First Comes Duty (The Hope Island Chronicles Book 2)

by PJ Strebor

  Errol shook his head and with two fingers walking along his leg, indicated patrols only.

  I’ll clear a path to the hangar, Errol continued. You cover me.

  Nathan nodded. The “former” special ops officer disappeared into the darkness. Time passed. Below, a guard leaned against the hangar’s wall. Then, he didn’t. The brutal exercise continued in the same vein: the fast movements of shadows, guards disappearing.

  At any moment a light could snap on, an alarm wail, raking fire from multiple positions, tearing their small force to pieces. If, if, if.

  Finally, movement from inside the hangar: Errol’s raised thumb.

  Joining the rest of the team, they made their way down the steep incline and into the hangar. Light glanced in from skylights, and shortly he could define shapes and the outlay of the place. Only one of the fighters sat within the hangar.

  With Eleanor’s help, they shifted a gantry to the Kamora, then silently took the steps up to the exposed combat chairs. In the weak light, he could not tell if this was the first or second prototype.

  Eleanor slid into the back seat and began to run systems diagnostics. Nathan retrieved the comm headpiece that hung from the control column and placed it into his left ear.

  The teams had spread out around the hangar, covering every entry point. The ticking clock in Nathan’s head would not relent.

  Eleanor tugged urgently on his jacket. He placed his ear close to her mouth.

  “This is prototype two. No access codes.”

  Damn.

  The overhead lights snapped on, flooding the hangar with brilliant illumination. Nathan dragged the Cimmerian designer from the fighter and ran down the stairs. He dashed to the main entrance where Errol kept guard. The entire compound had turned as bright as daylight. From the western ramparts, the runway landing lights glowed.

  In the distance, the sound of an approaching craft.

  CHAPTER 58

  King Everett the First, unquestioned monarch of the Cimmerian System, leaned back in the seat of his personal fighter. This night’s negotiations sent a satisfied glow coursing through his body. The Bretish would get what they deserved, and Cimmeria would be saved from destruction.

  “Your Majesty,” the pilot said, “we’re on final approach and should be landing in a few minutes.”

  Everett nodded absently, then remembered to key his mike.

  “About time, Commander.”

  Why did negotiations have to take place at such an ungodly hour? Still, the deal had been made. Perhaps, now that he had saved Cimmeria from devastation, the ungrateful populace would learn to love and respect him. For the moment, he thought only of a hot bath and a bed, pre-warmed by one of his concubines.

  A slight rumbling through his seat marked touchdown. He looked forward to escaping his confinement and stretching his legs. In time, the whine of the engines died and he was ready to depart. How does it go again? Oh, yes.

  “SMC, retrieval on my mark. Mark.”

  The contraption stuttered and rose a few centimeters.

  “Commander!”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, I’m working on it.”

  The second time in a week this damn thing has malfunctioned. Perhaps I need to return to the ancient times and start chopping off heads.

  Presently the seat rose to the top of the craft, where attendants unbuckled him and helped him from his seat. He stood with a noticeable grunt. Perhaps my doctor was right. I may well have put on a few kilos, of late.

  Waiting at the bottom of the steps, the lord high chancellor looked concerned.

  “Majesty, how went the negotiations?”

  “Everything is fine, Reginald. I found the negotiator to be most accommodating.”

  “Good news, indeed.” Relief painted the chancellor’s face. “Perhaps an announcement is in order, Majesty? A speech to quell the people’s concerns?”

  Everett nodded indulgently. “Perhaps. Hmm. I could start right now, could I not?”

  The perpetually anxious chancellor rubbed his hands together. “As Your Majesty wishes.”

  Yes, as I wish. Supply my allies with as much crystal as they can carry, and I can do anything I wish. Anything.”

  King Everett strode from the hangar, surrounded by his personal guard. He beckoned to his guard captain.

  “Captain Haynes, I am going to make a speech.”

  “I will see to the arrangements, Majesty.”

