Juggernaut: The Ixan Prophecies Trilogy Book 2

by Scott Bartlett

  Husher swallowed. “Yeah. Okay.” He motioned to the others, and they opened the hatch.

  The long, narrow room was bordered by tables full of computer equipment and what Husher recognized as torture implements. Those who stooped to such practices had another name for it, but Husher called it what it was. Torture.

  The room also featured an observation window that looked into a cell, and inside that cell was Captain Keyes, slumped sideways against a wall.

  Running to the door that separated the observation room from the cell, Husher found it locked. He stepped back and fired at the lock. After a few seconds, he tried again. This time, it opened. He rushed to Keyes’s side.

  No reaction from the captain. Husher put a hand on his shoulder, turning the man toward him.

  He gasped. Keyes was almost unrecognizable. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and his face was covered in blistered abrasions, which had split in several places. The one eye that was visible seemed to stare into space at nothing.

  Husher shook him gently. “Captain?”

  At last, the eye focused on him. “Husher.”

  “We’re getting you out of here. Can you walk?”

  Keyes pushed himself up, leaning heavily on the wall. When Husher offered his arm, he leaned on that.

  “Let’s go,” Husher said, and they made their way out of the cell, as quickly as the captain could manage.

  In the hallway, Keyes glanced at the Gok, who was still savaging the corpse. But the captain made no remark.

  Husher nodded at Wahlburg, and the sniper leveled the tranq gun at the alien, firing a diamond-tipped dart that punched through the fabric at the seam where Tort’s helmet met his suit.

  “Let’s go,” Husher said over a wide channel. “Work together to lift the Gok onto the gurney as fast as you can. We need to get back to the shuttle.” They’d brought an extra pressure suit with them, for Keyes, but Husher decided to wait until they reached the airlock to get him into it.

  He didn’t feel as good as he’d expected to, freeing the captain. It felt like victory, but not quite as pure a victory as he’d hoped.

  The captain seemed changed by his captivity. Husher had no idea what shape that change might take, going forward, but he felt certain that whatever it was, there would be no going back.

  Chapter 76

  Old Steel

  Arsenyev instructed Piper to send the two shield ships in the best condition to meet the shuttle coming up from the platform. That way, the shuttle could fly between them, protected from turret fire for as long as the ships flanking it held together.

  Since she’d taken command of the Providence, the battle had been slowly turning in their favor. Warren Husher’s lapses had left a lot of tactical options unexplored, which she now pursued with a vengeance.

  He’d simply been lobbing missiles at the destroyer in the hopes that it would allow the Condors to use alpha strikes in order to take out critical components. But Arsenyev chose her targets with care, alternately going after the destroyer’s engines and the point defense turrets themselves.

  That had the dual effect of diverting even more of the enemy captain’s attention to the incoming missiles, given the criticality of their targets, while crippling the destroyer further whenever a Banshee did land. And as Arsenyev fired Banshees at one type of target, she directed kinetic impactors at the other.

  Fesky quickly adapted to the tactics change from her captain, as any good CAG should. But Fesky wasn’t just good. She was almost certainly the best, and she masterfully exploited the increased pressure applied by the Providence, organizing her pilots to take down yet more turrets.

  When the destroyer’s point defense system was sufficiently weakened, Fesky set her Air Group to executing rotating alpha strikes, with various squadrons targeting parts of the destroyer at random. Combined with Arsenyev’s more methodical approach, the unpredictable nature of the air strikes served to wreak havoc on the enemy’s disposition, which manifested in an increasing number of slip-ups. We’re doing it.

  But with two fewer shield ships, the Providence was taking heavy fire from the defense platform’s turrets, and so it came as a relief when the captain of the Goliath sent a message signaling that he wished to yield.

  “Get him on the main viewscreen, Coms,” Arsenyev said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The man who appeared on the screen looked about as old and dusty as the destroyer he captained. His white beard badly needed a trim, and his wiry hair stuck up in a way that put Arsenyev in mind of a stressed-out Winger.

  “I yield,” he said. “Well fought.”

  “And you. I will accept your request, provided you can get Hades’ turrets to stop firing at us immediately. You have thirty seconds.”

  The captain of the Goliath inclined his head and ended the transmission. Within the timeframe Arsenyev had allotted, the orders had apparently been sent and accepted, since all pressure from the orbital defense platform ceased. That drew a sigh of relief from her. She switched to a fleetwide channel. “All Condors, return to base.”

  As soon as she received word that the shuttle containing Husher, Caine, and Captain Keyes was on board, Arsenyev ordered her Nav officer to set a course out of the system. To her surprise, just minutes later, the party from the shuttle entered the CIC.

  She stifled a gasp when her eyes fell on the captain, and her heart rate felt like it tripled. Oh no…

  Husher escorted Keyes to the Captain’s chair, where Arsenyev still sat, gaping at him. She turned to the young officer supporting the captain. “Lieutenant, Captain Keyes is clearly in no condition—”

  “Trust me, Ensign, I wanted to take him to sick bay. He insisted on coming here. Called it a direct order.”

  Though it must have caused him incredible pain to talk, Keyes moved his cracked lips, rasping, “If I may, Arsenyev.”

