“That’s nice,” said Sanchez wistfully. “Not him hating you, but for a person to love someone else that much—it’s a good feeling.” It suddenly occurred to her that Carr could hear everything she said. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter at this—
Sanchez abruptly sat up straighter in her seat. “What was her name?”
Acree looked up from his work. “Pardon?”
“His wife—Dr. Varma’s wife. Did he ever mention her name?”
“Oh, yes. It was Valerie. I remember because of the alliteration—Valerie Varma, don’t you see.”
“Ship!” shouted Sanchez.
“Yes, Pilot.”
Sanchez took a deep breath before speaking. “Ignition password—Valerie.”
“Password invalid.”
“Ignition password—Valerie Varma.”
“Password invalid.”
“Dearest Valerie. Valerie, dearest. Valerie, my darling.”
“Password invalid,” insisted the computer.
Dr. Acree closed the panel to the area he was working on. “Ship,” he called. “Ignition password—I love Valerie.”
“Password accepted. Ignition sequence commencing.”
Sanchez pumped her fist and wanted to hug Acree, but there was no time. “Carr, get your butt inside.”
There was no reply. She pressed the earbud harder to her head, but heard only silence.
“Carr, do you copy? Get inside—come on, quit messing around, let’s go!”
Adrenaline surged through Etta Sanchez’s body. She was just about to unbuckle her seat harness when Frank Carr’s voice came into her ear.
“I’m in—go, go, go!”
Sanchez lifted off amid a hail of gunfire as the Gerrhan Marines rushed toward the shuttlecraft. The Aquila DX was billed as one of the fastest personal shuttles on the market, and it didn’t disappoint. The nimble ship sprinted upward, urged on by its skillful pilot, breaking the atmosphere in mere minutes from liftoff.
“You don’t have to show off,” came a voice from behind her. Sanchez shifted in her seat enough to see a weary Frank Carr come into the cockpit. Beads of perspiration were running off his shaven head, his complexion more pale than usual.
Acree rose, allowing Carr to sit in the co-pilot’s seat. “Take off your coat and shirt, and let me take a look,” said the scientist. As Carr sat down, Sanchez saw what the fuss was about—blood was seeping through Carr’s jacket.
“Gods—Frank, are you all right?” she gasped.
“I got clumsy,” said Carr as he gingerly removed his jacket. He had been shot in the shoulder. Acree grabbed the cockpit’s first aid kit and helped his wounded rescuer remove his shirt.
“Ow! Watch it, will ya, Doc!” yelled Carr in pain. “You’re a scientist, not a doctor—be careful.”
“Actually, Mr. Carr, I am both,” the older man said as he applied disinfectant to the wound. “I was a physician before I went back to school to earn my degree in quantum physics. I have a lot more letters behind my name than you do, young man, so sit back and let me do my job.”
“Young man, he-he,” snickered Sanchez.
As the Aquila sped away from the planet Kition, a picture of what was happening in space began to form on the shuttle’s info screen.
Sanchez enlarged the holographic map. Dozens of icons pulsed, showing the warships of both sides as they jockeyed for position. “Man, it’s cluttered out there.”
Carr winced as Acree applied an antiseptic swab to his wound. “Any hostiles nearby?”
“A Gerrhan corvette is on an interception vector with us but they’re too far away to catch us.”
The ship AI broke into the conversation. “Pilot, you have an incoming transmission from Kition Space Control.”
“Ignore it,” snarled Sanchez.
“Will comply. You also have an incoming transmission from the CSS corvette Zhukov.”
“Ignore that, too. In fact, Ship, ignore all transmissions from any Commonwealth vessel or facility.”
“Understood, Pilot.”
Sanchez glanced over at Carr, who didn’t look so good. He seemed to be weaving in and out of consciousness now. “Talk to me, Doc,” she said.
“He took a bullet in the shoulder, but there’s no exit wound. We need to get him to some sort of medical facility to have it removed. I’ve given him a mild sedative from the med kit for the pain.”
“Where are we headed, Etta?” asked Carr, drifting back into awareness for a few moments.
