Renegade

by Joel Shepherd

  The Ensign led him to some big doors off a wide, polished hall, scanned in her ID, then gestured Erik to enter as the door hummed open. Within was a large office, displays on the walls all deactivated, and two big porthole views of the slowly rotating starfield outside. Behind the table, Supreme Commander Chankow himself — broad, moustachioed, hair unnaturally dark for even the healthiest of older men. About the same age as the Captain had been, Erik recalled, walking to the desk directly opposite the Supreme Commander and standing to attention, helmet under his right arm. He’d been a carrier captain for ten years, followed by rapid promotion up the ranks of High Command. Pantillo had no doubts of his abilities, and rarely spoke ill of higher ranks in front of lower ranks. But if he had something good to say about a higher rank, based on personal experience, he’d never hesitate to offer it. Erik could not recall him ever saying anything good of Chankow.

  “Lieutenant Commander Erik Debogande, UFS Phoenix, reporting as ordered sir.” To either side of Chankow, also seated, were two more bigwigs — both Rear Admirals. The nametags read Ling and Iago. Erik recognised neither — Rear Admirals in big HQ centres were like middle management in big corporations. Everyone had more than they knew what to do with, and no one knew what they were for. Elsewhere about the room, four marines, all armed in light kit, helmets replaced with caps. Guards, all enlisted, no officers. That was odd.

  “Lieutenant Commander,” said Chankow. “Please sit.” Erik did so. Chankow considered him for a moment. Serious, but was there a faint trace of amusement beneath those dark brows. Erik’s heart, which had been quite controlled, now began to thump unpleasantly. “First of all, let’s do away with this charade. We know all about what happened on Homeworld. Your Captain is dead. You killed him. You then violently escaped from lawful Fleet detention, killing another ten service personnel in the process, escaped to your warship, then ran from Homeworld System firing upon and damaging the warship UFS Annalea, thankfully with no further casualties.”

  The shock was like diving into freezing cold water. But even as it hit him, Erik felt something else. Hatred, pride, defiance… he wasn’t sure what. Only that if these men thought he was going to go down easy, they were about to learn differently.

  “We have no record of your ship’s activities after leaving Homeworld,” Chankow continued. “I can only hope you haven’t murdered more of your comrades in arms, from your ship or others. You’ve got quite the balls coming here in your very fast ship. But you don’t have quite the monopoly on very fast ships that you thought you did.”

  Alo, Erik thought. It had to be the alo. He recalled the alo ambassador confronting them on the dock yesterday. Only alo ships could match Phoenix for speed — there must have been one at Homeworld that knew of the situation at Heuron, and came straight here. But what was the alo’s stake in this? Were they invested with the chah'nas power-grab in human space? To what ends?

  “And please, don’t even think about making some stupid move for your weapon,” Chankow continued. He nodded to one of the room’s marines. “This here is Master Sergeant Afraz, off the combat carrier Mercury.” No surprise there, thought Erik, recalling the Mercury’s Captain confronting them up at hub dock. “He’s one of the best shots in the Fleet, and he’ll see you dead before you unholster your weapon.”

  “I have no doubt,” said Erik, with a respectful nod to Afraz. The veteran warrior’s stare was impassive beneath his cap brim, his rifle easily in hand, ready to rise and fire in a split second. “But you’re not the only one with marines, Commander. I did not violently escape from Fleet custody on Homeworld as you state — I’m not that good a soldier. That was Major Trace Thakur, Distinguished Service Star, Legion Medal, three Valorous Hearts, multiple Campaign Medals, Diamond Star and Liberty Star… and hear this, Master Sergeant,” as Chankow opened his mouth as though to interrupt, “and tell this to every marine on Mercury and beyond — I was not the one who started shooting, she was. I was going to let the legal process play out, but she saw that Fleet HQ had stitched us up, had murdered her Captain and framed me with it, and she busted me out single handed. Find the security footage from those holding cells, that will confirm it.”

  “This is not a court room in which to argue your case!” Chankow barked. “You will drop this pretence at once!”

  “Fuck you, you snivelling piece of shit,” Erik snarled. “You want me to drop this pretence? Very well, let’s drop it. Fleet Command murdered my Captain. That means you. I mean to see you killed. Make a move against me, or against Phoenix or any of my people, and they’ll put a warhead through this portion of station rim and vacate it to space.”

