Warrior: Book 2 of The Legacy Fleet Trilogy

by Nick Webb

  The fighter to their left bore down on them fast, showering them with high-caliber bullets. One pierced the cabin and the air started to swoosh out the hole. Death was coming.

  With a bright flash, the fighter exploded. The shuttle dove, and Isaacson watched as the second fighter burst into flames behind them, flanked by three other fighters that showered it with continual gunfire.

  The rushing of air stopped as the automatic emergency systems covered the hole with a high-powered electromagnetic shield, and the shuttle blasted higher, moving out of the atmosphere. The captain’s voice, obviously relieved, came over the comm. “Everyone all right? Rising back into the stratosphere. Be at D.C. in less than ten minutes.”

  For the first time, Isaacson noticed his heart was beating so fast he was pretty sure he’d have to have a heart attack just to slow it back down. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. A few minutes later he looked over at Conner. His lap and seat were wet with vomit, and his face was red. Damn—the kid had had a terrible day.

  They landed, finally. Isaacson, accompanied by his security detail, bolted off the plane, intending to go straight to the executive mansion. But to his surprise, before he could get into his waiting ground car, another car pulled up, escorted by a dozen armored military vehicles. A window dropped down, revealing President Avery’s frowning face.

  “Get in,” she said, thumbing toward the other door.

  He hesitated. The Moscow car bombing. The anti-matter. She didn’t seem like the assassinating type. But, at least politically, she was ruthless.

  She read his mind. “Get in Eamon. I’m not trying to kill you.” She looked over his shoulder and around the car before waving him closer. He leaned in and she whispered in his ear.

  “But I do know who wants both of us dead.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  New Dublin, Eyre Sector

  Bridge, ISS Warrior

  Granger paused at the door. Two meta-space signals? He eyed the Vishgane, and noticed Doc Wyatt behind him—he’d followed them to the door. The doctor had remained silent during the entire negotiation, which was prudent since his friend was there to observe, not to contribute. He eyed Hanrahan. Had he been compromised by the Swarm? He had handled the disposal of the crashed fighter the week before.

  “Something wrong, Tim?” said Doc Wyatt, nearly bumping into him at the door.

  Shit. What if it was him? Granger himself? The dreams. The strange episode he’d had when he shook Vishgane Kharsa’s hand. There was no telling what happened to him during those three days he was missing. Three days … or was it twenty seconds … damn. There was a lot he didn’t know. And now he knew there was a very good chance he was either under the Swarm’s influence, or at the very least that his mind could be completely open to them, to be viewed and read at their pleasure.

  “Nothing. I was just thinking, Kharsa—” He turned to the other two men. “A moment alone, gentlemen?” He noticed the look of consternation on Hanrahan’s face and added, “just for a moment, Colonel. I assure you, I am quite safe.”

  Wyatt and Hanrahan eyed each other nervously, but stepped outside. The door closed with a shuddering whine behind them—reminding Granger the Warrior was just as old as the Old Bird.

  And now that he was alone with Kharsa, maybe that would allow Proctor to narrow down the source of the signal.

  “I was thinking, Kharsa: perhaps if we were allowed to take a delegation to your homeworld on a fact-finding mission. And perhaps to a few worlds where your people have been relocated. To verify the claims the Swarm makes. Perhaps it would set our people’s minds at ease knowing how the Swarm have treated you as their friends.”

  A pause, as Kharsa considered his words. Or communicated with the Swarm. Or both. “A wise request, Captain. I believe that will be of immense benefit. There is one problem with what you propose, however.”

  Of course, he thought. It would require revealing how the Swarm have treated you like slaves rather than friends.

  “What is that?”

  “The location of our homeworld is a tightly guarded secret by the Valarisi. Each homeworld of the Concordat of Seven is kept hidden. It is part of our contract with the Valarisi. It is how they keep our homeworlds safe from external threats.”

  “But you know the location of your homeworld, I assume.”

  “As I said, it is kept hidden. From all. Two thousand years ago we made our pact with the Valarisi, and since that time knowledge of its location has been … discouraged.”