  “Of course you will. But what I want to know, Nigel, is — hmm, how do I put this? — I do not need the people’s approval, as you know, but surely, when I become the savior of this world, will they not rejoice and see me as their rightful monarch?”

  “Good news, Majesty, will always be welcomed by the people.” Nigel Haynes, ever the diplomat, told him precisely what he wanted to hear.

  Everett stopped, turning to face his guard captain.

  “With my network of spies, do you not think I know of the ugly rumors that have grown over the years? That I have usurped the throne? That I am little more than a lackey of the Bretish Commonwealth? Oh, yes, I’ve heard all the ugly, dishonest, foul rumors. Or, do you think me a fool, Captain?”

  “My only wish, Majesty, is to spare you from such subversive treachery by handling the situation myself.”

  “Really, Captain? Have the rumors stopped, or even slowed down? Have you snuffed out this pathetic rebellion? And where are the anarchists, Captain? Rotting in cells where they belong? Hanging from a gallows in the city square? Decaying in unmarked graves, as is proper for those plotting against the crown? No, no and no, Captain Haynes.”

  Haynes had the good sense not to make excuses.

  “We, meaning you, have been far too lenient on these subversive elements. I want it stopped. Nigel, we might be of the same bloodline, but that will excuse your incompetence for only so long. Fix the problem, or I shall find someone who will. Is my meaning clear, sir?”

  “As trephine crystal, Majesty.”

  “Added to your failure, you allowed that outlander to get the better of you. Again.”

  “He’s a devil, to be sure, Majesty. But he’s dead now, along with the other Athenians.”

  “Yes. Imagine trying to escape our missile batteries. He died like a fool.”

  Everett strode to the hastily prepared podium, made sure the recorders got his best profile, and spoke into the mike. “People of Cimmeria, your king has wonderful news. I have, this night, concluded negotiations with the powers currently in control of our space. For a small quantity of our abundant resources, I have been assured that not a single Cimmerian will come to any harm. As I did during our war of independence, I have once again risked my life for my planet, my people.”

  His personal guard cheered the news. A token smattering of applause followed from the majority of onlookers.

  “Thanks to my efforts, my fellow Cimmerians, we shall enjoy the fruits of our labors. One planet, one people, dedicated—”

  A howling, high-pitched scream drowned out the rest of his words. Everett shouted for an explanation, but his words were drowned out by the din. He turned to Captain Haynes, who had disappeared. The king looked to his personal guard. They lay on the ground, pulsar scorch marks on their chests.

  The Kamora fighter, his personal fighter, slid from the hangar. Pulsar fire bounced from its armored hull as it headed toward the main gate.

  “Stop it. Stop it,” he yelled into the shrieking noise. More pulsar fire rained down on the ship, to no effect. It couldn’t get away. The main gates remained securely barred.

  Twin, high-yield pulsars erupted from the Kamora’s nose. The gate exploded into thousands of small pieces. The fighter passed through and onto the runway. His runway, his fighter, his Royal Palace.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” he screamed.

  The firing ended and a deathly pall fell over the compound. Then he saw her, a spirit from his past, an impossible nightmare returned in a waking dream.

  Who was that beside her on the parape
t? Gareth Sobers? “This can’t be happening,” he screamed.

  “The rightful heir to the crown has returned from exile at last,” Sobers shouted. “All hail, Queen Felicia.”

  A cheer went up, the like of which Everett had not heard in more than twenty years.

  CHAPTER 59

  Nathan glanced back, as the Kamora screamed down the runway. Running out in the middle of a fire-fight did not sit well with him. But the job had to get done. He could only hope that all those brave lunatics he had convinced to join his mission would survive the night.

  Nathan tagged his external mike. “Hang onto your lunch, Emile. Going vertical, now.”

  Pushing the throttles full forward, he pulled back on the control column. The sleek fighter shot skyward like a missile on kesium. “Oh, you beautiful big beast.”

  “What’s that?” Emile sounded as if the seven gees were getting to him.

  “Ah, nothing.”

  Damn, Telford, turn off the damn mike when you’re finished.

  “I feel sick to my stomach.”