  Deathly silence in the room. “You’re a traitor!” exclaimed Rear Admiral Iago.

  “I’m not the one who murdered Fleet’s greatest hero in cold blood,” said Erik. “For politics. Furthermore, you’ve made an enemy of one of the heirs to one of the greatest industrial empires in human space. You have no idea the shit you’re about to be dropped in. I know for a fact there are senior Fleet captains on our side, they’ve told us so. Captains with powerful friends. Watch your backs, boys. Major Thakur told me all about karma, and you’re about to get yours.”

  It was lies and bluster, but it seemed to have an effect. And there may well have been captains on Phoenix’s side, or about to be, given the chance — captains like Captain Lubeck of UFS Chester in Argitori who’d caused trouble by querying Abigail, trying to find out what the hell was going on in defiance of orders. And if the admirals thought that having marines in the room was a good idea… well, let the tales about Major Thakur spread through their ranks for a few weeks and months, and watch these bastards sweat, and watch their own marines nervously. Now he just had to live long enough to see that happen.

  Chankow smiled humourlessly. “Erik,” he said. First name, as though speaking to a child. A calculated insult. “Where do you think you’ll go?” Erik said nothing. He wasn’t about to give Chankow clues. “Firstly, you’re nothing like the pilot and captain that Pantillo was. What chance do you think you’ll have now? With our entire Fleet chasing you?”

  “You think you can trust all your captains to chase me? Good luck.”

  Chankow snorted. “You think everyone loved Pantillo as much as you? Half of Fleet thought him a meddling fool. Fleet captains follow orders, but Pantillo? No boy, your Captain took liberties. He reinterpreted orders to suit himself and his crew, often he skipped orders he didn’t like entirely. Only this… crazy media-inflamed status, this ‘hero of the fleet’ nonsense kept him from being busted back down to Lieutenant, or worse.”

  “I know you’ve got your cronies,” Erik said coldly. “They’re not the ones you should worry about. Plenty did like him, and if you keep all of them away from chasing me, they’ll notice, and gossip and whisper behind your back. If you’re going to chase me, you better catch me quick, because I’ll spread the word about what you’ve done, and the longer you leave it, the more it will spread.”

  They couldn’t take Phoenix here, Erik reckoned, thinking furiously. Shooting at a combat carrier with anything big enough to damage it meant a weapons lock first. Phoenix would sense it and fire back, leading to mayhem. Such engagements would certainly damage station and take collateral lives. And they had no way of knowing that his bluster about Phoenix being instructed to fire on this Fleet HQ section of the rim was bluster.

  They could kill him here and Phoenix wouldn’t know about it for a while at least… but if they couldn’t take Phoenix quietly, it wouldn’t advance their position. Boarding Phoenix by force was impossible. It would have to be from the dock, since assault shuttles would be quickly killed by close range defence, and good luck getting through Phoenix’s marines, with or without their Major. This here was a standoff.

  “You haven’t thought this through,” said Chankow. “You speak of your family as though they’re an asset to you. You don’t understand the stakes here at all. Your mother is not the only voice that matters in the family company. She coul
dn’t risk it all to save you even if she wanted to. She has a multitude of board members, executives, shareholders. They can overrule her if they have to. Most of that business comes through Fleet at some point. I can assure you boy, we have much more power over her than she has over us.”

  Erik smiled. “You think you can lecture me about my own mother? You have no idea how she operates. She doesn’t posture and shout. If she moved against you in any way, you’d never know about it. And don’t think for a second you can threaten me with my family’s safety. They’re better protected than you are, especially now.”

  “And yet,” Chankow said drily, gesturing to the room. “Well protected as I am, here you sit. Sworn to kill me. Face to face. Things happen, Mr Debogande. To anyone.”

  Trace, Erik thought. Currently on PH-1, flying out to Faustino. He leaned forward. “Let me tell you what will happen if you put an intercept on Major Thakur, or shoot her down. Firstly, Phoenix marines will storm this station and kill you. Secondly, Mercury marines, perhaps even Master Sergeant Afraz here, will let them.”

