by Jay Allan
Jacobs took a deep breath, pushing aside the hesitation creeping into his mind. His people were professional military, sworn to fight Federal America’s foreign enemies. He didn’t like firing on a civilian vessel, even one suspected of engaging in illegal activity. But he’d ordered the ship to disengage its engines and submit to inspection of its cargo holds. Three times. And his commands had been met with total silence. He had no choice.
“All batteries open fire. Target their engines.” Jacobs knew the range was too great for precision shooting, but he said it anyway. It made him feel better.
“Yes, Captain.” A few seconds later Jacobs heard the familiar hum of Condor’s laser cannons firing.
“Stay sharp,” Jacobs said. “They may turn and try to fight.” He knew that was unlikely. The freighter—and at this point he had no doubt it was a smuggler’s vessel—was undoubtedly armed, but even so, it was no match for Condor. Still, desperation could make even a wild gamble seem sensible . . . and he hadn’t brought his ship through a dozen battles and six years of war by being careless.
“Yes, Captain. All scanners are on full. They’re still trying to get away. No indication they intend to turn and give battle.”
“Stay with her, Lieutenant. And maintain fire.” Condor was still at long range, which meant a hit would require a considerable amount of luck. Still, the frigate had four main batteries, and as long as they didn’t lose their target, they would almost certainly score a certain number of hits. Given time, it was simple mathematics.
“Yes, Captain.” An instant later: “Sir, the target is increasing the range. Readings suggest they’ve got their reactor at 110 percent, with all power going to the engines.”
“Increase thrust to flank, Lieutenant.”
“Increasing to flank, sir. All batteries maintaining fire.”
“Very well, Lieutenant.” Jacobs took a deep breath. Even with Condor’s force dampeners working on maximum, the g-forces would be uncomfortable at full thrust.
He stared straight ahead, trying to maintain his focus. But his mind drifted, and he found himself hoping the target wasn’t carrying a shipment of illegal weapons. He had orders to carry out in that eventuality, too, a directive that weighed heavily on his warrior’s honor. But Gregory Jacobs knew only one way. And that was to follow his orders, regardless of how he felt about them. Or how much they turned his stomach.
“Let’s keep it together, people.” Sergei Brinker knew his ship was in trouble, that his people were fast running out of options. But letting his crew lose heart wouldn’t improve things. And Brinker wasn’t ready to give up. However hopeless things looked.
And they looked pretty hopeless since a pair of laser hits had knocked out Wasp’s engines.
“Yes, Captain, but . . .”
“No buts, Chuck. Let’s get everybody armed. They’ve got us dead in space, and that means they’ll be boarding anytime now. We’ve got to hold them off, long enough at least for Rich and his crew to get the engines back online. Then we can make a run for it.”
It was sheer bravado on his part. Rich Tomlinson was a gifted engineer, one Brinker knew he was lucky to have. But he was just as aware that the federal frigate’s laser blasts had turned Wasp’s engines into a pile of half-melted junk. It would be a miracle if Tomlinson could get so much as a puff of thrust from the savaged wreck, and that meant finding enough power to get away from the federal ship was a pipe dream. Still, Brinker wasn’t the type to give up, not until he was completely out of options. He knew he was close to that, but not quite there.
Not yet.
“Yes, Cap.” Chuck Poole had been the first to sign on to Wasp’s crew, and he was completely loyal to Brinker. But loyalty and stupidity weren’t the same thing, and he clearly saw the writing on the wall. Still, he opened the weapons locker. He reached inside and grabbed an assault rifle, passing it to Brinker. Then he grabbed another half dozen or so and turned, handing them out to the five men and two women standing in Wasp’s cramped corridor.