Sanchez was scanning a list of Union vessels in the system. “We need to find a friendly. One with a nice sick bay for you would be ideal. Oh, hey! Look who’s in town,” she said, enlarging a portion of the Eupraxa system map.
“Tempest,” said a shaky Carr. “Looks like Chaz is a little busy right now to catch up on old times.”
“I think this is our best bet,” she said focusing on a cluster of Union warships holding position some thirty-million klicks distant near the Leopold Gate. As she glanced over at Carr, she saw that he had gone under.
“He will rest comfortably for a while,” said Acree, kneeling next to his patient. “But we really should get that slug out of him as soon as possible. Ms. Sanchez, can we reach those Union ships?”
She nodded. “It will take a few hours, but we can make it—provided they don’t move, or a Gerrhan force doesn’t jump into realspace between us. Or…”
“Or?” asked Acree.
“Or they don’t just blast us into tiny pieces when we finally do reach them. Let’s hope they recognize my mission code.” As she put the ship on course toward the icon marked Paladin, Sanchez ordered the Aquila AI to establish a private comm link with the Union battleship.
“This is Oscar Mike India Eight Zero Niner calling Union warship Paladin—please acknowledge, Paladin…”
33: Scorpion
Planet Amutria
Eupraxa system
Three weeks later
Sunny Nyondo was possibly the most overqualified shuttle pilot in history, but Chaz Pettigrew wasn’t complaining. The captain had asked Tempest’s chief pilot to fly him to a meeting with Fleet Admiral Maxon. It was a reward of sorts for her, seeing as how the conference was being held near one of the great wonders of known space—the Rings of Amutria.
The Rings, as most people simply called them, were one of the most fascinating and beautiful sights in the Renaissance Sector. Amutria was the eighth world in the Eupraxa system, traveling through space some two billion kilometers from Gerrha. Wrapped around the ice giant were not one but two sets of majestic rings, whose unique forty-five degree angles and beautiful hues drew sightseers from throughout human space—or at least they used to. Since the Union incursion three weeks ago, tourism had fallen off considerably.
The Battle of Eupraxa lasted just over five standard days. Enemy warships guarding the Commonwealth capital system threw themselves against the Union vessels and their shield technology. In the process, the Gerrhan homefleet was annihilated. Days later, the Commonwealth Space Service mounted two separate counterattacks, but in both instances, the attacks were erratic and poorly coordinated. Enemy ships arrived at Eupraxa in haphazard fashion and were either cut to pieces by the Sarissans or forced to jump out again.
Sixth Fleet’s attack on the Dijana system had gone even better, despite gloomy early reports. Now, three weeks later, Union raiding parties were venturing into the remaining six Commonwealth systems, destroying secondary shipyard facilities and seeding sensor drones to monitor enemy activity. Humanity’s mightiest starhold—fat, happy, and supremely self-possessed—had collapsed into chaos in a matter of weeks.
The price of victory was high. Seventh Fleet had lost seventeen of its original thirty-three warships. Most of the losses were unshielded destroyers and frigates, but the cruisers Serquet and Jian had also been destroyed, along with the battleships Temujin and Charybdis. Over four thousand Union spacers had died in the battle, with another thirteen hundred dead at Dijana. In total, twenty-five percen
t of the Union’s deployable deep space tonnage had been destroyed. Back home they were calling it a great victory.
It never feels like victory, thought Pettigrew. His Task Force 19 had lost Sinopa and Brigand in the encounter against the Gerrhan cruiser Nobunaga, with 194 total dead, including his longtime friend, Aaron Gambell.
“Coming up on the Grand Weichert, sir,” announced Nyondo over the shuttle intercom.
Union forces had commandeered the Grand Weichert Orbital Resort for Seventh Fleet headquarters, much to the displeasure of Weichert Corp. The space station was a luxury resort hanging high above the planet Amutria, a playpen for the fabulously rich to gaze down upon the Rings and escape the pressures of being excessively wealthy. Most of those people were gone now, and the five-star accommodations and gourmet kitchens of the Grand Weichert served the Fleet Admiral and her staff.
Pettigrew entered the cockpit, plopping himself down in the co-pilot’s seat. Nyondo was relaxed and leaning back in her chair.
