by Jay Allan
For some reason, knowing she could try to save them made her feel better.
The elevator doors opened, and she walked down the hall, slipping through the open bridge entry. “Get me Captain Nerov.” She looked over at the trooper manning the comm station as she sat in the command chair.
“On your line, Colonel.”
“Sasha . . .”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“We’re going to be boarded in less than fifteen minutes. You and your people should make a run for it. The federals are all converging on the station. If you whip around the planet and head off into deep space, you might just make it.”
“Colonel . . . my people are ready to fight alongside yours. We—”
“No, Sasha. It’s pointless. I’d accept if you could make a difference, but . . .”
She didn’t want to say “we’ll all die anyway.”
“Then get your people back on Vagabond. Maybe we can all escape.”
“I can’t do it, Sasha. We’re Havenites, all of us. We joined the rebellion with ours eyes open. We can’t run now, not while our comrades are down there, hiding in the woods, praying for our success.”
The line was silent.
“Go, Sasha. Your people dying won’t accomplish anything; it will only add to the tragedy.” She paused, glancing over at Holcomb. “And I want you to take Dr. Holcomb with you.”
The scientist had been engrossed in his work, but now he looked up. “No, Colonel. I’m not going anywhere. I’m close. I designed half these systems, and I know I can get past this security—”
“There’s no time, Doctor. You’ve got to go. Now.”
“No, Colonel. I’m not leaving.”
Morgan was about to argue when Sasha’s voice blared through the com. “We’re not leaving either, Colonel. We took a vote: all of my people want to stay and fight alongside yours. We’ll win together . . . or we’ll all die together.”
Morgan felt a wave of frustration, but also something else. A deep respect, an admiration, for the people at her side in this fight. If her troops were fated to die, they couldn’t ask for better company.
“Very well, Sasha. I can’t think of anybody I’d rather have at my side in the last battle.” She turned toward Holcomb. “Are you sure, Doctor?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Now I need quiet.” Holcomb’s face snapped back to the workstation, his fingers moving wildly over the keys. He looked up again and waved toward the door. “Go, all of you. I’ll be better in here alone.”
Morgan paused. Then she turned toward the two troopers she’d left on the bridge. “Let’s go . . . get your rifles. It’s time to hold this rust bucket.”
She took one last look at Holcomb . . . and then she turned and led the two troopers out into the hall.
“All boarding parties report ready, Commodore. Estimated time until docking: four minutes, thirty seconds.”
Quintel sat quietly, listening to the comm officer’s words. He was sure his people could take the station, but he was fighting back doubts about his decision to move forward with just three ships. By all accounts, there were combat veterans among the defenders . . . and the layout of the station was tightly constricted around the docking bays.
If the commander over there is worth anything, they’ll be dug in at the choke points. The troopers will get through, but they’ll have to push through a nasty killing zone.
It was too late to change his mind . . . and all the original criteria remained valid. It was just too dangerous to leave the rebels in possession of the station. The losses would be harsh, but there was no way around that.
“Three minutes to docking, sir.”
“Prepare system overrides. We want to take control of the station’s systems as soon as we dock.” He looked down at his own screen, punching his personal passcode into the keypad.
“Override passcode authorized. Quintel, Simon, Commodore.”
Everything was ready. As soon as Emmerich docked and connected with the station’s information net, his ship’s AI would link with the station’s and the access code would give him total control. He’d shut down the elevators, freeze the hatches. The rebel troopers would be trapped in place. They’d blood his people coming down the corridor, but then it would be all but over. They’d be cornered, their escape cut off . . . and their dug-in position would become a death trap.
“Two minutes to docking . . .”
CHAPTER 34
COMMAND CENTRAL
ORBITAL FORTRESS
FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)
EPSILON ERIDANI II
“Come on . . . come on . . .” Holcomb entered the code again. He’d designed much of the station’s defense system, but the government had added a ton of frontline security over it. He wondered if that had happened before or after his arrest.
He was sure he could control the AI if he could penetrate the system, but it was fighting him like crazy. He’d been locked up for a long time, and it had been years since he’d truly used his mind. He was rusty, and it was showing in the time it was taking him to finish his task.
He had tried to ignore all other data, to focus on his work. But he couldn’t help but notice that the federal ships were about to dock. He was out of time.
Almost . . .
He tried to calm himself, to focus his entire mind on the problem. There had to be a way . . .
And suddenly he saw it. The pattern. The federals had added external security, but now he realized they’d used the same patterns as his base system. It wasn’t a solution, not quite, but it knocked the possible permutations to the thousands. That might not seem like much, but it was much better than the several quintillion before.
His hands moved quickly, writing a short program, one that would analyze each possible code, and run through the possibles a million times more quickly than he could.
His eyes darted up to the display. The system cameras were feeding in images of the federal ships, so close to the station now they almost completely filled the screen.
One minute . . .
He typed the last line, and then he ran the routine. The screen went blank, and then numbers flashed by, too fast to read, no more than a blur on the screen.