“Okay, let’s get in position.” Brinker reached out and took an ammunition pouch from Poole as he spoke, pulling out a cartridge and slamming it in place. “They’ll most likely dock somewhere along the aft hold, where the hull is thinnest. So, that’s where we’ll wait for them.” Wasp had a crew of fourteen, but four of those were working on the engines, and Lynch was still on the bridge, ready to blast away at full if the repair crew somehow managed to restore full thrust. That left nine of them to protect the ship, to beat back the federal shock troops who would soon be pouring through the ship’s breached hull. And even a small frigate carried four squads of fully armed assault troops. Thirty-two soldiers plus a lieutenant in command.
Against nine of us.
He trotted down the corridor, ducking every few steps to avoid a conduit or low-hanging support. Wasp hadn’t been built for comfort, that much was obvious. A small trading vessel, she’d had an unremarkable career hauling ores . . . at least before Brinker upgraded the engines and scanner suite and launched her on a new career as a smuggler’s vessel. The upgrades increased the ship’s speed and ECM capabilities considerably, but they didn’t make her any bigger. And what space she had was dedicated to holding cargo, not to spacious hallways and comfortable lodgings for her crew.
Comfort was definitely the last thing on his mind right now.
Brinker glanced behind him as he turned a corner. His people were scared shitless, he knew that much. But they were all still with him. He could feel the defiance they had managed to work up, and he knew they’d put up a fight. He also knew, though, they were outgunned and, while he was ready to fight to the death himself—anything was preferable to a decade or more in a federal prison—he wasn’t prepared to throw away the lives of his crew. If the federals got a foothold on Wasp, the battle would be lost. The only hope was keeping the boarders pinned down, unable to press forward deeper into the ship. Maybe he could trap them somewhere, take them hostage and negotiate with the federals. It was a desperate plan, but it was all he had.
And with a couple squads of fully armed shock troops that isn’t going to happen.
He’d already decided. If the enemy got substantial forces aboard, he would surrender before he’d allow his people to be gunned down in a hopeless fight. The thought of a long prison sentence for smuggling horrified him, more even than death, but he told himself ten years wasn’t forever. Most of his people were under thirty-five. They could serve their time and still have productive lives when they got out. Even if opportunities for ex-convicts were rare in Federal America.
It beats being dead.
He heard a loud noise, a clang followed by a long creaking sound. He stopped and turned abruptly. “Down there,” he said, trying to sound calm as he pointed along the corridor. “Everybody grab some cover.” Again, though, with the cramped interior of Wasp, that was easier said than done. A few of his people opened doors and slipped inside the compartments, leaning out just enough to point their rifles down the corridor. The rest crouched behind structural supports or whatever other equipment was jutting out into the hallway. It was far from a strong defensive position, but any cover was better than nothing.
“And remember, we’re looking to pin them down, not kill anybody.” Gunning down federal shock troops was a good way to upgrade a ten-year sentence for smuggling to a trip to the scaffold. Assuming the rest of the federals didn’t just gun all his people down in revenge, that is.
The noise grew louder and steadier, and then a section of the hull glowed orange for a few seconds before it was blasted into the corridor. There was a pause, probably only a few seconds, though it felt like an eternity to Brinker as he waited for enemy troops to drop down into the corridor. But nothing happened.
A few seconds later he heard a loud crack, followed by another . . . and another. An explosion rocked the corridor. Then a second one. Stun grenades, he thought as he fell to the ground, his rifle slipping from his hand and clanging against the metal of the deck.
<
br /> We didn’t even hold them for ten seconds . . .
Then everything went dark.
Brinker stood just inside Wasp’s small wardroom, now hastily converted to a makeshift brig. Eleven of his people were penned in the tiny space with him, far more than the four or five it was designed to hold. Still, Brinker couldn’t help but wish two more were crammed in the tight quarters. Nills and Cortez. He’d been disoriented when he first woke up, and it took him several minutes to clear his head and figure out which of his people were missing. He’d hoped the two men had just been wounded, that they were someplace being treated for their injuries. But that thought had been short-lived. Several of the others had seen what happened.
