The Price of Freedom

by William R. Forstchen

  Tolwyn looked uneasy. "I'm supposed to present my biennial report to the defense committee tomorrow," he said. "I figured I'd best give it to you first."

  Taggart waved him towards a chair. "Och, is it about your wee super-carriers?"

  "No," Tolwyn replied, "we've pushed up the production schedule. The Vesuvius'll be ready for shakedowns in a week or so. The crews looking forward to you christening the ship, Senator, it'll be an inspiration to them."

  Taggart nodded, ignoring Tolwyn's glad-handing. "And the St. Helens?"

  Tolwyn scratched his cheek. "Her engine and run-up tests are complete. She's taking on fuel and weapons. We're shifting to an accelerated construction schedule to finish the bays."

  "Why the rush?" Taggart asked, mentally toting up the cost of speeding up the already ruinously expensive program.

  "Bad news from the frontier, Paladin," Tolwyn answered. "We need those carriers in service as soon as possible."

  "What kind of trouble?"

  Tolwyn's face grew even longer. "Treason."

  Taggart refused to let himself be drawn. "Will you join me for a glass, then? Bad news should ne'er pass a dry throat."

  "No," Tolwyn replied. He took a deep breath. "Eisen, Blair, and Maniac Marshall all defected to the rebels. They went over three days back. According to our telemetry, either Blair or Marshall torpedoed the Lexington. She's out of action, and heading in for repairs."

  Taggart nearly dropped the bottle he'd snagged from the bar. He looked down at it, trying to cover his confusion. At that moment, Tolwyn could have knocked him over with a feather. "My God," he choked out. "The lad was always strong-willed… but this is shocking. What happened?"

  "We don't really know, Paladin. But they hurt the Lex."

  Taggart felt he'd been pummelled. "How many dead?"

  "Casualty figures have yet to come in," Tolwyn said, his voice flat and unreadable. "But we lost three-hundred thirty on the Achilles last week. We don't know if Eisen or Blair helped the rebels before they went over. Eisen had the Lex's command codes. He could have fed them telemetry on the Achilles."

  "Why?" he asked, his accent failing him. "They're some of the best men we've got, all old and trusted comrades. What would make them go…" He paused, unable to bring himself to say the word "betray."

  "… over like that?"

  "I don't know," Tolwyn answered. "I'm just as confused by this as you are." He spread his palms. "What intelligence we've managed to collect is… unreliable. Our networks are collapsing; the data we get from them is erratic. All we know is that the frontier is on the verge of war."

  Taggart looked at him carefully, trying to see behind his eyes. "You still don't have any idea of who's behind all this?"

  Tolwyn replied, "None, at least not specifically. One thing is clear, however. The Border Worlds forces are increasingly aggressive. Blair was flying off a Border Worlds carrier when he hit the Lexington. We think this ship destroyed the Achilles."

  Taggart leaned against the bar. "Is that confirmed, Admiral? An active service Border Worlds ship?" He closed his eyes at Tolwyn's single confirming nod. "Then it'll be war," he said softly. "The Senate won't stand for that. Not a bit."

  "No," Tolwyn said, shaking his head, "my aides tell me a resolution declaring war on the Border Worlds will be brought up for debate before the full Assembly within a week." He stopped himself. "Let's hope war isn't our only option…"

  Taggart had to struggle to keep his face still. Tolwyn wasn't giving his report until the following morning. So how could he possibly know what the Assembly might do in response?

  "I still don't understand how this could happen," he said, hoping to draw him out.

  Tolwyn looked away. "Who knows why anything happens anymore? The whole damned structure of society is collapsing around us. Debts are mounting, trade and trust are falling, and even Earth, the center of our culture, is blighted. The center is failing and the periphery is falling into chaos. Is it any wonder that insane things are happening?"

  "I'm not sure I'm following you," Taggart replied, a little alarmed by Tolwyn's response. The admiral looked at him, his eyes alive with uncharacteristic intensity.