  He looked pointedly at Afraz. Afraz’s expression had changed, from hard purpose to a concerned frown. Thinking on it. And by no means denying the possibility. Seeing it, Erik felt his confidence soar. He’d only speculated before, how other marines would react to Trace’s involvement. Now he saw it with his own eyes.

  The Supreme Commander saw it too, then pointedly ignored it. But when he spoke again, he spoke a little too fast. “Major Thakur will be unmolested for now. As will you, and as will your ship. At least allow your objecting crew to deboard, if you will not see reason. Surely you have heart enough for that.”

  “I have no objecting crew,” Erik retorted. He disliked this lie more than the others. Some lies were tactical, but this lie felt dishonourable.

  “The Major is on her way to Faustino,” said Chankow, eyes narrowed. “Why?” He didn’t know about Stanislav Romki, Erik thought.

  “Tell me,” he said to change the subject. “Now that you’ve sold out the human race’s security to chah'nas interests, will you send chah'nas after us too?” Chankow glared at him. Perhaps he’d expected a scared and spoiled young brat. Clearly he hadn’t expected this. “When did you think to tell everyone? You’ve been sitting on this deal for over a century, haven’t you? When did you agree to let them clean out Merakis for you? A world that we won, with our blood? What do they get next? Your balls in a jar? Liberties with your wife?”

  Chankow got out of his chair and leaned on the table, his face like thunder. “You listen to me you pipsqueak,” he said with menace. “You have no idea what you’re playing with. This galaxy we’ve inherited is nothing like you’ve imagined, and if you threaten the plans we’ve made to keep humanity safe, forces beyond your dreams will crush everything in their path to get you and everyone you hold dear. Do you understand me?”

  Erik got to his feet. “Perfectly, Commander.” He turned his attention to Afraz. “Master Sergeant. I don’t know if you’ve ever met Major Thakur. If not, ask after those who have. Ask them how likely it is that she’s been led astray by some junior command officer with a rich family.”

  “That will be all, Mr Debogande!” Chankow insisted.

  “Ask them how likely it is that she’s lying,” Erik continued. “Ask them if she’s ever done anything for personal advantage, or served any cause but the human cause. And don’t let these jumped up, spineless brass hats intimidate you into not asking more questions. And if you do ask more questions, watch your back. If they can murder my Captain, and thirty Phoenix crew at Homeworld, they won’t stop at marine Master Sergeants.”

  He turned his back on them, opened the door, and left. And walked down the hallway outside, half expecting an alarm, or a crash tackle, or a thunder of running boots, but nothing came. He’d never before thought it good to be underestimated, but on this occasion it might have saved his life… and other lives besides. Now to get back to Lieutenant Dale, and hope like hell that someone didn’t change their mind and blow Trace out of the sky.

  26

  At any other orbital period, Faustino could have been up to a three day trip. But they were lucky, Faustino was on the near side of Heuron V, and at a constant 2-G acceleration and turnover, PH-1 was going to make it in just under six hours. It was a heck of a long time to run a shuttle’s engines, and lying still for anything over an hour at even 2-G was difficult. At turnover, their speed was getting dangerously fast for a sub-light insystem run, and various vessels gave them non-verbal com-squawks, the sub-light version of two cars on a long distance highway flashing lights to warn of hazard. In this case, the hazard was them, but no one was going to reprimand one of UFS Phoenix’s shuttles verbally for violating lane regs.

  Barely an hour out, Phoenix gave them a com burst of their own — no message, just a tight-beam alarm that suggested nothing good. Someone was listening, that meant. If they were listening so closely that they’d break Phoenix encryption, it meant HQ were onto them. Trace thought about it as she lay strapped to the seat, subconsciously flexing one muscle group after another against the ongoing strain. If HQ were onto them, it could only mean Erik was wrong, and word from Homeworld had beaten them here. That HQ hadn’t shot them out of the sky suggested… well. She didn’t know, and shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

  “Hausler,” she said, putting both arms up, working the muscles against their double-weight. “Any Fleet ships heading for Faustino?” She could see PH-1’s scan feed on her visor, but the pilots up front could see a lot more.

  “Major, there’s just the five civvie ships inbound,” Ensign Yun answered for her pilot. As frontseater, she ran scan and weapons directly. “You think it’s a trap?”