“Station control is guiding us in, Skipper. Nothing to do but check out the sights.”
The Rings were as beautiful as advertised. Jutting at opposite forty-five degree angles, they looked like they had been placed there by some divine being in order to restrain the colossal Amutria—celestial bonds for the formidable ice giant.
As their shuttle approached the station, Pettigrew and Nyondo could see the mobile shipyard Lares nearby. It had recently arrived to repair damaged Union vessels. In the distance, tugs were maneuvering what remained of the Commonwealth battleship Bolivar. SUSF engineers would be going over her with a fine-tooth comb, looking to steal any tech or design secrets.
There were also some non-Union friendlies floating about near Grand Weichert. Six ships of the Threnn Mandate had arrived to reinforce their new allies, the Mandate having entered the war on the side of the Union shortly after the Battle of Eupraxa. There was also a small crescent-shaped Earth frigate station-keeping near the resort facility. Rumor had it that an EarthFed military delegation was aboard.
“Everyone loves a winner,” remarked Pettigrew cynically as the shuttle slid into a docking bay.
* * * *
Chaz Pettigrew and Sunny Nyondo parted ways on the shuttle deck. The lieutenant commander wanted to sample the food at one of the Grand Weichert’s many gourmet restaurants, most of which were forced to remain open for the pleasure of Union officers during the occupation. The staff was being paid handsomely for their services during the Sarissan’s stay, although it was made clear to them that they could leave whenever they wished. Fleet Admiral Maxon insinuated that the method of their departure would be via an airlock, so no one on the resort staff had elected to abandon their post so far.
As Pettigrew crossed through the main lobby, his senses were overwhelmed by the sheer opulence of the place. Statuary and fine works of art decorated the immense foyer. Lush interior gardens supported a wide range of colorful plants as waterfalls operated in the artificial gravity behind them. Huge transparent pillars supported the four-story high ceiling as glass elevators rose and fell softly within them.
Adding to the majesty of the grand hall were the large banners that decorated the walls—vertical blue and gold banderoles displaying the Sarissan Sun, emblem of the Union. For any remaining staff or guests, it was a not-so-subtle reminder of the new reality.
There were also numerous flags containing a different logo—the personal standard of Channa Maxon. Flowing orange banners sporting the blood red silhouette of a tamaquan, pincers upraised and stinger extended. Tamaquans were animals native to Maxon’s homeworld, Tezrina. They were similar to an Earth scorpion, except that they were about the size of a dog. The creatures once roamed the deserts of Tezrina by the millions until humans hunted them to near extinction. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but Pettigrew found the grandiose display of Maxon’s personal standard somehow… unsettling.
The captain wasn’t the only one gawking at the Grand Weichert’s splendor. He noticed that many of the officers around him were also wide-eyed, including a group from Fifth Fleet, freshly arrived from the Rousseau system. Maxon had called in Admiral Padilla’s forces to cover Seventh Fleet’s losses. Even with the attrition she had suffered during the Battle of Eupraxa, following the arrival of reinforcements the Supreme Commander still controlled an armada of twenty-six warships, including three battleships.
Later that afternoon, Pettigrew was ushered into the Fleet Admiral’s office by one of her staff. The room was constructed much like everything else onboard the station—it was extravagant and immense. Behind her desk was a backlit aquarium standing some six meters high, the curved silicate glass doubling as a wall.
“May I express my condolences on the loss of Admiral Carson, ma’am,” said Pettigrew as he slid into an overstuffed chair.
“Thank you, Chaz. He was a good friend, but Carson was not cut out for field command—not like you and I. Still, in many ways, he had a brilliant military mind. That plan of his to confuse the enemy by releasing mimic drones during the battle—pure genius.”
Thank you, ma’am, thought Pettigrew, choking back the impulse to explain that Carson had stolen the idea from him. Let the man have his glory—it will be his last.
“This is yours,” said the admiral, pulling a small box from a pocket of her uniform and tossing it to Pettigrew. As he opened it and removed the rank insignia, Maxon added, “Congratulations, Commodore Pettigrew.”