  "Surely you can see it for yourself, Paladin, even from up there in your council rooms. Our Confederation is disintegrating. We're losing our frontier stars while the central government haggles over words and nuances of laws that will just be ignored. We're falling into anarchy, atrophying as our economies falter, our Fleet withers away, and our so-called leaders squabble. We're fraying, flying apart as we lose our common ground, our center." He fixed Taggart with a fierce stare. "People are starving and as they starve, they forget their civilization. Face it, our golden age is passing and all that awaits is ruination and conquest by whatever force decides it wants us."

  Taggart studied Tolwyn's face as the admiral ranted. The Tolwyn he knew subscribed to bitter logic, never flinching from the hard choices or cold, calculated decisions that often cost lives. The Tolwyn of old never would have permitted himself this rambling discourse.

  Had the strain on the admiral proven too much? Taggart knew he wasn't ready to essay that kind of judgement. Thinking of Tolwyn's gloomy take on the human condition, however, only added to his own worries. "I'm not sure that it's all that bad," he replied, trying to put the best face on the situation. "We've had worse problems before, and we've found ways out of them. I'm sure we will again."

  "Then you're blind." Tolwyn turned away and opened the door. "If I hear anything new about Eisen or Blair, I'll keep you posted." He swept out of the room, less a man and more a force of nature. The door, sensing his departure, closed behind him.

  Taggart looked down at the bottle, seeing the label for the first time. 'There you are," he said, as he poured himself a generous drink from the bottle of single malt.

  He could not accept that Eisen and Blair could be disloyal. Something must have driven them to it, something serious. "What are ye into, Geoff me boy," he said to the closed door, "that'd make good men go bad like that?"

  Perhaps it was time to dust off his cloak and dagger and do some discreet checking into Tolwyns activities. But not just yet. It was senseless to pour good scotch and then not drink it.

  He took a deep sip, letting the amber liquid roll around his tongue. "Och, that's good."

  Blair lay on the deck, his stiff back separated from the hard durasteel floor plates by a single thin blanket. At least the air was clean and clear. The two-day refit at Orestes had accomplished other miracles as well. The fires were finally out, the air had been exchanged, the excess heat had been bled away, and the number two APU had been restarted. They had power and water for showers, if not quarters, and the freezers had been restocked. He hadn't realized how good a steak and vegetables would taste after a week of breathing smoke and eating condensed emergency rations.

  The Intrepid was by no means operating at one hundred percent. The number one drive assembly was still out, but at least it wasn't pumping gamma radiation into Engineering or fuel into space. Several damaged fiber optic cables had been replaced, allowing the CIC to function without worrying about losing contact with the outside world at odd moments. The bridge, the top deck, and the fire-gutted bow had been abandoned. The ship should have been withdrawn from service, but that wasn't an option with the Confederation breathing down their necks.

  At least, he thought, the ship wouldn't be quite as vulnerable. They had enough power now to maintain both phase shields and guns.

  They had also managed to transfer the prisoners captured in the dogfight to a hotel for transfer back to Earth. The pilots had been relieved to see him and Maniac, and didn't seem to bear too many grudges against them for changing sides. Maniac had speculated that several might be ripe for conversion, his euphemism for what Blair still considered treason. Blair had demurred. He didn't mind putting his own head in the noose, but he wasn't going to encourage others to do it. Instead, the prisoners would go home to Earth with stories of honorable treatment a
nd greetings from friends and loved ones.

  He cupped his hands behind his head and listened to the heavy snores from the pilots and crew sprawled around him.

  Velina Sosa's image popped unbidden into his head, as it had been wont to do lately. They'd worked side by side the entire two days at Orestes and had been possibly the only two people other than Eisen who hadn't taken an eight-hour shore leave. He'd found her warm and engaging, and his reading of her body language suggested she found him at least the same.

  He rolled onto his side, disgusted with himself. He was old enough to be her father, and besides, hadn't he gone down that road once with Rachel? Still, her attentions were flattering, and she had helped him feel younger than he had since he'd retired. The heat, exercise, and bad food he'd eaten onboard the Intrepid had helped him shed most of his extra weight, enough that he didn't feel like a paunchy old man standing next to her. Now, he thought dryly, he was a trim one.

