Killswitch: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel (v1.1)

by Joel Shepherd

  Rusdihardjo's hands grasped so tightly upon her chair restraints that she nearly buckled metal alloy. "Get off my ship, you mechanical bitch!" she hissed.

  "This reply is not acceptable," Kresnov said calmly. "You underestimated this world, Captain, as you've underestimated the will of the entire Federation. I'll give you one last chance to save the lives of your people. "

  "Get the fuck off this channel!"

  "Wrong answer." The connection ceased.

  "Priority!" yelled com. "Two marks, intercept trajectory ... !" Rusdihardjo's screen lit with multilayered graphics, plotting an emerging course on a direct line toward Amazon ...

  "Oh by the Prophet ..." Rusdihardjo murmured as her eyes followed the trajectory trail back to its origin.

  "It came from the planet!" yelled Tactical. "Northern continent, grid reference 144 by 381!"

  From out in the vast Callayan wild, there came multiple strikemissiles, accelerating at forces that could only mean a modern reaction drive, for a projectile that size and mass. But they'd tracked all imported materials and systems to Callay for years! There was no way they'd imported such a sophisticated weapons system directly under watchful Federal Intelligence eyes. Unless ... unless they'd built one themselves? Equally impossible-from Callay's neophyte armament industry status to cutting edge in two years? It just couldn't be ...

  Amazon applied main engines too late, a silent roar of bonecrushing power that surely smashed any unsecured bodies to pulp and drove breath from the lungs at close to ten-Gs ... both missiles struck before the pilot could rotate to bring defensive armaments into line. Amazon disappeared in a huge, pyrotechnic flash, nav-signal fracturing in a million directions, close-zoom visual blanking out completely ...

  "The planet is live!" someone was shouting on com. "They've got it rigged, that trajectory was directly across station orbits! We're going to have to assume the entire orbital access is covered ... "

  Should have scanned, Rusdihardjo thought dazedly. Should have scanned from orbit. The construction activity should have been visible, if nothing else. It had not even crossed anyone's mind that Callay could build such systems so quickly. Two years to prepare for this moment, and no one had thought to check. With two serious warships on highV approach, they needed to get vessels undocked and burning for outbound velocity to meet the threat. But anyone who undocked was a target ... defensive systems could counter some planetary assaults, but doing so forced evasive manoeuvres that would throw outbound burns wildly off-course. They were trapped.

  Vanessa strode the corridor outside the bridge, stepping carefully to avoid bodies, bits of torn metal from walls, ceiling or armour plate, and discarded equipment. The thick smoke made it difficult to seelife support on this level had broken down, and much of the lighting was out from shrapnel or bullet strikes. They'd passed CDF wounded on the way up, being evacuated to emergency medical teams in safe zones on lower decks. Now, she stood aside as the same was done for several Fifth Fleet wounded. The dead remained where they'd fallen, mostly marines, but including another three Cal-Ts. The tally was nineteen so far. Sometimes she hated tac-net's precision.

  The smoke was flowing into the bridge through the damaged blast doors, a sure sign that the bridge's separate life support systems remained functional. Vanessa strode in past Third Fleet marine guards with Mekong clearly emblazoned upon their shoulder armour, and found Captain Reichardt supervising bridge posts filled with temporary crew, a mix of his own marines and partially qualified Cal-Ts, watching the systems. To one side, bodies were piled in a grisly tangle of arms and legs, clearing walking space the only way possible. There was blood all over the deck, spattered upon chairs and control panels among bullet and shrapnel holes.

  "Show me," she said to Reichardt, coming to stand at his side as a Mekong marine stood respectfully aside. Reichardt pointed to the display, manned by another marine sans-helmet ... damaged bridge systems and inexperienced bridge crew meant that some readings were not uplinking to tac-net as they ought.

  Vanessa flipped up her visor, and peered at the station display. It showed the broad station wheel, with a particular focus upon the central hub. The station reactor glowed multiple shades of red and orange. Coolant flows were tracked up and down the station arms, technical grapics to one side indicated a range of temperature and magnetic readings that would surely make more sense to a fusion technician ... except that some of them were flashing red, and displayed alongside other numbers that appeared to indicate the optimum reading. The figures did not match, and the mis-match appeared to be increasing.

