The Prisoner of Eldaron: Crimson Worlds Successors II

by Jay Allan

  Forgiveness is one thing, difficult perhaps, but attainable. But how does one overcome irrelevance?

  “Skipper, I’m getting energy readings from the Wolf-441 warp gate.”

  Marne snapped his head toward Durham, feeling his stomach clench as he did. “Full power to scanners, Cal. It’s probably nothing to worry about, but let’s make sure.” Marne didn’t believe that. He didn’t believe it for a second.

  * * * * *

  “Scanning report complete, Captain. It appears to be an Atlantian freighter—a fairly large one, approximately 150,000 tons displacement.” Lars Treven’s tone was mundane, professional, but it was lacking enthusiasm. Atlantian ships tended to be poor prizes. Other than an occasional shipment of some of the more sought-after of its pharmaceutical exports, the planet’s freighters were barely worth attacking.

  “All hands to battlestations, Mister Treven. We have ourselves a target.” Ivan Yurich held back a smile at Treven’s lackluster tone. He knew his first mate was expecting a mundane cargo from the Atlantian ship, one that would barely cover the expedition’s costs. But Marne knew better.

  He had been Black Viper’s captain for ten years, the first six as an independent pirate, and the last four as a member of the Black Flag Syndicate. He’d enjoyed being answerable to no one, but finally the Black Flag had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse—stunning upgrades for his ship at no cost and an ongoing intel feed leading him to the richest targets in Occupied Space. His recruitment hadn’t been all carrot, though. Significant stick had been in evidence as well, especially when his contact assured him, without any detectable emotion, that he’d walk out of their meeting a member of the syndicate…or with a bounty on his head so large, every pirate and adventurer in Occupied Space would be after him.

  His ship’s name had simply been Viper then, becoming Black Viper when she bowed to the nomenclature of the shadowy organization. His new allies—masters?—had been true to their words, and the value of his ship’s prizes had increased dramatically. The Black Flag organization had provided access to better venues to sell booty as well, and even after kicking 40% of the take upstairs, his profitability was way up, more than double what it had been in his days as an independent.

  The massive increase in prize money had other advantages as well, not the least of which was recruiting quality crew members. He’d managed to ease out some of his less capable people over the last few years, and now he had more veterans of the various navies than ever before. That made his crew old—anyone who had served in a Superpower’s navy was at least in his mid-fifties—but he found it to be a worthwhile trade. Younger crews were harder to control and more likely to do stupid things, while his combat veterans had lived long enough to appreciate a good situation. Black Viper ran much like a naval vessel, and that discipline showed in its extraordinary record of bagging major prizes.

  Here was another example of the perks of being part of the Black Flag. Yurich didn’t think much more of Atlantian prizes than his first mate, but he’d been assured there would be a freighter in Epsilon-14, one carrying a cargo of enormous value. Stable trans-uranium elements, a treasure beyond gold, beyond jewels. It didn’t seem likely that an Atlantian ship would be carrying such a load, but four years of flawless intel had made a believer out of him. And it dovetailed with the vague rumors he’d heard that the Atlantians had discovered a source of the precious material somewhere in their solar system.

  “The contact is sending us a message, Captain. They are identifying themselves as the Atlantian freighter Carlyle and requesting our ID.”

  Yurich allowed a little of the repressed smile slip onto his lips. He loved the chase, enjoyed watching his prey slowly figure out the danger…and then try to flee. He hadn’t been particularly bloodthirsty as pirates go—it was more the excitement of the hunt that appealed to him, and he’d often allowed the crews of his targets to flee in whatever lifeboats or escape pods they had. But that was the past. The Black Flag had a few rules that were sacrosanct, and one of them was that no one got away. A valuable hostage might be taken here and there, but otherwise everyone got a bullet in the head or went out the airlock. Yurich had been uncomfortable with it at first, but he shocked himself with how quickly he’d adapted to being a cold blooded killer.