  “Just breathe deeply. It’ll pass.”

  Nathan adjusted the bandana around his head. In the last minutes before jumping aboard the Kamora, he’d had the presence of mind to tie back his long hair. There had been no time to don his V-suit. Holding the yoke between his knees, he adjusted the harness to better keep him firmly in his chair.

  A groan over his earpiece did not bode well.

  “I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  Faster than he could imagine, his ship left atmosphere behind and slipped into orbit. Clear space greeted him. No indication of yesterday’s savage battle could be seen.

  “SMC, locate the King Charles Battle Platform.”

  “Coordinates 126 by 350 by 076. Range twenty-one thousand kilometers.”

  Nathan locked his nav-com on to the coordinates while coming about. There she was, off to his three o’clock position, her lethal batteries aimed at the high orbital holding area and not at the Grand Channel. He approached the megalith side-on, as her pulsar turrets tracked his every movement.

  “King Everett, please input your access codes,” an odd-sounding computer voice said.

  “Now, Emile.”

  “What?”

  “The access codes.”

  “Yes, I’m finding it.”

  The massive landing bay loomed ahead. The pulsar turrets continued to track him.

  “King Everett, please input your access codes.” No question this time. A threat. Have the Brets been messing around with AIs again?

  “Emile?”

  “Almost there.”

  Nathan gritted his teeth. Come on you Franc—

  “Access codes accepted. Welcome aboard, King Everett. Please be aware of heightened security protocols.”

  “All done,” Emile said. “What do we do now?”

  “Stay where you are until I check out the lay of the land.”

  “Roger that.”

  Nathan maneuvered his fighter into the boat bay, coming about to point her bow-on to the exit.

  “SMC, scan for anomalies within the battle platform.”

  “Minute quantities of kalbutine gas detected. One part per two hundred thousand. Non-hazardous to human physiology in such quantities.”

  “SMC, scan for crew complement.”

  “All fifty-seven crew of King Charles Battle Platform accounted for.”

  Nathan groaned. “SMC, report on physical condition of crewmembers.”

  “All crew are suffering the effects of kalbutine exposure. Currently unconscious. Expected time to full recovery: two hours, fourteen minutes. Unless further exposure to kalbutine gas is instigated.”

  So, if Poly detects unwanted visitors, she’ll gas us? But not kill us? Curious.

  Nathan reached into the pack strapped to the back of his chair. He removed the re-breather and mini-comp, both supplied by Eleanor Doucet. He donned the re-breather. “SMC, retrieve on my mark. Mark.”

  The combat chair shuddered upward, barely staggering its way clear of the iris. Nathan slid onto the port dorsal and dropped to the deck. He attached the mini-comp to his webbing and tied it in to his earpiece.

  “Compad, online.”

  “Online,” it replied. This computer had none of his DRP’s sophistication. A basic mobile unit, but better than nothing.

  Wheeling a light maintenance gantry over, he set it against the leading edge of the Kamora’s wing.

  “Compad, scan for kalbutine gas in quantities exceeding one part per two hundred thousand. Advise immediately of any change. Confirm.”

  “Confirmed.”

  He examined the enormous boat bay. Steady green lights from multiple sensor nodes followed his every movement. Still no reaction from Poly.

  “Emile. Retrieve.”

  The Franc officer popped into view without the slightest shudder to his retrieval. Emile stepped shakily down the ladder; his pallid complexion spoke of his zero-gee ordeal.

  Nathan tapped the re-breather hanging from his neck.

  Emile pulled the breather from his pack. As soon as he did so, Nathan snatched the pack from him.

  “Hey, you can’t do that. Captain Roussel gave me strict instructions to keep it with me at all times.”

  The device weighed about eight kilos. Smooth, shiny exterior, deadly contents.

  Nathan gritted his teeth. Francs.

  “What’s its yield?”

  Emile looked at his shoes.

  “This mission is still under my command, Lieutenant. What is its yield? Don’t mumble, Lieutenant Moreau.”

  “It’s only a small one. Point seven five.”