  "How long?" she asked Reichardt.

  "Twenty-eight minutes before it goes critical," Reichardt replied grimly. "I think it's a marine Lieutenant Colonel named Bhatt."

  Vanessa winced, trying to recall that particular briefing. "What's he like?"

  "Arsehole," Reichardt replied, predictably. "He's not responding. We thought he might be around here ..." pointing to another part of the station, "... over in red sector, supervising the station maintenance schedules after all the mech-shop folks refused to keep working. Well, now we reckon he took an elevator up the arm and commandeered the reactor. The elevators are all sabotaged, we've got one of our teams headed up the three-arm, but your guys in the two-arm are closest."

  Vanessa nodded, and opened her link. "General? Captain Reichardt estimates twenty-eight minutes before we lose the reactor."

  "I copy that, Major," came Krishnaswali's reply. He sounded faintly out of breath, the rhythmic thudding of footsteps in the background, as if he were moving at speed. "We're nearly halfway up to judge from the gravity, we're receiving sporadic small arms fire from the top, firing straight down the arm. " A loud, unmistakable thud. "Grenades too. We are laying suppressing fire where possible, but we've already taken two wounded and will undoubtedly take more as we get closer. "

  "We could do a vacuum assault," Reichardt said in a low voice to Vanessa's side, off-net and not audible to Krishnaswali. "Undock a ship, we'd just make the deadline."

  "Too much risk and not enough time," Vanessa replied, momentarily off-net. And reconnected. "General, the containment mechanisms on that reactor ensure it won't go thermonuclear no matter what they do to it. A failure is survivable. If you feel the casualties aren't worth it, best that you back off-we're in the process of gaining control of the space lanes, we can evac all station personnel off on ships or escape pods before the emergency batteries drain and we lose life support."

  "Major," Krishnaswali replied with a note of familiar, stern reprimand even past the exertion, "this reactor will take months to replace or repair. I will not allow some fanatical fool to put this planet's primary trading station out of action for that period. A damaged economy will cripple everything the government is attempting to achieve vis-a-vis reforming the Federation. I assure you it shall not happen. "

  He disconnected. Vanessa restrained a low mutter. And looked up at Reichardt-a long way up for her, even in armour. His lean, angular face was deadpan, almost nonchalant. As if he'd barely noticed the dried blood from a cut upon his jaw, nor the surrounding carnage, nor the acrid smell in his nostrils. Sandy had described some of the station actions during the war to her. Descriptions that gave some insight into the mindset of Fleet soldiers of any insignia. Reichardt had seen worse than this. They all had. Reichardt seemed to be more than just acting calm. He was calm. Combat-reflex, it seemed, was not exclusive to GIs.

  "Damn fool's determined to get himself killed," Vanessa said darkly.

  "Cut him some slack," Reichardt remarked. "Can't be easy taking orders from a major. He's got his hero moment, let him take it."

  "Officers getting themselves killed is one thing," she retorted. "Getting my troops killed is another. If he's got a problem with taking my orders, he should have spent more time building his combat competency instead of his management style. He didn't have to come along, I told him that."

  "I bet you did. Can he do this?" Nodding to the screen.

 
Vanessa exhaled hard. And gave a sharp shrug, mostly hidden within the armour. "Shit, I don't know. Maybe. That's Spec-Lieutenant Mutande up the three-arm?"

  "Yep. One of my best."

  "Well, let's make sure they keep talking." It was amazing how calm she felt, considering everything that had just happened. Colours were sharp, smells distinct, sounds crisp and immediate. The whole thing felt curiously out-of-body. Somehow, she was not particularly self-aware-not of her body, her various aches and pains, her fears or concerns. There was just the situation, broad, varied and fast-moving ... and somehow, in an utterly impersonal manner, that situation included herself.

  She saw something else upon a neighbouring screen, and frowned at it. "Corona's still here. Any idea why?"

  "A lot of people weren't on their ships when the GBS went down. I don't think Takawashi was. I've no idea about your buddy Jane."