  “Let her wonder who we are, Mister Treven. Bring us closer. Not a direct route, nothing that will make her bolt immediately.” He knew the freighter’s captain would be edgy to begin with, and the lack of a response to his communique would only make that worse. Pirates weren’t common in Epsilon-14, but neither was commercial traffic. It was only a matter of time—and not much of it—before his target blasted its engines and made a run for it. But that was of no account. Black Viper had thrust capacity no freighter could match. If she ran, Yulich’s ship would catch her. But it would be an easier raid if he could get closer before his prey took off.

  Yurich looked down at his screen, calculating a course that would get his ship nearer without looking like it was closing to attack. “Three gees thrust, coordinates 076.098.223,” he said.

  “Three gees, 076.098.223,” Treven snapped back. “Commencing now.”

  Yurich heard the roar of Black Viper’s engines and felt the pressure pushing against him as his ship accelerated. “Activate needle guns.”

  “All needlers report ready, Captain.” Black Viper had two laser cannons, but they were strictly for use in emergencies, when the ship found itself facing a dangerous opponent. The heavy weapons were too powerful, too indiscriminant for disabling potential prizes. Yurich’s ship had its needle guns for that. The needlers were a pirate’s weapon, thin, tightly focused beams designed to disable a ship without damaging its cargo.

  Yurich stared at his display, watching the thrust slowly alter his ship’s vector. If the Atlantian vessel hesitated another few minutes, Black Viper would be on her before she could do anything about it.

  “Reading thrust from the enemy ship, Captain. I’d estimate somewhere between 3g and 4g.” Treven lowered his face to his scope, and he paused for a few seconds. “It looks like they’re blasting almost directly away from us…back toward the Atlantia warp gate.”

  Damn. This captain is on the ball. And that’s a lot of thrust for a freighter.

  “Change course to directly pursue. Increase thrust to 5g.” Five gees would make everyone on Black Viper profoundly miserable—and it would degrade their performance too. But he didn’t have any intention of letting that ship escape back to the Atlantia system. Not with the cargo he knew she had on board. This prize was worth a dozen normal raids, and Yurich was determined to get her.

  * * * * *

  “The vessel is changing its thrust vector, Captain. They are blasting directly toward us.” Durham looked up from his workstation toward Marne. “They’re accelerating at five gees, Captain.”

  A cold feeling gripped Jackson Marne’s gut. Carlyle was maxed out just above 3g, and that meant she wasn’t going to make it back through the warp gate before the pirate caught her. And Marne didn’t have a doubt in his mind it was a pirate chasing them.

  “Arm all weapons, prepare to engage.” His naval instincts took over, and he felt the exhilaration he’d experienced years before, when he’d served on one of the Alliance’s cruisers. But he’d been a junior officer then, with little responsibility beyond following orders. Now he was in command…and Carlyle was no Alliance warship. A pirate ship that could pull five gees was probably strong enough to defeat any freighter, even one as well-armed as Carlyle.

  “Weapons armed, Captain.” Durham’s voice was shaky. Unlike Marne, Carlyle’s first mate had never served on a naval vessel, never encountered a pirate in his years on various freighters. Marne could see his number two was trying to muster his strength, just as he imagined the rest of the crew was doing. He knew one or two of his people had survived a pirate encounter before, but to his knowledge, he was the only naval veteran aboard.

  Which is bad…because we’re likely to get boarded. And
that means combat at close quarters.

  “Cut thrust, and bring us about.” There was no point in running…they weren’t going to get away. And if it came down to a fight, Marne preferred his people focused, not half out of it from carrying three times their weight around. Besides, he knew the enemy would try and target Carlyle’s engines, and with no thrust he could try to protect them, keeping the front of his ship toward the pirate. Maybe his people could score a lucky shot, damage the enemy enough to give them a chance to make a run for it.

  Maybe, but probably not…

  “Engines disengaged,” Durham said, struggling to sound confident. “Positioning adjustment complete. The ship’s bow is vectored toward the approaching vessel, Captain.”

  “Range?” Marne damned well knew the range…it was on his own display. But he wanted to keep Durham focused on his duties, with as little time as possible to ponder their scant chances of success in the conflict now unfolding.

  “Eighty thousand meters, Captain. Enemy approaching at approximately one thousand meters per second.”