  He sat up. Sleep didn't seem to be an option. He might as well take advantage of the opportunity to get some work done. He fumbled for his flight suit in the semi-dark and wormed his way into it.

  The lights and power came up. Sosa's voice sounded over the loudhailer. "Scramble! All pilots and crews to flight deck! Stand by for launching instructions." Blair closed the suit's front tab and stepped into his boots.

  Pliers waited by the T-bolts side as Blair navigated the crews and pilots scrambling to ready their fighters. He followed Blair up the ladder and bent to check his rig. Blair wrinkled his nose at the old man's tobacco reek.

  "Remember the mods I gave you," he said- "You can autoslide now, though you're going to move like a pregnant pig. Remember—"

  "Yeah," Blair said, interrupting, "it's not that the pig sings well that's important, it's that it sings at all."

  They laughed together before Pliers continued. "I've tweaked your max speed up to 420 KPS, so you can run with a Hellcat, at least for short distances. Watch your engine overheat lights and your fuel consumption. Your max afterburner hasn't changed, but I did install wider nozzles on your maneuvering thrusters, which should add to your turning speed."

  "What am I giving up?" Blair asked, firmly aware that every design modification required trade-offs.

  "You're losing some fine control, and a lot of range. All these mods're going to cost fuel, so try to conserve where you can."

  "Got it," he looked down at the wing pods and the JATO bottles that replaced his outboard missile stations. "Any way we can get rid of those?"

  "Not without a longer deck or a catapult."

  Blair nodded, then finished his preflights. Telemetry began to roll onto his nav plot as the CIC finished its mission prep. Their flight plan would take them across the "border" and into what had been Kilrathi space. He whistled at that, then heard the babble on his circuit as other pilots read the same data.

  Sosa's voice crackled across the circuit. "Hawk's and Panthers squadrons will assume tight orbit around the carrier as a CAP against attack. Colonel Blair, you will take Maniac and his squadron and assist a ship in distress. Assume course three-six-zero, zee plus fourteen, and cross the border. You will render customary aid and comfort as required by the Geneva Conventions."

  Hawk cut into the circuit. "Are the ships Kilrathi?"

  Sosa paused. "We're obligated, under interstellar law, to render aid to any ship in distress. These ships are under attack and are asking for help. We have to give it to them."

  "So they're Kilrathi," Hawk said. "Why should we care?"

  Eisen broke into the channel, his voice cold as ice. "You have your orders, pilot. Execute them."

  Hawk snapped, "Why should we go out of our way for Cats?" Panther cut him off before he could protest again. "Dammit, you agreed he'd be captain," she said angrily, "so let him captain. File your complaint through channels."

  "Whys Blair going?" Hawk pressed. "I'm the wing commander!"

  Eisen's cold voice indicated he was losing patience. "Colonel Blair has a certain notoriety where the Cats are concerned. You don't. He goes. You stay. Enough said."

  Hawk, grumbling, launched, leading the strike off the Intrepid's deck. Blair, needing more room to get his T-bolt up to speed, launched last. He quickly found Maniac's formed squadron and led them towards the border. Maniac had acquired three additional Rapiers at Orleans, courtesy of Kruger's Landreich, as well as his repaired Hellcat. He had, of course, readopted the 'Cat. The squadron was still under strength, but eight craft at least made two full-strength flights.

  He listened in on the pilots' chatter. They were very unhappy at being asked to rescue Kilrathi. He was a little surprised that he really didn't care much one way or another. They and the Kilrathi had been bitterest enemies, and he would have expected his reactions to be more like his pilots'. He hated those who'd killed Angel, but that was personal. Why didn't he extend that to the race as a whole?

  His AI chimed when it picked up the signal from the border markers, then chimed again as they crossed into Kilrathi space. A number of red pips appeared on his target tracker at extreme range. He switched to the interstellar distress channel, wondering whether or not to use his hero-name. It was better that the Cats knew who they were dealing with. "Heart of the Tiger to distressed ships… what is your status?'

  His comm-panel fuzzed and blurred. Blair couldn't make out the Kilrathi's face, but it seemed vaguely familiar.