  “Of a megatonne?”

  Emile nodded.

  “You brought a three-quarter-megatonne nuke onto this station and didn’t tell me?”

  “I’m sorry, Nathan. I was under orders from my captain.”

  “And, Lieutenant, you were also under orders from…”

  Nathan caught his blood rising and took a deep, deep breath. Emile wasn’t a line officer. And, after all, he’s a Franc.

  “Where’s the arming device?”

  Emile held up the remote detonator.

  “So, arm here, trigger here. Yes?”

  He nodded, again.

  “Range and time delay.”

  “Range one hundred meters, delay time five seconds.”

  “Magnetic seal.”

  Nod.

  Nathan’s anger was softened by Emile’s puppy dog expression. Yes, you’ve been a bad puppy, haven’t you? Do it again and I rap you on the nose.

  Nathan sighed and shook his head.

  “Very well, Emile, we will, for the time being, disregard this incident. We still have a job to do and I need your help. You’re the best we’ve got at computer sciences.” Nathan grabbed him gently by the shoulder. “Are you willing to work with me, Emile?”

  The young officer sparked up. “Yes, Nathan. I am absolutely committed to the successful completion of our assignment.”

  Nathan stepped up the gantry and gingerly strapped the nuke onto Emile’s combat chair.

  “Let’s take a look around.”

  CHAPTER 60

  Date: 24th March 322 ASC.

  Position: Open space, five light years inside the Cimmerian exclusion zone.

  Status: Talgarno battleship Emaonon’s Vengeance. Alert Condition Two.

  The twelve battleships under Commodore Becklin’s command constituted, in his mind, far more than a fleet. Tonne for tonne, they outmatched anything in the Pruessen Navy. Now these magnificent ships were his. As was the task ahead.

  He paced the briefing room, mumbling obscenities.

  “Wait, wait, wait. Wait for what? For the opportunity to slip through my fingers?” The orbital approach to Cimmeria had been cleared. The impenetrable battle platform was in their hands. His widely dispersed fleet had spread throughout open space, making the chances of detection minimal. Yet with every passing ho
ur the chances of detection increased.

  They needed to attack now. Instead, all he got was wait.

  As a citizen of the empire, he took the prescribed series of treatments allowed only to the privileged minority who had earned citizenship. His seventy-year-old body resembled that of a man in his early forties. Still, he had seventy years of memories, seventy years of accumulated impatience. And this bullshit did not help him control his rising ire.

  His comm beeped.

  “Becklin.”

  “Sir, comm from Admiral Braun. Flash feed text. Your eyes only. Sir.”

  “Put it through to my panel.”

  Becklin took a slow breath before activating his screen.

  Commodore Becklin, you have a go. Good hunting. Admiral Peter Braun, Commander, Strike Force.

  Becklin grinned through set teeth. “About fucking time.”

  Stepping onto the flagship’s bridge, he headed immediately to the communications station. “Lieutenant, signal to all ships. Form up and prepare for battle.”

  The comm officer grinned. “Aye-aye, Sir.”

  His flag captain joined him as he took his seat. He, too, sported a relieved smile.

  “Well, Hans, we’re finally going to see how good these Talgarno ships are in actual combat.”

  “Looking forward to it, Sir.”

  “Yes, I don’t think—”

  “Commodore, flash feed from Noranda’s Promise.”

  “Well, let’s have it.”

  “Sir, message reads: Single warship detected. Bretish Moresby-class destroyer. She is hailing us. Awaiting instructions.”

  Becklin’s first instinct said, kill them. Then he paused. The Brets were a professional outfit. If he was the destroyer’s skipper, he would be sitting on top of an ingression point, ready to escape if things turned tricky. If the small Bretish warship escaped to warn others of his attack force…

  “Comm, put me through to Captain Gungerston, on Noranda’s Promise.”

  CHAPTER 61

  Date: 24th March 322 ASC.

  Position: Open space, five light years inside the Cimmerian exclusion zone.

  Status: Bretish destroyer Ascot. Action stations.