  Marne took a deep breath. That was close range for military vessels, and one thousand meters per second was a crawl to the ships the Superpowers had used to fight their wars. But it was fast for pirates and the freighters upon whom they preyed, and eighty thousand meters was extreme range for Carlyle’s two double-turreted laser batteries.

  “We open fire at 60,000 kilometers.” Marne knew he had one advantage, and one only. The pirate had to take his ship whole, and that meant he had to disable Carlyle’s engines and weapons with their needle guns. Marne was under no such restrictions. He would be just as happy to blow the pirates to hell, which meant he could fire his heavier laser turrets at least 20,000 kilometers farther out. Carlyle’s guns weren’t warship turrets, but they were heavy weapons for a freighter.

  “Seventy thousand kilometers. The enemy is still on a direct course. Decelerating now.”

  Of course. Zipping past us won’t serve them. They need to board or their attack is a wasted effort.

  He flipped his com unit. “Rand, are you and Jager ready?” Carlyle’s two gunners were jacks of all trades, men from the regular crew who’d been trained to fire the defensive batteries. It was far from ideal in a battle situation, but it was all a freighter could afford.

  Still, they’re coming right at us. Rand and Jager should be able to rely on the AI for plotting. This pirate probably doesn’t expect that we’ve got two double turrets. Get ready for a surprise...

  “Yes, Captain,” Rand replied. “We’re ready.” His tone implied anything but.

  “Stay focused, both of you. I know you can do it.” A lie, but a useful one. His two makeshift gunners needed every bit of confidence they could get.

  “We are, Captain.”

  Still shaky, but maybe a bit better…

  “Sixty thousand kilometers, Captain.” Durham turned and looked toward Marne’s chair.

  Marne met his gaze and uttered a single word.

  “Fire.”

  Chapter 2

  Martian Council Chamber

  Beneath the Ruins of the Ares Metroplex

  Planet Mars, Sol IV

  Earthdate: 2319 AD (34 Years After the Fall)

  “My family has served the Confederation as long as there has been a Confederation. My great-great grandfather, Preston Vance, came here on the first colony ship. A Vance has served on this council as long as it has existed…and today, I stand here before you, and for the first time in my life, I am ashamed of that legacy. I never thought I would live to see the day this council would allow itself to be led by cowardice.”

  Roderick Vance stared around the room. The faces had different expressions, mostly variations on shock and surprise, though a couple were straight outrage. He knew his words had been direct, provocative. He’d been trying to get somewhere with his colleagues for months now, and his time and patience were at an end. This was his last attempt, to shock them into action…before he took far more drastic steps.

  Katarina Berchtold was the only one who’d managed to maintain her poker face. Either she wasn’t angry at Vance’s harsh words, or she was hiding it well. Vance hadn’t though much of Berchtold years before, during the crises preceding and in the aftermath of the Fall, but he had to admit she’d gotten wiser as she’d aged, and she was quite capable now. He imagined she understood his theatrics were intended to force some kind of meaningful response, and she had decided not to tip her hand. He had no idea where she stood on the issue, and that alone showed him how formidable she had become.

  She looked like she was about to say something, but another voice intruded. “Your words are outrageous, Mr. Vance, and I for one have no intention of tolerating your abuse. This is the ruling council of the Martian Confederation, not some room full of peasants and supplicants…and you will treat us with the respect we deserve.”

  Vance didn’t know what Berchtold was thinking, but he could read Boris Vallen like a book. Sebastien Vallen had been a longtime ally of the Vances, both Roderick and his father before him—and one of the few people Roderick had truly trusted, something that did not remotely extend to Sebastien’s difficult and egotistical son.

  I give you all the respect you deserve, Boris. None at all. Your father’s death was a terrible loss, and all the more so because he left such a pathetic creature to fill his enormous shoes…

  “We are past hurt feelings, Mister Vallen. I have no time to indulge your delusions of self-worth, nor to fence with you over etiquette.”