  "It's a damn wonder they didn't leave days ago ..." as she linked to another specific channel. "Sandy? Captain Reichardt thinks maybe Takawashi wasn't on Corona at zero-hour. If he's stuck somewhere in the fighting, there might be a chance we can grab him. Maybe Jane too."

  "For God's sake don't let anyone try and take Jane," came the familiar reply in her ear. "If she goes looking for him, she's mine. "

  On the tac-net, one particular dot on board Euphrates began moving, its constant companion staying close to its side.

  "That's personal, I take it?" Reichardt remarked to Vanessa.

  "Could say."

  "Well I hope she makes it. I'm gonna need some people to write to me in my prison cell when this is over."

  Vanessa snorted. "I'll send you a cake with a GI inside."

  "Will she jump out naked and dance for me?"

  "Could be arranged."

  "Well now, that'd be dandy."

  Sandy took off running down the dock from Berth Four, headed downspin toward Amazon's abandoned Berth Two. Rhian followed close behind, leaving the stricken Euphrates' main access guarded by an advance perimeter-defence squad of Mekong marines, plus a CDF AMAPS that had waddled into position behind a cargo flatbed, twin rotary cannon arms scanning the docks for any sign of trouble. Warning lights flashed, lighting the broad, metallic expanse with strobing red, and a klaxon echoed from the overhead. Smoke drifted lightly in some places, remnants from exchanges of fire, though it seemed nothing combustible had ignited upon the docks.

  Sandy and Rhian ran past the bodies of fallen Amazon marines in front of Berth Two, hugging the outer wall and weaving amidst the available cover of the containers. Tac-net showed a promising picture, immediate strategic objectives achieved and perimeters established. Now it was the Fifth Fleet marines forced to regroup from their initial, scattered locations, and figure their next plan of attack. Now that Mekong marines had reached the engineering bays that had been reconfigured for use as mass detention cells, that was going to be a whole lot more difficult.

  Reports indicated hundreds of very angry Nehru Station dockworkers moving quickly to help establish defensive barricades with welding and electrical jury-rigs. Some top-side women were setting themselves as human shields, linking arms across hallways and daring marines to shoot their way through. Dockworkers had infuriated Fifth Fleet marines enough lately that they might be tempted. But white collar, urbane Callayan femininity was something else entirely. A visual Sandy had accessed from a nearby Cal-T showed a line of elegant saris and other gowns, dark hair in crimps and braids, and a lot of flashing jewellery. She hadn't recognised what they'd been chanting, but the name of Gandhi-ji had been mentioned, unsurprisingly ... although the problem now seemed to be that they were threatening to blockade all combatants, be they Callayan, Third or Fifth Fleet. Well, fine, she thought as she ran in pounding, armoured steps along the deckplates-just so long as no one breached those lines.

  The dock ahead seemed clear of soldiers or civilians as they passed Berth One and headed for Berth Thirty. Corona was at Berth Twentyfive, just beyond the lowest point of the ceiling horizon ahead.

  "Cap," Rhian remarked, "I don't understand those women. Don't they want the station back?"

  "Not by force they don't." Sandy pulled in beside the raised platform beside the Berth Thirty docks, angling for a good fire position and wary of blindspots ahead behind the space-wall gantries. Heavy pipes wrapped around the massive brace reinforcements, anchoring one end of the docking grapples outside. Rhian raced past, headed for the next available cover-a wall-mounted hose that plunged through the decking. No warships here meant no conveniently arranged containers for cover.

  "That's an ideology, huh." Sandy had been trying to explain ideologies to Rhian, on and off. Among other oddities.

  "Yes, it is." She hurdled the platform railing, dodged through the security desks and detectors there and jumped the other end, passing Rhian with her weapon ready for surprises. It was a League vessel they were approaching. Jane might not be the only GI they had to worry about. "Remember I told you about Gandhi? He's big on Callay."

  "History again."

  "Culture, more like. It's the same thing." She kept running until she hit the next major air hose against the wall, and braced.

  "You don't agree with them?" As Rhian started running.

  "Course not."