  Very interesting.

  “Well, then perhaps we can be allowed to see the worlds you’ve been relocated to.”

  Kharsa inclined his head. “That is acceptable, Captain. We will make arrangements when you return from Earth.”

  Granger smiled and led the way back to the shuttle bay, nodding to Hanrahan and Wyatt where they’d waited outside the door.

  Proctor sighed in his ear. “Sorry, sir. Didn’t work. Meta-space signals are notoriously tricky to nail down. They have very poor spatial resolution. I still read the two signals, but it was impossible to tell their exact point of origin. In fact, the second ceased just a few moments ago.”

  Oh well. They’d have plenty of time over the coming days to track it down.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  New Dublin, Eyre Sector

  Bridge, ISS Warrior

  “Pew Pew, you’re the luckiest son-of-a-bitch I’ve ever met.”

  Ballsy grinned down at his friend on the table. Sickbay was overflowing with wounded and medical staff, but he, Spacechamp, and Fodder had managed to squeeze in around their squadmate.

  “Lucky? You’re calling me lucky? Have you seen my ouchie? Look!” He pulled down the sheet covering him, nearly exposing his crotch—but thankfully stopping just in time—and pointed to the gash in his waist where the cable and his own momentum had dug into him. “Doc was shocked that I survived since it ruptured the suit. But thankfully, only my bottom half was exposed to vacuum since that bitch of a cable held the top half of my suit against my skin.”

  Fodder’s face broke out into a sly grin. “Bro, are you telling me … your—”

  Pew pew nodded. “Yep. You won’t believe how bad pulling a vacuum on your dick hurts. Imagine the biggest erection in your life, then swallowing a handful of erection pills, then pricking it with a—”

  Spacechamp clamped a hand over Pew Pew’s still-moving mouth. “Just … stop.”

  Fodder howled with laughter. “I told y’all, don’t fly like my brother.”

  Pew Pew made a muffled chuckle under Spacechamp’s still-clamped hand. “And remember, don’t fly like my brother.”

  They chatted a few more minutes before a nurse shooed them out, and then they made their way back to the fighter deck—technically they were still on standby, as the battle could resume at any moment, what with the Dolmasi and surviving Swarm ships still out there. They picked their way through some debris that had fallen into the hallway—someone had tried to shove it aside but it still blocked their path.

  Ballsy stopped halfway to the lift. “Hey, catch you two later. I’m going to check on Dogtown and his boys. Clownface and Hotshot. They’re just down the hall in the sickbay annex.”

  Spacechamp and Fodder continued on toward the fighter deck as he backtracked to sickbay, passing it, and stood outside the door to the annex. Two marines stood guard outside.

  “I’m sorry, sir. This area is quarantined,” said a marine, his hands extended.

  “It’s all right, I know. I won’t touch them. Just wanted to say hi. I can do that from the door, right?”

  The marines looked at each other, and the other one shrugged. The first one turned back to Volz. “All right, sir. But stay in the doorway. Not a step inside.”

  The other marine keyed the door open, and Volz stepped up to the doorframe, poking his head through. “Dogtown?”

  He peered inside the room.

  The empty room.

  “Dogtown?” he yelled.


  He alerted the marines, and moments later, after a quick search of the adjoining bathroom, they confirmed it.

  Dogtown, Clownface, and Hotshot were gone.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  New Dublin, Eyre Sector

  Bridge, ISS Warrior

  President Avery often called herself a true southern belle, and at times she looked the part—perfectly coifed hair, no-nonsense in her business suit but with a grace that disarmed and charmed all those around her. But now, she wore what Isaacson could only describe as a uniform. It wasn’t military. No IDF insignia graced her shoulders or chest. But it was almost pure white, like an admiral’s. She was a commander coming into her own, and she meant to display her intent to the world: she would win this war, even if it meant transforming herself into the military leader her people needed. And she was doing a damn good job of it.

  Dammit.