Pettigrew looked down at the single silver star he held in his hand. “Not sure I deserve this. I lost two ships and a great many good people.”
“Ships can be rebuilt,” said Maxon with a dismissive wave of her hand.
But lives can’t.
“This promotion is long overdue, and you’ve more than earned it,” she continued. “Have you heard the latest news?”
“No, I’m sorry—what news?” asked Pettigrew, shaking himself from some momentary gloom.
Maxon leaned back and threw one leg up over the other, striking a confident pose. “The administrators of Halcyon Starport have declared it an open station.” An open station meant that the facility had abandoned any effort to defend itself, and the victorious military could just move in.
“Have you sent in Marines yet?”
“Not yet. We’re waiting on a team from the Ministry of Culture to document the handover so we can broadcast it planetside to Gerrha and Kition.” Pettigrew understood—Maxon was waiting on a propaganda squad in order to put a good spin on the ‘liberation’ of the starport.
“What about Boudicca Station?”
“Still holding out,” she answered with an annoyed look. “They’ll surrender soon—or starve to death. Not sure I care which, just so we get that orbital fortress.”
When Boudicca fell, the Union would control everything in Eupraxan space. The people on the surfaces of Gerrha and Kition would effectively be stranded on those worlds. “You won’t try an assault on Boudicca?”
Maxon shook her head slowly. “No—I don’t want to create any more martyrs for a Gerrhan resistance movement to rally around. Most of the actual fighting is over, Chaz. The struggle is now for the hearts and minds of the Gerrhan people. The next step is to quarantine those planets, let the Ministry of Culture work on them, and cut some deals with planetside military leaders. I’ve already reached out privately to certain key officers in the Gerrhan leadership. Surely one or two of them would like to be a general in the Union army someday.”
The new commodore shifted uncomfortably. Space superiority was one thing but building a political peace was something else, and bribing enemy generals to become collaborators might not be enough. The Union may be engaged in a guerilla war on these worlds for generations. Pettigrew clasped his hands together and leaned forward in his chair. “Are we so sure we’ve won, Admiral?”
Maxon smiled. “The Commonwealth Space Service has been reduced to a few dozen operational ships, and we’ll hunt them down in time. They have no working repair facilities left
, and no other starhold will give them assistance for fear of Union retribution. We’ve won, Commodore Pettigrew. The blockade and quarantine of this system is now our biggest priority.”
It all seemed true, but Pettigrew always felt uncomfortable when those around him seemed too confident. Who knew? The citizens of Gerrha and Kition could turn out to be heartier souls than they were being given credit for. It could take years to subjugate those worlds.
There was another concern he had been mulling over, and this seemed like as good a time as any to raise it. “Admiral Maxon, what do you think the Jangsu Worlds are going to make of all of this?” The mysterious and isolationist Jangsu were considered one of the three Great Powers of the Renaissance Sector, though now it seemed perhaps that number had been reduced to two.
Maxon issued a command to the office AI. “Computer, display images from file Intruder Alpha—voice authorization Maxon, Channa.”
Floating above Maxon’s desk, a series of images began to appear which showed a small spaceship. Maxon eyed Pettigrew as he surveyed the pictures.
“A Jangsu scout ship—Sokol class by the looks of it,” he said softly, shifting his eyes from the images to his commanding officer’s face. “Here? In system?”
“Parked just inside the heliopause. It’s a stealthy craft, but they’re not making any attempt to hide themselves. The bastards want us to know they’re watching. This ship is too fast to catch, and if we got close, they’d just jump into hyperspace. Believe me, I’d have them destroyed if I could.”
“Destroy a neutral ship, ma’am?”
Her eyes flared. “They’re violating our sovereign space. The Eupraxa system belongs to the Sarissan Empire now.”
Empire? Pettigrew’s expression betrayed his surprise at her choice of words.
“Oops, my slip,” she chuckled. “Oh well, I consider you a trusted officer—a trusted flag officer, no less.”
She’s reminding me that I’m beholden to her for my promotion.
“Ma’am?” He’d learned long ago that when you didn’t know what to say, don’t say anything.
The Rampant Storm Page 28