  "Shintahr Melek to Blair," the alien replied. "Have you come to gloat over our passing? Have you forgotten my personal surrender to you already?"

  Blair felt his guts roil. Melek had been Prince Thrakhath's retainer and a formidable enemy in his own right, a senior commander whose ability to forgive and forget the destruction of his home world was likely to be zero. That made them even. Melek's master had killed his Angel.

  "Negative," he replied tightly. "Under the Geneva Accords, we're obligated to help all ships in need. What can we do?"

  Melek's face steadied in the tiny screen. He deflated before Blairs eyes. "We were thirteen ships out of what you call 89 Hydrae B, bound for the Pasqual system." He paused. "We are under attack by four to six attack craft. Our escorts have been driven off or destroyed. They seem to be able to cloak at will. Can you help us? Or, rather, will you help us?"

  "Yes," Blair answered, then switched to his tactical channel. "Maniac, did you copy that?"

  "Yeah, boss," he replied, "I got it, we're about two minutes out. I'm getting a range to target on the freighters and… TallyHO! I got one—two—four bogies inbound."

  "Roger." His blood went cold. Enemy fighters flickered in and out of sight. They had cloaking devices.

  Maniac keyed his mike, sending out a burst of static. "Maniac to Wolfpack. Break and attack."

  The fighters peeled off the squadron's Vee formation, climbing and diving in groups of two as they sought advantage against the raiders. Blair was surprised to see Maniac sidle into his wing slot. "I figured you'd go haring in by yourself."

  "Can't," Maniac replied, "I got me a squadron now. I can't act that way and expect them to listen when I tell them not to."

  Blair, surprised to the core by Maniac's spurt of maturity, didn't answer. The raiding ships decloaked and closed on the fighters, using full afterburners to get inside missile range.

  "Bandits!" Maniac yelled. "Here they come!" He broke away, accelerating away at an angle from Blair.

  "So much for obeying orders," Blair mumbled.

  He pulled the stick back into his lap and hit his afterburner, pulling hard into his Z-axis and changing plane and direction from Maniac. Marshall saw-bucked his Hellcat, rocking in short random changes that altered his course and speed without costing him inertia. One raider tried to stick in behind him, its heavy ordnance searching for Maniac's ship. Marshall flat-lacked his 'Cat around, cutting his drives and tumbling his fighter, then hitting his thrusters in a line perpendicular to his former direction. He side-slipped his Hellcat out of the raider's line of fire, and then cross-cut the other's path
to fire a high deflection burst that scattered shots along and across the raiders spine. The Hellcats ion cannon flared the ship's phase shields but did no appreciable damage.

  The pirate spun past Maniac, frantically trying to rotate to follow its target. Maniac rotated his ship back into his direction of travel and reengaged his drives. It was, Blair had to admit, a smooth piece of flying. Maniac had been practicing since Seether had taken him down.

  Blair turned his Thunderbolt towards the raider, its ponderous maneuverability helped considerably by Pliers' mods. The raider, beset by two enemies, easily evaded him. It flashed past, close enough for him to get a good, long look. The fighter was like nothing he had ever seen. He noted its chisel-pointed bow and chin-mounted weapons pods and a pair of large glowing Bussard intakes nested between two tail strakes. The damned thing looked big, at least as long as his T-bolt, and far too big to be as fast or as nimble as it seemed. He pulled his stick around, getting off a single barrage with his plasma guns before it passed. He missed badly.

  He tried to follow it around for a second shot. His turn ratio, even with Pliers' mods, remained far too slow to give it much of a fight. Maniac, with his lighter and more nimble ship, was having difficulties keeping it away from his tail. The raider bored in close, fired a missile up his tail, then deftly rotated towards Blair and fired again. Blair, amazed by the feat, didn't react until his missile warning chimed.

  He sawed his control yoke back and forth, steepening the angle of his cross-cuts to try and throw off the missile's tracking. Down-the-throat shots presented the missiles with the smallest target profiles and were the hardest to hit. He hoped that if he could throw its tracking off long enough, he'd slip past it, an effect much like a child's game of crack-the-whip.