The scrolling seemed to go on forever, and the mesmerizing image was enough for him to lose track of time. Then, suddenly, it stopped. The screen went to the main display.
I’m in!
He paused for a few seconds, stunned. Then his eyes caught the chronometer. Forty-five seconds.
“System, respond.”
“Station control unit 3097C.”
“System . . . this is an A1 priority message. The vessels approaching the station are broadcasting Federal America protocols, but they are not friendly. Repeat, they are not friendly. This is an enemy deception. Activate defense systems and prepare to repel the hostile spacecraft.”
Holcomb held his breath, waiting for the response. He’d know in half a second if he truly controlled the system.
“Affirmative. Approaching vessels tagged as enemy craft. Activating weapons systems.”
The lights dimmed, and Holcomb could hear a low-pitched hum in the background. He’d have known the sound of his guns charging anywhere. His eyes darted to the timer. Twenty seconds.
The hundred-megawatt lasers would be charged in ten seconds.
Now that is cutting it close.
“Sir, we’re picking up energy readings from the station . . . almost off the charts.”
Gregory Jacobs sat at Condor’s command station, his eyes locked straight forward at the looming bulk of the fortress less than five hundred meters from his ship. His shock troops were ready, and he’d switched over to his positioning thrusters.
But if that is the station’s weapons grid . . .
He saw a flash on the screen off to Condor’s port side. He knew what it was, even before the reports came streaming in.
“The station is firing, sir.” A pause. “Those are primaries!” Lieutenant Merrill was hunched ov
er his display, his hands gripping the scope.
“Emmerich was hit, sir.” A short pause. “Captain, I’ve got Commodore Quintel for you.”
“Put it through!”
“Captain,” Quintel’s voice came over the comm, “the rebels are in control of the station’s defense grid. Open fire immediately and pull back. Get that ship out of there . . .”
“Yes, sir.” He cut the line and turned toward Merrill. “Full thrust away from the station. Reactor to 110 percent. Main batteries open fire!”
He stared at his display, watching as Condor’s lasers ripped into the side of the station. His ship was at point-blank range. It was impossible to miss . . . and the blasts hit with full power, melting the outer armor and penetrating deep into the station’s hull. But the fortress outmassed his ship a hundred to one, and he knew it could take a lot of hits to seriously hurt it.
He leaned back into his chair, feeling the thrust as the engines engaged. The g-force dampeners reduced some of the pressure, but the engines were blasting at more than six g’s, and some of that came through. But thrust was crucial now. Returning fire was all well and good, but if the rebels controlled the station’s entire defense grid, three frigates didn’t have a chance against that kind of firepower. If he didn’t get Condor out of there, she’d be a cloud of glowing debris in a few minutes.
The ship shook hard, and the bridge lights dimmed for a few seconds. “Damage report!” Jacobs was staring down at his own display even as he shouted to Merrill.
“Hull breach in section 6A. We’ve lost pressurization in six compartments. Two confirmed dead, at least seven wounded.” Merrill paused. “We lost one of the reactor coolant valves, too, Captain. We’ve got to cut output by at least 30 percent or we’re going to lose the core.”
Fuck.
Jacobs hesitated. He needed all the power he could get . . . but Merrill was right. If they didn’t cut back they’d lose the entire reactor, and that meant the ship, too.
“Batteries cease fire. Move the reactor down to 70 percent. All power to the engines . . . maintain full thrust.”
“Engines maintaining full thrust, Captain. Reactor steady at 70 percent.”
Jacobs’s eyes dropped to his display once more. It looked like Roanoke was going to get clear. She was moving at full thrust, and the station seemed to be ignoring her. But Emmerich was a different story. The flagship had been hit three times, and she took another blast amidships as Jacobs watched.
Condor shook again, but the impact was weaker than the last one, a grazing blow. He looked down at his readout. Light damage, some sensor arrays, a couple exterior compartments breached. And two more of his people dead.
“Time to exit firing range?”
“One minute, twenty seconds, Captain. Assuming the reactor holds.”
Jacobs just nodded. He knew a minute was an eternity, easily long enough for the station’s laser blasts to cripple or destroy his ship. But there was nothing he could do but wait . . . and count off the seconds as they slowly passed.
“Captain . . . Emmerich!”
Jacobs’s eyes darted up to the main screen. There was a long-range image of the flagship on the left side . . . and a stream of data moving down the right, distress calls and damage reports.
Emmerich was leaving a trail of frozen fluids and debris behind her. The ship’s stern was a wreck, nothing but twisted remnants of metal where her engines had been. She was moving at sixty kilometers per second, but it was clear she had no thrust capacity, no way to speed up . . . or to decelerate.
“Get me Commodore . . .”
Jacobs’s words trailed off, his eyes fixed on the screen. Another of the station’s powerful main lasers slammed into the ship, invisible over most of its eight-thousand-kilometer journey but electric blue as it passed through the debris field around the dying vessel.