  “I always think it’s a trap. That’s why I’m still alive.”

  “Supreme Commander Chankow has an appearance problem,” said Hiro Uno. Lisbeth’s ex-Intel bodyguard had joined PH-1 before departure, along with Second Section of Alpha’s Second Squad — Lance Corporal Walker plus three more marines, giving them an even dozen including Trace. Hiro made thirteen, dressed only in civvies with a Phoenix jacket and whatever gear he’d brought from Homeworld. “If he’s onto us, the only reason he hasn’t moved is appearances. He can’t share that information with many other people. If he moves against you Major, without a damn good reason, he could risk a mutiny of his own marines. And he can’t let them in on that information.”

  “Why not?” asked Staff Sergeant Kono.

  “Because the only ship that could get here that fast from Homeworld is an alo ship,” said Hiro, his voice a little more strained against the Gs than the marines. “That implies a much closer working relationship between Fleet HQ and the alo than anyone knows. Alo don’t run errands for anyone, not even Supreme Commander Chankow. Revealing the information also reveals the source.”

  Which was the kind of thing a spy would know, Trace thought. “You operated in Heuron before, Hiro?” she asked him.

  “Yes. It’s a ticking bomb.”

  “That might have been nice to know before we came here,” Kono growled.

  “A ticking bomb set to blow in about ten years,” Hiro added. “We thought. We were wrong.”

  “If you’ve anything else to tell us that you haven’t yet,” Trace added. “Now would be the time.”

  “Fleet have had contingencies in case of Worlder uprisings for the past three decades at least,” said Hiro. “What we’re seeing here isn’t rushed. But non-Fleet intelligence has told Fleet that they’re not the only ones with contingencies.”

  “What did Fleet say to that?”

  “They didn’t listen. Fleet have their own Intel, they didn’t trust us much. One reason why I left — Federal Intel is a dead end, no access to anything that matters. Fleet kept a lid on us.”

  “What do you expect to see happen here?”

  “To judge from what your journalist friend told you? Could be nasty. I hope Fleet have fully inspected every non-Fleet vessel attached to all the stations. Would
n’t want a nuke to go off.”

  Silence in the shuttle, save the howl of engines and the rattle of restraints and armour. “That would be interesting,” Kono deadpanned. “Faustino might actually be safer right now.”

  Soon Trace didn’t need magnification to see Faustino clearly — a straight rear feed showed it huge and getting huger at an alarming speed, dull silver in the light of a distant sun. PH-1’s engines roared and shook in their target’s direction, blurring the visual with thrust, decelerating them down from a velocity that would have made a thermo-nuclear sized impact at its peak. It was the thing that Worlder civvies and new marines struggled to get their heads around about combat in space — velocity was energy, and velocity ate up distance at an exponentially accumulative rate. Warships put explosive heads in most ammunition only so armscomp could terminate misguided rounds — for killing targets the explosive was redundant, it was velocity that killed the target irrespective of armour. If your engines cut out at peak velocity in a 2-G push, after three hours of constant acceleration, you became the ammunition, travelling at speeds to give rifle bullets nightmares.

  A quarter-orbit descent showed them various bases and settlements across the moon’s broken ice-crust, lights gleaming far below. Hausler received clearance from a wary-sounding Crondike traffic controller, still approaching backward to wipe off the excess V. Doubtless some bureaucrats down there were already writing up the complaint to Fleet HQ about hotshot shuttle pilots. They were only five klicks out when Hausler finally turned them around, never having deviated from the 2-G decel, and let Faustino’s low gravity arc them down toward the settlement ahead.

  Crondike was a circular sprawl across the ice, like a dark island upon a fractured, silver sea. Somewhere beneath it, mining shafts descended to vast mineral deposits below. Buildings were low, squat and unglamorous, all pressurised and insulated against the airless cold. Landing lights blinked upon the periphery pads, and Hausler descended toward one, engines lightly humming in low-thrust relief after their long effort. Some big gas haulers sat upon neighbouring pads, bulbous tanks full from a maze of pressurised pipes and tanks beside them. Small bus shuttles arrived at a nearby pad, underside thrusters glowing faintly, all they needed for lift to carry passengers from one base across the frozen lunar surface to another.