There was a long pause, then she started to list the dead. “Commander Alum Roebuck, Lieutenant Commander Angelica Ossa, Lieutenant Gage Mosher . . .”
She finished the recital, then bowed her head. “Let us not forget them,” she said, quietly. “Dismissed.”
The crew saluted, then headed for the hatches. Kat waited until the last of them was gone, then looked down at the list of dead men and women again. She’d watched people die before, knowing there was nothing she could do to save them, but this was different. She was the squadron commander, the commodore, even though she wouldn’t hold the rank in anything more than name, and those deaths were on her hands. Maybe she hadn’t killed them herself, maybe she hadn’t fired the missile that had blown their ship to dust, but she couldn’t help feeling as though she’d murdered them personally. They had died following her orders . . .
“Captain,” the XO said gently. “It never gets easier.”
“That’s a good thing, I suppose,” Kat said. She didn’t want to think about the number of innocent civilians who were dead on Verdean, either through her bombardment or the retaliation she knew the Theocracy would launch. Their deaths, too, were on her hands. “But I can’t help feeling responsible.”
She shook her head, tiredly. What sort of mind would cold-bloodedly plot a war? Or deliberately launch a surprise attack on an enemy world that would be sure to make the war completely merciless? Or even crush prospective allies because there could be no room in the galaxy for two competing belief systems? It was absurd, she sometimes thought; how could anyone accept a single religion dominating the entire galaxy? And yet, she’d studied the Theocracy’s past. Their enemies had tried to strangle their religion in the cradle. They had good reason for wanting to secure their position by all means necessary.
“You cannot help it,” the XO said. “Everyone on the squadron understands the dangers, Captain. We all know we may die out here, with no one to recover our bodies, but we accepted the risks when we donned the uniform. The universe is not a safe place at the best of times.”
“No,” Kat agreed morbidly. “It isn’t.”
She cleared her throat, pushing her doubts, fears, and all-pervading guilt to the back of her mind. “I assume you spoke to the observer?”
“She wishes to remain on the ship,” the XO said. “Her mission, apparently, has not yet been completed.”
“Brave or foolish,” Kat said. “What do you make of her?”
“She has a job to do,” the XO said. “And it wouldn’t sit well with her superiors if she took the easy way out, or you kicked her off the squadron. My homeworld expects one to roll with the punches, not waste time denying they ever happened. She might not have expected to end up here, but . . . well, she did. My people wouldn’t respect her for not making lemonade out of the lemons someone handed her.”
Kat took a breath. “Then she can stay here,” she said reluctantly. It would be easy enough to contrive an excuse to send Rose MacDonald home, but it would be obvious that it was nothing more than an excuse. “As long as she isn’t causing trouble.”
“I don’t think she’d earn respect by causing trouble, not in the middle of a war zone,” the XO said drolly. “And you’d have every excuse to put her in the brig until the ship returned home.”
“True,” Kat agreed. She gave him a sidelong look. “Assemble a meeting of the command staff in the briefing room, twenty minutes from now. Ship commanders can attend via hologram. I’ll be here until then.”
The XO frowned, then saluted and walked through the hatch, leaving her alone. Kat held herself steady until she heard the hatch close, then sat down in front of the dais and stared down at the black coffin. It was symbolic, nothing more than a place to center one’s prayers, yet it was important. Humans needed something to represent the dead.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. She’d barely known any of Juno’s crew. Sure, she’d had dinner a few times with Commander Roebuck, but there hadn’t been time for more than a handful of exchanged words. They’d spent more time planning the operation than getting to know each other. “I wish I’d known you better.”
But was that actually true? Perhaps it was easier to plan a war, or even a military operation, when one regarded the officers and crew as nothing more than numbers, statistics entered in the red ledger of the dead. A single death was a tragedy—she knew she would weep for her XO, or Davidson, or even Emily Hawking—but a million might be a statistic. Perhaps there would come a time when she looked upon the death of a dozen worlds, with populations numbering in the billions, and feel that they were a worthy sacrifice, their lives meaningless when weighed against the greater good.
And if that happened, she asked herself silently, would it make her a stateswoman—or a monster?
She looked down at the black coffin for a long moment, wondering if there was anything out there. Tyre had no organized religion, unless one counted the earning of wealth and the acquisition of political power. Who cared what someone chose to worship when they could be trading with you? She hadn’t been raised to worship anyone, or anything; the whole concept seemed odd to her. And yet, there was a certain consolation in believing that there was an afterlife, that the dead hadn’t simply blinked out of existence. She wanted to believe it was true . . .
But how can I, she asked herself, when humanity has used such beliefs as an excuse to slaughter?
The Theocracy had soured her on the concept of organized religion, but it was only the most recent offender. It hadn’t been that long ago that the Church of Quantum Life had murdered over thirty thousand people on Terra Nova, convinced that the planet’s beliefs were warping the universe and killing everyone. And then the UN had battled jihadists, Earth Firsts, Green Power, and too many strange and terrible sects to number. And then the pre-space world had seen millions slaughtered in the name of religion, all the way back to the start of human history itself.