  "So why tolerate them? We're in charge here."

  "Right now they're helping as much as anything." As Rhian dashed past, headed for the Berth Twenty-nine platform. "And besides, where would civilisation be if people weren't idealistic?"

  "Even if the ideals are stupid?"

  "Who decides what's stupid?" Rhian skidded into cover, and Sandy took off.

  "Democracy again, huh?"

  "Sure. A conflict of ideals. The stronger ideals win."

  "So everything's a conflict. Doesn't that kind of prove your point?"

  "Now you're getting it."

  Across on one of the other stations, the Fifth Fleet cruiser Stockholm had pulled free. Already two reaction-warheads had been launched, accelerating all the way. If Stockholm didn't manoeuvre real soon, there wasn't going to be a lot left. Pearl River and Kutch were coming back fast, a strike run if ever she'd seen one. The kind of approach that was to FTL space warfare what the high ground had once been to openground infantry warfare, before infotech and modern weaponry had rendered mere spatial considerations insignificant. Their new flagship out of action, their old flagship mostly destroyed, the Fifth Fleet were wavering, trapped between the conflicting demands of maintaining station occupation on the one hand, opposing the incoming Third Fleet assault on the other, and avoiding destruction by planet-based missile systems on the third. No military commanders, in Sandy's experience, had three hands.

  She raced in behind an abandoned flatbed laden with smaller dockside cans, peering about the wall-side end as Rhian came sprinting up behind ...

  "Cover!" she announced, fixing upon a sudden appearance from an inner wall hatchway another hundred metres up the curve, directly opposite Berth Twenty-five. Rhian saw immediately what she saw, and kept the flatbed between her approach and the object of Sandy's attention-a squat, bald man in dark glasses and a suit, an automatic weapon in one hand. Not a GI, Sandy reckoned with a visual shift to IR, to judge from the body temperature. Clearly he was covering the approach to Berth Twenty-five. Just as clearly there would be a corresponding guard at the outer wall, covering the entry. A quick flash through cybernetic memory files found no visual match for the face.

  "If he's League," Rhian said a moment later, having taken cover at the flatbed's opposite end with a good visual on the target, "then I can't find any match. And I updated all my files a week ago."

  "How comprehensive are Embassy files?" Sandy asked, keeping her rifle lowered to present the minimum profile. More proof that he wasn't a GI-he hadn't spotted them yet. Or didn't appear to have.

  "I'd recognise the face if he were ISO." Rhian was still nominally ISO. At least until the paperwork came through, anyhow. "Or if he were a part of Cognizant's security party-they were all
listed. He's not there."

  The man ducked back into the hatchway, located between an Indonesian restaurant and an entertainment parlour, windowfronts awash with garish neon. Probably he was waiting for someone. From his movements, Sandy reckoned they were overdue, or he was impatient to be gone, or both. She snap-stored the image, dialed a new connection, and achieved a time-delay on the link back to Tanusha, via satellite relay now that the other stations' corns had been shut down by Fifth Fleet occupiers.

  "Intel," she said, "I need an ID on this man." And sent the image with little more than a thought.

  "Hold on, Snowcat," came the reply, after several seconds' delay. "It's not on the available database, let me check ... "

  "Sandy," came Ari's voice over the top, unsurprisingly, "that guy's FIA. I don't have a name, just trust me, he's FIA, I got a separate list that's not on the main database. You're opposite Berth Twenty-five?"

  "Yeah. Looks like Takawashi's been talking to Federal Intelligence. That would explain why Corona's still here."

  "Goddamn Fifth Fleet occupation's become a haven for FIA remnants," Ari replied after a two-second delay. "Should have guessed ... look, this is good shit. Can you get some of these guys alive? If we prove the Fifth was in bed with the same FIA guys who've been fucking us the last few years, we'll be clear."

  "Jane's my priority, Ari," Sandy replied with mild reprimand. "We can't let her escape."

  "I thought the priority was to retake the station?" Rhian remarked doubtfully. Which was the first time in memory Rhian had ever questioned her operational tactics. One of these days she'd have to start keeping a diary, to keep track of all these momentous developments.