  Slowly, she nodded and rose to her feet, moving out of the captain’s way.

  Keyes settled into the chair, struggling to lift his arms to the armrests, as though they were metal weights. Once he’d arranged himself to his liking, he stared at the Captain’s console for a long time, breath coming in ragged heaves. It occurred to Arsenyev that the captain was about to cry.

  But he did not cry. He spoke again, with the deliberate manner of a man afraid of breaking something. Perhaps himself. “This is where I belong. The next time I’m parted from this chair, it will be by my death.”

  A long silence followed, during which Keyes’s eyes remained on the deck while he seemed to compose himself. He keeps having to do that. How long could the captain keep this up without first taking a long rest in sick bay?

  But when Keyes raised his eyes again, some of their old steel had returned. They fell on Husher. “You captained my ship for a time. Did you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet you do not hold the rank of captain.”

  Husher paused before answering. “No.”

  “You held it once. The old UHF demoted you. This is the new UHF, and as an officer of it, I am promoting you again, from first lieutenant to captain.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Keyes nodded, the same way he did everything now, slowly, deliberately. His eyes fell on Arsenyev. “Fesky has already been in touch to tell me what happened during this engagement. You held things together here when they were falling apart. I am promoting you to lieutenant, and I’m making you XO of this ship.”

  Warmth radiated through Arsenyev’s chest, though her joy was tempered by her concern for the captain. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

  “The war continues, and we will hold brief promotion ceremonies for you both, but only provided the war effort leaves us with extra time. Somehow, I doubt it will. Bring me Warren Husher.”

  It took several minutes for a marine to escort the old war hero from his chambers. When he finally arrived, to stand before the Captain’s chair with shoulders slumped, it occurred to Arsenyev that Warren Husher and the captain bore
a resemblance now that they hadn’t before. Both had been through terrible ordeals, and both labored under the weight of them.

  Keyes’s swollen face again began the painful process of speech. “Fesky tells me you faltered when the need was greatest, old friend.”

  Warren didn’t seem able to take his eyes off of the deck. “It’s true.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe, my time with the Ixa…they changed me, Leonard. Did something to my brain.”

  A nod from the captain. “Hmm. You did no irreparable damage. I hope, in time, you can free yourself from the Ixan taint. Until such time, you must hold no command. Indeed, you must hold no rank of any kind.”

  “I understand. I think…I think I can fight it off. In time.”

  But to Arsenyev, Warren didn’t truly look convinced.

  Chapter 77

  Suicide Run

  “Another Roostship has fallen, Flockhead,” the sensors adjutant said quietly.

  But Ek already knew. She had noticed the icon vanish from the tactical display, even though the display was still populated by thousands of icons. Acknowledging the adjutant’s report with the barest nod, she returned to giving the Winger fleet orders based on her comprehensive analysis of the state of play. Occasionally her vision swam, and at those times, only the seat’s straps kept her in it. Even then, she did her best to ignore her body’s trials, instead riveting her attention to her strategizing.

  Talon pilots would fight to the death to protect their Roostships, and unfortunately, that was exactly what this battle required of them. With every hour that passed, they fell by the dozens, while the enemy’s losses slowed. Carrow destroyed more and more Roostships, and the pirates’ numbers were cut almost in half, with Korbyn’s warship on its last wings.

  More Roostships arrived in an irregular stream, but with Ek’s main fleet dwindling, and UHF reinforcements arriving all the time, it was not enough to turn the tide. Vaghn’s fleet was still over two hours away, and Ek now knew for certain that even the rogue captain’s arrival would prove meaningless.

  In spite of Ek’s best efforts, she had lost too many ships too quickly. Defeat was inevitable.

  The end to which I have led the Wingers is no more noble than the one they had chosen for themselves.

  To get this far, enraging Carrow with her false surrender had been necessary, but now it prevented her from sparing any of her Wingers’ lives.

  Which meant this battle was nothing more than a glorified suicide run.

  Chapter 78

  Wartime Powers

  It had taken Hurst a lot of effort to arrange this.

  She’d fired official after official who refused to cooperate. It didn’t cost her any sleep to do that. They were short-sighted idiots, who couldn’t understand her plans for the galaxy. Short-sighted idiots get fired.

  Finally, she’d found a former planetary governor with the legal expertise and the willingness to help her draw up legislation that would give her sweeping wartime powers. They included the ability to pass laws without having to involve the Galactic Congress. And since she never intended for war to end during her lifetime, she would always possess these powers.

  One of her first laws would suspend elections during war. For the security of the Commonwealth, of course.

  Once the bill was finished, she handed it to top officials of her party, who had quickly learned not to oppose her. Since her party held a majority in both the Galactic Congress and Senate, and since the opposition party was nothing more than a collection of spineless suckholes, the bill passed with ease.

  She already had her first law prepared. It was not the law suspending elections, though that would come soon. No, it was something to put a final end to the trouble being caused by all these economic terrorists.

  Hurst signed the new law surrounded by top members of her cabinet, all of it recorded and broadcast by a multitude of cameras operated by fawning news organizations. She’d bent them all to her will during recent weeks. That had been easy enough, too.