She shook her head, then rose and headed for the hatch. There would be time to sort through her doubts later, perhaps even discuss the matter with someone she trusted. For now, she had a mission, one she could not afford to abandon. And if others died . . .
. . . she would just have to cope with the guilt, once the mission was over. There was nothing else she could do.
William knew he would never say it aloud, but he understood precisely what the captain was feeling. She was young, lacking in the seasoning that had taught him that shit happened, no matter what one did to prevent it. He knew she’d acquitted herself well, as commanding officer of Lightning, yet this was her first experience of squadron command. Losing a whole ship had to hurt, even though it hadn’t been her fault. Only a fool or a politician could seriously expect to go to war without losing ships or lives.
He couldn’t help feeling a flicker of relief as she walked into the briefing room, looking composed. Maybe she’d stopped off in her cabin long enough to wash her face if she’d shed private tears, or maybe she’d lost the habit of crying years ago, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she looked presentable and determined to carry on the mission. Anything less would have undermined crew morale and threatened their future successes.
“Be seated,” she ordered flatly. She tossed an ironic look at the holograms floating at the rear of the compartment, then took her seat at the end of the table. “Commander?”
William cleared his throat. “We have successfully transferred the prisoners, liberated workers, and others to the freighters,” he said. “They will be departing to the Reach within the hour, taking with them a copy of our findings so far. Admiral Christian and his intelligence analysts will be happy, no doubt, with the chance to finally start putting details into our charts of enemy space.”
The captain nodded. “If any of you have messages you wish to send, bearing in mind that they will be read by the censors first, feel free to add them to the datacores being transferred to the freig
hters,” she added. “Make sure your crews have the same opportunity. It will be several months, at least, before we return home.”
If we ever do, William thought. He’d heard enough, during his detachment from Lightning, to know just how bloody-minded and vindictive the Theocracy could be. Commonwealth forces had singed the enemy’s beard and the enemy would want revenge, something horrific and ghastly enough to make anyone else think twice about trying to raid behind the lines. The plan was to force them to send ships after us, rather than press the offensive against Admiral Christian, and now they have all the incentive they need to do just that.
His lips quirked. Being chased by half the ships in the enemy’s fleet had sounded like a good idea when they’d thought of it . . .
He glanced at the captain, then pressed on. “We have also reloaded our missile tubes, having expended a considerable number in the recent battle,” he continued. “So far, we don’t have a serious shortage, but we should probably be careful when it comes to expending more missiles than strictly necessary. We may be able to capture enemy weapons, but firing them from our tubes is simply impossible.”
“Not that easy to do, in combat,” Commander Kent pointed out tartly. “Weapons usage has always been well over prewar predictions and that’s something we have to bear in mind.”
“True,” the captain agreed. “However, I would prefer not to enter energy range if it could be avoided. The enemy ships will quite likely have better armor than most of our squadron.”
William nodded in agreement. “The engineering crews are considering ways to alter enemy missiles so we can use them, but it comes with a great many risks,” he said. “For the moment, be careful.”
The captain smiled thinly, then leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “The enemy knows we’re here now,” she said. “They may know we hit the convoy, they may know we hit the penal world . . . but they definitely know we hit Verdean. Right now, warnings are probably echoing across the sector, telling their planetary defenses to beware of an enemy fleet.”
“If they’re willing to admit that something’s gone wrong,” Commander Jackson offered. “It would make them look very bad to have us running around in their rear.”
“They’d have to be idiots to just let us get on with it,” William said sharply. “And while they may be ruthless bastards, they’re not idiots. We have to assume the worst.”
The captain nodded. “Which means we don’t have time for elaborate raids any longer,” she added. “Get in, smash the targets, and get out again. They will attempt to position their ships to catch us; statistically, the odds are in our favor, but they only have to get lucky once. I don’t think I need to remind you that a single enemy superdreadnought is more than capable of reducing this entire squadron to dust and ash.”
She took a breath, then pushed on. “I intend to hit Ringer, as planned,” she said. “The industrial base there is smaller, but it’s a vital part of the sector’s economy. However, it’s quite likely that they’d put it right on the top of suspected targets, which is why we need to move fast.”
William nodded, then watched as she keyed the star chart and focused it on Ringer.
“Three days from here to Ringer . . . we can get there, if we’re lucky, before word reaches them. That said”—she brushed her hand through her hair—“we will scout the system, as always, and if the defenses have been augmented we will fall back, hopefully without revealing our presence. Mermaid will, as always, serve as our spy.”
Commander Yale leaned forward. “Commodore,” he said, “attacking Ringer will cause a considerable amount of hardship for the locals.”