  “What in the world were you doing out in Moscow, Eamon? You know relations are tense right now. You put yourself right out in the open for an attack, and sure enough….”

  He shrugged. “Just following up on leads. My investigation here hit a brick wall, and I thought that whoever was trying to kill you might have ties to Malakhov. So I talked to Volodin—he’s a good friend.”

  “Too good, if you ask me,” she said, eyeing him with what at first looked like suspicion. She shifted to her vulnerable face and rested a hand on his knee. “Eamon, we’ve got to be careful. You don’t know those people like I do. Ruthless. Absolutely ruthless. Bloodthirsty. They’ll stop at nothing to get power over us. Nothing. Killing means nothing to them. Manipulation is learned from childhood. They are masters at it. Always have been. Just … be careful with Volodin.”

  He nodded. “And? You say you know who’s trying to kill you? I mean, us? You’re telling me the same people are trying to kill both of us?”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s what I’m telling you.” She sighed. “And, I debated even telling you, mainly because I didn’t think you’d believe me. That was my whole plan—let you discover the truth for yourself. I’m sorry, Eamon. I should have trusted you. I should have told you. I’m sorry.”

  He had never, to his knowledge, heard her apologize to anyone. Anyone. “Madam President?”

  “Barb, Eamon. Call me Barb.”

  “You knew this whole time?” Surely she couldn’t mean….

  “Yes. At least, I know part of the plot. Not the entire thing. Just pieces. Certain players, yes. The whole scheme, no. But I think it’s obvious, don’t you?”

  He wasn’t sure how to react. Show agreement? Confusion? Dammit, his head was still spinning from the bombing.

  “Malakhov, Eamon. Malakhov is trying to kill me. And you too. He wants nothing more than to throw our government into a tailspin. Stir up strife and confusion. Sow chaos and fear.”

  “But what does he gain from that? Surely without IDF standing in the way, the Swarm will come and indiscriminately kill all of us, Russians included?”

  She nodded. The car turned down into the maze of streets deep inside D.C. “Of course. But he doesn’t see it that way. And I’m beginning to suspect why.” She turned to him. “Eamon, what I’m about to tell you is classified. Not just top secret. I mean top top secret. Only I know this, and Fleet Admiral Zingano, Captain Granger. Maybe a handful of others. Less than ten.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “The Swarm can control people. I think Malakhov is under their influence. Possibly their entire government—who knows? The point is, when the Swarm comes again, and if IDF can’t stand against them, that’s it. With enemies out there, and enemies behind our backs, and with the two of us dead … well, we fall. Earth falls. All the colonies fall. Humanity as we know it ceases to exist.”

  The car drove through the financial district, and wove its way through a handful of embassies. He wondered where she was driving him. Or were they driving just to drive? To get away from listening ears?

  “It doesn’t make sense, Barb. It doesn’t explain the anti-matter bomb in Moscow.”

  She looked at him, surprised. “It was anti-matter, was it?”

  “Volodin gave me the technical report.”

  She nodded. “Of course. Two possibilities there. He either fabricated the report and gave it to you to make you suspect me—yes, Eamon, I know you’ve been poking around the fab. Or, more likely, they stole it. Or, even more likely, they have allies within the government that provided the materiel. Allies with friends in the military.”

  Isaacson nodded, trying to keep up appearances. He still wasn’t sure what she was playing at. Was this an act? Was she trying to get him to slip up? Expose himself?

  She continued. “That’s another reason I gave you your mission—we need to know not only which senators, which people in the government are willing to kill me, but which ones are in bed with Malakhov. We can’t have that going on, even if they don’t kill me.”

  He shook his head. “I still can’t believe that it’s the Russians. Volodin and I are—well, we’re friends. That he would give the go-ahead to have me killed is … unthinkable.”

  She crossed her legs. “Oh? Think about this then. Who else could arrange for your shuttle to be attacked by actual, honest-to-god fighters? That’s not something you just go out and hire. Those were military craft that attacked you, Eamon, not some pay-to-play mercenaries.” She paused. “And furthermore, I think we won’t be surprised when we learn that they were indeed IDF fighters, with IDF pilots.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  She chuckled. “There’s no way in hell the Russians could ever get one of their fighters past our airspace command.”