Emmerich hung there, floating in space, seeming still despite its velocity. Then there was a flash, a glimpse of fire inside, extinguished almost immediately by the vacuum as the hull ripped open, exposing the shattered innards of the flagship to space. Then another flash, a different section of hull torn apart, a hundred-meter gash looking like a knife wound in the vessel’s midsection.
Come on, Commodore . . . abandon ship . . .
Emmerich was done. All that was left now was for the crew to escape.
If they escape.
He was still thinking that when another deadly lance of blue light hit the vessel, blasting right through one of the shattered hull sections into Emmerich’s innards. For an instant, perhaps a second, nothing happened. Then the image on the screen was replaced by a blinding white light.
Jacobs knew immediately what had happened. Emmerich had lost reactor containment. Commodore Quintel was dead. His entire crew was dead, and for an instant, their ship had become a miniature sun.
Then a few seconds later it was gone. Just gone.
Luci Morgan stepped through the bridge doors, her people following behind her, cheering. They’d been waiting for the federals to board the station . . . and they’d watched as the fortress’s massive laser batteries opened up, driving back the attacking ships. It was clear almost immediately that the threat of a boarding action was gone. The federal ships had fired a few shots, but they’d only done minor damage . . . and none of Morgan’s people had been killed or wounded.
“You did it, Doctor!”
Holcomb was still at his workstation. He looked up, turning toward Morgan. “Yes, Colonel. I was able to engage the defense system just in time. I’m afraid, though, the jamming algorithm is protected by a second level of security. But don’t worry—I should be through it shortly. If all goes well, we can restore planetary communications within the hour.”
Morgan nodded. “The defense systems . . . are they still under your control?”
“Yes, of course. I reprogrammed the AI to take orders only from me. But I can add anyone else to the authorized list.”
“We’ve got what? Thirty-seven of us?” Morgan stared intently at Holcomb. “Can we run this whole station with so few?”
“I’d say that depends on what you want to do, Colonel. You’ve got prisoners to guard, right? How many? Fifty? Eighty?”
“About seventy.”
“How many people do you need to handle that? To watch them? Feed them?”
“More than the one I’ve got on them now. So maybe three or four.”
“So that’s twelve, at least, to cover them around the clock?”
Morgan nodded.
“It’s none if we throw them out of the airlock.” It was Killian, standing against the far wall. He’d been listening quietly up until then, but now Morgan wasn’t sure if the grim ranger was serious or kidding. She didn’t really want to know.
“That will be all of that, Captain.” She turned back toward Holcomb, looking expectantly at the scientist.
“Twenty-five to run the station, maybe eight per shift?” He paused, thinking. “We could probably keep basic functions going, Colonel . . . and the defense systems are AI-controlled, so if the federals decide to attack again, we’d be able to fight.” He frowned. “The big question is, how long will we be up here? The station’s got repair bots, and we can control those . . . but sooner or later things are going to start to break down. I can figure out most of these systems, but I can’t keep this place running forever, not by myself. Eventually, we’re going to need engineers, technicians, specialists. And sooner rather than later if we have to fight again, and the station takes more battle damage—don’t forget, there are still seven ships out there. We got lucky this time . . . but next time they might hit a vital system.”
Morgan nodded. “But you believe we can manage things, for a while at least?”
Holcomb nodded. “I don’t see why not. Do you think it is that useful, though? Our mission was to destroy the jamming equipment. Not that we can go back anyway. The federals must have retaken the spaceport by now.”
“We’ll worry about that later. A
s for our mission, things have changed. First, we don’t destroy the jamming setup. Can you modify it, control it?”
“Control it? I suppose so. For what purpose?”
“Can you rig it so our forces can communicate . . . and the federals can’t?”
Holcomb paused, a smile slipping onto his face as he grasped her intentions. But it quickly faded. “I don’t think so, Colonel. As you have noticed, there were two frigates docked with the station. They have been providing supplemental power. One managed to escape during the battle, and the other took damage when the federals fired at us. She had a skeleton crew, no more than a few maintenance personnel, but they surrendered as soon as they realized they couldn’t get away.
“Besides, we don’t have nearly enough crew to maintain such a jury-rigged setup . . . and without the extra power, there is no way we can jam communications planetwide.” He paused. “Though we should be able to easily cover Landfall and the surrounding area . . . where most of the federal forces are located. That should give General Ward an edge at least.”
“More than an edge, Doctor. The federals are in a precarious position now. As long as we maintain our hold on the station—and keep its weapons systems functional—we’ve cut them off. We can stop any vessel from approaching Haven. Every supply ship, every courier, every troopship. The federals don’t know it yet, but they’re under siege now . . . and they’ll stay that way until the navy can assemble a fleet strong enough to take on this station. That should take months. They’ll be throwing rocks down there by then . . . and if General Ward can keep them penned in at Landfall, they’ll be eating sawdust, too.”
Holcomb nodded. “I see. I’m afraid for all the weapons I designed I’m not much of a soldier. But what you say makes sense. And if General Ward’s people can retake the spaceport, Vagabond can return and bring back more troops . . . and engineers and other experts, too. Then we can hold out here indefinitely, even against a federal task force.”