  Turning briefly to her pet reporter Horace Finkel, Hurst winked at him. He blinked, chin twitching, before he quickly replaced the uncertain expression with a pasted-on smile.

  The new law was signed on camera because Hurst no longer cared about placating the public. Sure, the economy might take a hit, but the corporations need not worry, because she planned to give them the completely deregulated marketplace they had dreamed of for so long. And then there would follow an economic boom. They would never need to take anything but profit into consideration ever again.

  As soon as the new law was signed, Hurst began handing down orders that were now perfectly legal. She had no intention of letting the public digest the implications of her new powers—they would witness the effects of them at the same time news of the law was being disseminated.

  Even before the last camera left her office, Hurst had a small chuckle to herself about the protesters’ main demand, that she resign. Resign? She didn’t think so. The opposite, actually.

  Everyone would soon get used to life under her.

  Chapter 79

  Life on the Line

  Police Sergeant Doucet held his com to his ear, but he could barely feel it there. It was as though his entire body had gone numb.

  “Chief, are…are you sure about this?”

  The chief sighed. “I don’t like it either, Doucet. And I don’t mind telling you that I expect this to keep me up at night, for many months. But orders are orders, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Say it, Doucet.”

  “Orders are orders, sir.”

  “Good man. Now…” The chief cleared his throat. “Now go do your job. If you want to keep it, you’ll do it.” The call ended.

  Stomach heavy, Doucet trudged toward the front of the police line, holding out his hand as he passed Corporal Bradley. “Give me the bullhorn,” he said, his voice toneless and dull in his own ears. Bradley relinquished it.

  “Form ranks,” Doucet said into the bullhorn, and his police fell in, as orderly and efficient as always. He dropped the bullhorn to his side as he continued to the front, so that he could at least look the protesters in the eyes as he gave the next order. He owed them that much.

  Noise levels had fallen to unusual lows, leaving only the sounds of the Martian winter, which were few. Gradually, more and more people were turning to focus on Doucet—demonstrators, reporters. The police remained in their ranks, staring forward.

  Slowly, he raised the bullhorn to his lips once again, and he paused, eyes scanning the people assembled before him on the road. The veterans had arrayed themselves in front, all in full uniform, a reminder of the sacrifices they’d made for the Commonwealth. Of the risks they’d taken, and of the risks they continued to take.

  Just say it. The next order he had to give consisted only of two words.

  Open fire.

  The protesters, who called themselves defenders, were eyeing him, wearing uncertain expressions. They didn’t know what was about to happen. And soon, they wouldn’t know anything. There would be nothing left for them to know.

  Doucet opened his mouth, first taking a deep breath, feeling as though he was going to vomit. Say it, Doucet. Say it.

  His hand fell to his side, and the bullhorn clattered to the pavement. Taking a step forward, he hesitated, and scooped up the bullhorn again. Then he crossed the open space between the police line and the protesters.

  Bewildered expressions dawned on the faces of the protesters, and even on those of the veterans, who’d no doubt witnessed far more than the average person. Far more than they’d ever wanted to, probably.

  Doucet stopped just in front of the veterans and turned around. Then he raised the bullhorn once more.

  “I’ve been given the order to open fire on the protesters. Apparently, President Hurst decided the only way to bring the public in line with her thinking is to start killing them until those that survive are too afrai
d to continue objecting. I can’t carry water for this president any longer. In my time as a police officer, I’ve put my life on the line too many times for the public. Now it’s time for me to do that again. If your conscience allows you to follow Hurst’s order, then I guess you’d better start firing. But I will be one of the people you kill.”

  In the silence that followed, Doucet unbuckled his gun belt and tossed it to land on the road a few feet away.

  The police officers stared across the divide from their ranks, the same officers that he’d led in the effort to quell the protests over the past weeks. Many of them wore the blank expressions instilled by their training, but others wore their emotions plainly, with anger, fear, and confusion all warring on their faces.

  Then, without warning, one of the newest officers unbuckled his gun belt and dropped it to the ground. He walked across the stretch of empty pavement to stand alongside Doucet, thumbs tucked into his pockets.

  Another officer removed her gun belt too, letting it fall to the pavement before walking over.

  The floodgates broke, then, and the police started crossing over to the protesters in twos and threes, fives and sixes. Soon, only the media stood on the side the police once had. They all looked dumbfounded, but they continued to do the one thing they knew how to. They recorded the event, and they broadcast it.

  The veteran with the Scottish accent spoke from behind Doucet, quietly: “Oorah.”

  Doucet nodded, and he put his fist in the air, a little uncertainly at first. “Oorah,” he said.

  And then, just like that, the entire crowd was chanting it, the police officers included: “Oorah! Oorah! Oorah!”

  Chapter 80

  Immediate Self-Interest

  Even with certain death approaching, Ek did not stop analyzing the flow of the battle and giving the most effective orders she could based on her analysis. Retreat was not an option, and that did not come from any misguided notion of valor. If her fleet tried to disengage, Carrow would pounce, decimating them before they came anywhere near the closest darkgate.