  “And yet you still believe Malakhov is behind it?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Who else could pull it off? And it gets back to my point, and in case you weren’t listening, then now is the time to perk up. The Swarm can control people. They are controlling Malakhov. I’m almost one hundred percent sure. And if the Swarm can control Malakhov, then he is also perfectly capable of putting two innocent IDF fighters under his influence, and directing them to kill you.”

  Damn. It actually did add up. Volodin had confirmed as much—he said the Russian soldiers who went aboard those Swarm carriers came back changed. It wasn’t a terrible leap to think the Swarm could control. If that were true … who could tell how far they’d infiltrated? That would mean disaster not only for IDF, and the Russian Confederation, but all of civilization.

  She smirked. “I assume from your silence that you’re at least entertaining the possibility that I’m right?”

  “Of course I’m entertaining it, Barb. But what are we going to do about it?”

  “You’re going to keep doing what I asked you to do already. It’s obvious there are collaborators within the government. It is even more imperative now that we find who they are. All of them. Then, when we’re sure we’ve discovered who’s who, we make our move.”

  His eyes widened. “What, like a purge?”

  “What else?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  She snorted. “I am. We simply cannot tolerate subversive behavior and treason during wartime. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m not saying we blow their brains out. I’m not the type for that. But we take them into custody. At least until the war is over.”

  The car stopped. He looked out—they were outside his residence. He glanced back at her, confused.

  “Get some sleep, Eamon. You’ve had two attempts on your life within twenty-four hours, and you’ve flown across the country twice and to Russia once. You’re no use to your country as a walking zombie.” She smiled and touched his knee again, with what Isaacson could swear was genuine affection.

  He nodded. “It has been a long few days….”

  A secret service agent opened his door. He started to get up. Avery reached out and grabbed his arm before he left. “We’re close, Eamon. We’ll nail these bastards to the wall, win this war, then get showered in confetti from a t
icker tape parade, and then treat ourselves to some well deserved carnal pleasure and hard alcohol.” She winked at him. “See you in a few days.”

  He climbed the steps to his residence, after the security detail performed the standard sweep, and shut the door behind him. It was getting late. Nearly nine. He wondered if Conner’s girl had shown up yet. Stepping into the kitchen he noticed something on the table. A canister: a container from a gourmet coffee brand. Columbian-Indonesian blend.

  Aw hell, Conner.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  New Dublin, Eyre Sector

  Bridge, ISS Warrior

  “Dammit, Shelby, how can I trust anything that I do? Anything that I think? What if everything that comes out of my mouth is sent straight to my brain by some goddamned meta-space Swarm signal?”

  Proctor shifted uncomfortably on her feet. It was readily apparent that no matter what she said to set his mind at ease, she agreed.

  “I think the very fact that you’re asking that question means you’re just fine. If they were making you say certain things, or think certain things, you’d know it. Tell me, have you felt different since your disappearance? Have your thought patterns changed? Has Doc Wyatt done a brain scan? Surely they would have done a complete medical workup after your cancer was cured, and they definitely would have compared the brain scans to the old ones. You’d know, sir, if you were influenced.”

  He nodded. It made sense. Doc Wyatt had done multiple scans. Brain scans. Lung, heart, endocrine, circulatory, nervous system—he’d checked everything. From what Wyatt could tell, he was the picture of sixty-five year old health. Age lines and hemorrhoids and all.

  Out the window of his ready room the nameless planet they’d come to in the Epsilon Garibaldi System rotated serenely, oblivious to the showdown happening in high orbit. They were forbidden from going down by the Dolmasi, and in fact were supposed to leave the system as soon as they were able—the heavily-damaged Swarm carriers had left over an hour ago—but it would take time for his fleet to reassemble and make the necessary repairs. He didn’t want to leave anyone behind, so they would wait, Dolmasi protests be damned.