“That’s not our concern,” Captain Bannister snapped. Her hologram glowered around the compartment. “The locals are working for the Theocracy; willing or unwilling, we cannot allow it to continue. If we offer to take them with us and they accept, that’s fine; if not, we cannot allow our concern for them to hamper our operations. We are at war.”
“They’re not Theocratic civilians,” Commander Yale pointed out. “They are, at best, citizens of an occupied state.”
“Then they’re either working at gunpoint, in which case they should be relieved to have us liberate them, or willing collaborators,” Captain Bannister said firmly. “I don’t think I need to remind you that the penalty for collaboration is death. There is a reason for that beyond the simple desire to punish them for their crimes.”
“No, you don’t,” the captain said. She tapped her fingers on the table, then leaned forward decisively. “We take them alive, if we can, and if not . . . we won’t allow sentimentality to stand in our way.”
She paused. “After that . . . we will need to consider our next target carefully,” she added. “I want you all to study the data, then pick a target that is unlikely to be defended—and, at the same time, somewhere worth hitting.” She smiled rather sardonically. “If, of course, such a place actually exists.”
William frowned. He had his doubts. So, it seemed, did the captain.
“We will depart within the hour and pause at a new waypoint, a light year from Ringer,” the captain concluded. She waved a hand at the star chart, banishing it. “That will give us time to decide on the next target, then plan a coordinated strike. We may need to divert the enemy by attacking several targets at once—it’s a shame they don’t have StarComs—but it can be done.”
She paused. “Dismissed.”
The holograms saluted, then blinked out of existence. One by one, the officers left the compartment until only William and the captain remained.
“There won’t be many targets that fit the bill,” he said softly. “Quite a few of the worlds here are useless, at least as far as the war effort is concerned. Hitting a purely farming world is nothing more than pointless spite.”
“Then we will have to hope that kicking the Theocracy off a planet is a worthwhile goal in itself, as well as forcing them to keep reasserting control,” the captain said. She sighed. “It will be costly, but we have no choice. Aswan is too heavily defended to take out without a battle squadron of our own . . .”
“We do have a number of their freighters,” William said slowly. An idea had occurred to him. “If we were to capture some antimatter or mining nukes, we could turn one of the ships into a suicide craft. Get through the defenses, dock at the central station, and BOOM.”
“They’d have to be insane to let the ship dock,” the captain said. She cocked her head, thoughtfully. “Even Admiral Morrison wasn’t that stupid. They wouldn’t let the ship dock without checking her out thoroughly first. We take such precautions ourselves.”
“Yes, but they don’t know there’s a threat,” William said. “Even a complete failure, with the bombs detonating harmlessly, would force them to spend as long as it took examining every freighter in the sector. It would be costly as hell.”
“True,” the captain said. She smiled at him. “God knows we had problems after the first raids on Tyre.”
William nodded. The commandos had been down for months, perhaps years, before the wars had begun, but the War Cabinet had been forced to order every freighter entering orbit to be carefully inspected before it was allowed to dock. Nothing had been found—nothing from the Theocracy, at least—yet it had caused everything from minor delays to contract defaults and colossal expenses. If there hadn’t been a war on, there would likely have been a riot by now.
“See what we can find at Ringer,” the captain said. “And until then . . . thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” William said. “It’s what I’m here for, Captain.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Reminds me of home,” Lieutenant Lars Rasmussen said. “Only my home colony had a giant planet far too close to us.”
“And a place where you could get what you needed, if you couldn’t make it for yourself,” Midshipwoman Grace Hawthorne pointed out. “Ringer had no cont
act with anyone until the Theocracy arrived, the poor bastards.”
Lars nodded. Quite a few of the first asteroid settlements had been founded by people seeking political or religious freedom, a tradition that had continued ever since the first scoutships had ventured into hyperspace in search of new places to live. Ringer, according to the scant details in the files, had been settled by a group that had wanted to completely isolate itself from the rest of humanity and, to make sure it was left alone, had carefully picked a system that was of little interest to anyone else. A handful of asteroids, a couple of comets, and little else; it was a closed system in more ways than one. No one had visited the system, as far as anyone knew, until the Theocracy had arrived.
And the locals must have been horrified, he thought, when they realized just who had found them.
He pushed the thought aside, then examined the sensor readings. Ringer was a combination of old and new technology, some dating all the way back to the pre-space era, others clearly produced within the last decade. It wasn’t uncommon for asteroid settlements to go back to the basics, which were easier to repair, but Ringer had to have received help from outside to keep up with the times. He couldn’t keep himself from wondering if the locals had experienced some contact with the rest of the sector before the Theocracy arrived, even though the files suggested otherwise. Asteroid settlers tended to be technically proficient—they had to be, just to keep their settlements alive—and Ringer’s settlers probably had skills the sector needed. The Theocracy certainly wanted them.
“Two cruisers,” he muttered. The bright red icons were impossible to miss; it looked, very much, as if the enemy starships were making it clear they were there. “And a handful of defense platforms.”
Falcone Strike (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 2) Page 22