. Even if he doesn’t, we will be in position to respond.
“We’re going to move to here,” he said, tapping a location on the display. “I want courier boats to head to each of the suspected target systems to inform them of our current intentions and to be ready to summon us, if the enemy attacks. Another pair of courier boats is to be dispatched to Aswan. Commodore Malian will need to be prepared to support our deployment, if we do run into the enemy.”
He paused. “Are there any points that should be raised before we continue?”
“Yes, Admiral,” Commodore Isaac said. “If we leave Verdean, we may miss a message from Aswan or any other systems that come under attack.”
“I will be leaving two courier boats here,” Admiral Junayd said. “There is nothing else we can do about the problem.”
He sighed, inwardly. It was a valid concern, unfortunately, even though he was fairly sure that Isaac was buttressing his position in case their superiors took a dim view of his decisions. In the time it took for his couriers to inform Commodore Malian of his movements, the enemy could attack another system or he could receive new orders via the StarCom. However, there was nothing he could do about it, save for remaining in orbit and not bothering to respond to any of the attacks. Even the Theocracy couldn’t change the tactical realities that had bedeviled humanity since the first scoutships had ventured into hyperspace.
Falcone Strike (Angel in the Whirlwind #2) Page 23