Cortez had ducked behind a bulkhead, largely escaping the effect of the stun grenades. He managed to get off half a dozen rounds, and hit one of the federals in the arm. At that point, the invaders returned fire, and he took a dozen shots to the head and body. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Nills had recovered while the federals were still dragging the crew members to the wardroom. He made a grab for one of their weapons, but he wasn’t fast enough. There were several versions of the story making the rounds, ranging from the federal shooting him in self-defense to a cold-blooded execution. Brinker knew things like that morphed with each retelling, but all that mattered to him now was the one consistent vein in each story: Layne Nills was dead.
Brinker put his hand on his head. The aftereffects of the stun grenades weren’t pleasant, and the headache he had almost defied description. But the pain of losing two crew members was worse, all the more because he blamed himself.
I should have surrendered. I knew we had no chance. But I had to put up a fight . . . a fight we couldn’t win. Damn, I’m so stupid. I convinced myself we could hold out, at least for a while. But against federals? Fucking delusional. They swatted us away like so many flies. And now Nills and Cortez are dead.
He moved toward the door—and found that to be a challenge. He’d twisted his knee when he fell, and there was a sharp pain in his leg with every step he took. He tried his best to ignore it. He was determined to speak with the federal commander. He’d gotten two of his people killed, but now he was going to do what he could for the rest of his crew. Maybe, just maybe, he could convince the feds the crew was innocent, that they had all believed Wasp was carrying a legitimate cargo. Deep down he knew it was hopeless—the federals wouldn’t care, and by the laws of Federal America, simply being a member of the crew constituted guilt—but he was grasping for anything right now.
Hell, doing something was better than just waiting for their fate. Maybe that explained his idiotic decision to try to put up a stand—
Suddenly, the door slid open, and two federal shock troopers came in, one of them with what Brinker recognized as a noncom’s stripes on his arm. They stared at Wasp’s crew for a second, and then the corporal said, “Let’s go, one at a time. Form up in single file in the corridor.” He turned and looked toward Brinker. “You first,” the soldier said, pointing at Wasp’s captain.
Brinker stared back for a few seconds. “Where are we going?”
The private moved forward and grabbed Brinker’s arm, ignoring the question. “Let’s go,” he said again, pulling hard and shoving toward the door.
The captain fought back the urge to struggle. His pride had already cost his people too much, and now he was resolved to cooperate. “Okay,” he said, biting down on his anger. “I’m coming.”
The soldier loosened his grip slightly, but he still pushed Brinker forward. They moved through the door and down the corridor. Wasp’s captain turned his head and took a look behind as his people were hustled out of the wardroom and into a rough line behind him before the corporal barked, “Face forward!”
The soldiers led them from Wasp’s crew facilities down to the cargo hold, pushing them through the large bay doors once they arrived. One by one, they were lined up against the wall while another group of soldiers, as well as two men in naval uniforms, stood around staring at a row of open shipping crates.
Crates full of assault rifles and grenades.
“Yes, Captain,” one of them said, speaking into a small handheld communicator. “We’ve got at least a thousand guns here, plus ammunition, grenades. Pretty sophisticated stuff. Definitely a gunrunner heading for Alpha-2, sir.”
Brinker felt a cold feeling as reality closed in on him. Smuggling guns carried a mandatory ten-year sentence. Minimum. And his people had resisted, fired on federal soldiers. They hadn’t killed any of them, but that still meant more time, maybe even twenty years total.
He’d been thinking about it all in general terms for the past hour or so, but now it really began to hit home. Federal penal camps were notoriously harsh, with rigid work schedules and brutal discipline. Worse, he was self-aware enough to know he didn’t do well with authority. It would be a challenge for him to hold his defiance in check, to keep his head down and do his time. Because if he didn’t, at the very least he’d see years added to his time. And at the worst . . .
“Yes, sir . . .” The naval officer’s voice was stilted, uncomfortable. “I know, Captain. I understand there is no choice.” Then a pause. “Yes, sir. At once, sir.”
The officer turned toward a noncom clad in black body armor, gesturing toward the prisoners.