  Be careful…don’t make this a fight between you and Boris. That won’t help…

  “We are facing a crisis that I believe is the most dangerous to threaten us since the Fall itself.” Vance stared coldly at Vallen. “I’m sure you all remember the price Mars paid in that terrible event…and the horrors endured by the scattered survivors on Earth. Even now, three decades later, we remain deep underground, living in the tunnels our ancestors scratched out of the Martian landscape more than a century ago. The magnificent cities of the Confederation? The wondrous domes and the soaring architecture that spoke proudly of a Martian future? Gone, shattered…half buried under the encroaching red sands.”

  Vance’s voice was deep, determined. He had secrets, plans and more plans, but his words were nothing but the truth. No Martian over forty years of age could help but recall the beauty of the surface cities, the great buildings that were now abandoned ruins under the broken domes. Vance had been the head of Martian Intelligence, then as now, and he’d failed to stop the disaster. He’d tried, fought as hard as he thought he could, but it hadn’t been enough. This time he had sworn to himself he would not fail, whatever he had to do.

  Whatever I have to do.

  “Mr. Vance,” Vallen said, his voice quivering with rage, “I, for one, am tired of your dire warnings, of your endless lecturing on what actions we must take. You offer no evidence, other than a destroyed base on Eris. Perhaps you have uncovered nothing more than a slaving ring, a common criminal enterprise. Odious, a horror that stuns the sensibilities? Yes, certainly. A crisis that threatens the Confederation? Doubtful.”

  Vallen paused, glancing around the table, clearly trying to gauge the sentiment of the others. “May I remind you,” he said, “it was on your watch that the enemy ship was allowed to approach Mars thirty years ago. It was you who sent our space fleet into battle in the outer system, exposing us to the nuclear attack that collapsed the domes…and drove us underground to live the best way we could in these dark and depressing tunnels. Now you…”

  “The tunnels are well-lit, Mr. Vallen…and I believe your estate, underground as it is, has some forty rooms. Decorated, I might add, with half a dozen Old Master paintings imported from Earth by your great grandfather and somehow saved from the surface destruction…a fate all the more noteworthy since at least a dozen of your family’s servants were not so fortunate.”

  It was wildly off-topic, but he had to discredit Vallen any way he could. The servants c
omment was particularly below the belt. Sebastien Vallen had been the family patriarch then, and Vance knew perfectly well he had ordered all of the family’s staff underground before the bombs landed. It was the major domo, a man who had served the Vallens for almost sixty years, who had sent them back to retrieve the family treasures. He also knew the elder Vallen had felt guilt and regret about what had happened until the day he died, and he’d ordered the precious artworks stored away so he never had to look at them again. Vance doubted the great man’s son felt the same way…Boris Vallen had returned the paintings to the walls two days after his father’s death.

  “You can attempt to divert the discussion with lies about my family, Mr. Vance, but the fact remains. Your intelligence operation failed to warn us of the impending attack. You had dispatched our fleet to the outer system, laying us bare to the enemy. And we have paid the price for your failure for thirty years.”

  Vance didn’t usually pay attention to Vallen’s comments, but his adversary was hitting close to his weak spots. He might argue with Vallen’s accusations—indeed, he knew the situation had been extremely complex three decades earlier, when the fateful events had occurred. He had not left Mars defenseless. Gavin Stark had managed his attack only because his forces had developed a virtually undetectable class of stealth vessels…and he had used one to sneak into orbit and launch the surprise attack. Still, Vance blamed himself, and he’d regretted that day for three decades. Indeed, it was one of the things driving him now, pushing him to desperately make his case. Roderick Vance might carry his regrets to his grave, but he’d be damned if he would allow another disaster…not while he still lived.

  Vance took a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm. He and Vallen were trying to goad each other, and the one who lost his temper first would make his adversary seem more reasonable by comparison. “I will not spar with you endlessly, Mr. Vallen. Your father understood facts, he listened to reason. You do not. You may hurl your accusations at me as long as you wish. Indeed, I still carry my regrets of those fateful days so long ago. I still remember staring up at the domes, at the jagged remnants still standing and the lifeless streets and broken buildings that had been Ares City hours before. I recall the tumult, the desperate efforts to get our people underground, to minimize the losses from the devastation. We saved 97% of the population that day…saved our people. I was there, in the middle of it all.”