“Sir.” The sergeant looked like a grim veteran, but he, too, seemed uncomfortable, and Brinker wondered what was going on. The sergeant paused, just for a few seconds. Then he turned and snapped out a series of orders to the soldiers standing next to him. They formed into a line facing Wasp’s crew.
Brinker watched as the naval officer moved forward, and he felt a wave of nausea as cold realization gripped him. No, it can’t be. Not without even a show trial . . .
“Attention, crew of the freighter Wasp.” The officer’s voice was strong, but somehow brittle, too, despite his best attempts to hide it. Not that Brinker gave a shit about the federal’s discomfort. But he could only stand there as the officer continued. “You are guilty of smuggling weapons to traitorous forces on the federal colony of Alpha-2. Pursuant to Special Order 374-A5, I hereby pronounce a sentence of summary execution, to be carried out immediately.” He sucked in a deep breath as soon as he finished. Then he turned toward the detachment and croaked, “Proceed, Sergeant.”
Brinker stared back in stunned shock. He’d been trying to accept the prison sentence he’d expected, but now these soldiers were going to shoot him . . . and all his people. Right here. Right now. He felt a wave of panic, but fought it down, knowing he somehow had to stand firm. There was nowhere to go, no way to escape. Still, he had to try something. For my crew . . .
“Lieutenant,” he said, staring at the naval officer with as much firmness as he could muster. “My crew knew nothing of the weapons. The cargo was my doing, not theirs.” Brinker knew he was dead, but if there was a chance—any chance—to save his people he had to try.
The soldier in command of the detachment looked at Brinker, but he didn’t respond. He turned and glanced toward the lieutenant, who responded to the look with, “You have your orders, Sergeant.” The lieutenant continued to ignore Brinker, his eyes fixed on the noncom, avoiding eye contact with any of the condemned men and women.
“Yes, sir.” The soldier turned and stared down the line his squad had formed. “Ready,” he said, his tone forced. The soldiers pulled their weapons up, holding them out in front of their bodies.
“Aim.” The sergeant turned and stared back at the lieutenant, his eyes focused on his superior’s, as if begging for a reprieve. But the naval officer simply stared back and nodded grimly.
“No, please . . . please!”
Brinker’s head snapped around, looking to see which of his people had made the futile plea. But he never found out.
“Fire,” the sergeant said, his voice choked with emotion. And his men obeyed, opening up on full auto. The volley was ragged. Some of the soldiers had hesitated, and one or two
had failed to fire at all. But when the guns fell silent a few seconds later, the wall and floor of Wasp’s cargo hold were awash with blood.
And every member of her crew was dead.
Sasha Nerov sat in her chair, silently staring at the viewscreen in shock, just like everyone on Vagabond’s bridge. She’d ordered the readings checked three times, but they still told the same story. Wasp was gone, blasted to atoms by the federal ship’s laser cannons.
“Maybe they took the crew back to the frigate . . .” It was Griff Daniels, but it didn’t even sound like he believed what he was saying.
“No,” Nerov said softly. “If the federals had arrested them, they would have needed the ship and cargo for trial.” She was struggling to keep her voice calm, steady. “No . . . they killed them. They killed them all.”
She felt a pang of guilt for not going to Wasp’s aid. Her rational mind tried to fight it, to tell herself it wasn’t her fault. She knew the only thing that would have changed if she’d charged in was that Vagabond would now also be a cloud of plasma, her crew as dead as Wasp’s. She had done her job, kept her people alive. But all she could see was Sergei Brinker’s face, looking back at her with that wide, slightly mischievous smile of his.
She pushed back the sadness, forced herself to focus. Wasp was gone, nothing could change that. Vagabond was her concern, and she knew her ship was still in danger. She wanted to get away from here, to crank the engines up to full power and put thousands of kilometers between her and the debris cloud that had been Wasp. But she knew she couldn’t do that. Not now. Not without putting her people at greater risk.