“Not a very bright trick, either,” agreed the ’Pavo’s captain. “Everyone knows Warhammer crashed on Artat over two years ago.”
“Never mind that,” Commodore Gil said. “Give me the comm link.” He keyed the handset. “Space Force Reserve vessel, this is Patrol Screen Actual, over.”
Nearly twenty seconds went by before a response came from the unknown, meaning a ten light-second distance between that ship and the ’Pavo.
“Patrol Screen, this is Warhammer. I transmit in the clear. The Inner Net is down. I say again, the Inner Net is down. You have fifteen minutes, twenty at the outside, before hell’s own horde of Mage warships is all over you. I only got here first because I’m faster than they are.”
“That’s impossible,” muttered the XO. “We’d have heard when they hit the Inner Net.”
“Get on hi-comms,” said Gil to the TAO. “Raise anyone on the Inner Net. Do it now.”
Then he keyed the link. “Roger, Warhammer. Come dead in space. I intend to board you.”
“No time for that, Commodore. I’ve got to get the word back to Galcen.”
In the background, Gil could hear the TAO and the CIC watch officer conferring in muttered undertones: “Whoever he is, he sure is fast.” … “Do you think he’s planning a run-to-jump?” … “Where’ll he end up if he’s running now?” … “Galcen’s on the arc.” … “Then he could be telling the truth.”
Gil ignored them. “I can get word back to Galcen faster than you can, Warhammer,” he said over the link. “Come dead in space and let me board you.”
“No thanks, Commodore. Nobody can get the word there faster than I can—and somebody’s got to bar the door behind me. Open the Net and let me jump.”
Behind Gil, the hushed conference continued, this time in exchanges between the duty comms tech and the ’Pavo’s captain: “Sir, I can’t raise Net Station Twenty-three.” … “Get Shaja, then, or Lachiel; they’ve got picket duty in Twenty-Three’s area.” … “No joy at all on hi-comms, sir.” … “How’s the internal test?”
The link crackled again. “Commodore, it looks like the Magelords have figured out how to jam the hyper-relays. All anybody’s got left is lightspeed line-of-sight comms.”
“Is that possible?” Gil asked—more of the duty comms tech than of Warhammer’s captain, but the voice over the link spoke again anyway:
“It’s possible, Commodore. I saw a Magelord take down a whole. building full of electronics once. And that was just one guy, working on the run, with no prep.”
“Sir,” said the Pavo’s captain, “we can’t raise anyone in the Inner Net.”
“Get me Space Force Command on Galcen, then,” Gil said.
“No joy, sir,” said the comms tech, after a minute. “Looks like that’s down, too.”
Gil sighed. Time to start earning your pay, Commodore.
“Open the Net,” he said. “Pass one.”
“What?” said the ’Pavo’s captain.
“You heard me,” said Gil. He spoke into the comm link. “Warhammer, you have clearance. My respects to your father.”
“Roger,” replied the voice over the link. “Out.”
Gil turned to the captain of the Karipavo. “Captain, pass the following signal to all ships in the fleet in lightspeed comms—”
“Hi-comms would be faster!” the ’Pavo’s captain protested.
“We don’t have hi-comms. Do as I tell you. Signal follows. ‘Set General Quarters, condition red, weapons free. Mageworlds attack imminent. All vessels in Patrol Screen detached effective immediately. Permission granted to act independently. Net Control Stations, maintain the Net as long as physically possible.’”
“Message being sent now,” said the captain.
“Very well,” said Gil. “Captain, at your pleasure—come to General Quarters.”
At the sound of the General Quarters alarm, vacuum-tight doors throughout the ’Pavo cycled shut, the gentle sighing of increased air pressure barely audible in the din. In CIC, going to General Quarters automatically brought up the lights in the main battle tank, but nothing showed in the display except Karipavo’s own position. Gil wasn’t surprised. If the Magelords were jamming hi-comms as Captain Rosselin-Metadi claimed, realtime updates from other ships in the fleet would have stopped as well.
“Datalink’s down,” said the CIC watch officer to the tactical action officer.
“Then we’ll make do the best we can.” the TAO replied. “Set up everybody’s last-known positions in manual mode, and update the display as info is available. What’s the status on weapons and shields?”
“All normal.”
“Very well. Go active on all lightspeed sensors. Maybe we’ll get something.”
A few feet away, the duty comms tech had the front panel entirely off the bulky hi-comms unit. In company with an electronics tech, he had been poking around inside for some minutes. The captain and the executive officer of the ’Pavo stood nearby, watching the pair at work.
Gil shook his head. Check it out as much as you want, he thought. You aren’t going to find anything.
Indeed, the electronics tech was already looking up with a frustrated expression. “So far, sir, all readouts and tests are normal,” she said to the captain. “We’re producing signal.”
“Only one problem,” the comms tech added. “We can’t hear ourselves when we do it.”
“Could the receiver be down?” the XO wondered aloud. “No, sir,” the electronics tech said. “When we have a direct connection, everything tests out sat. All internals normal on the receive end. Sir, this is weirder than hell.”
At the other end of the CIC, a crew member looked up from the flatscreen monitor for the sensor arrays. “Anomaly on visual, sir.”
The ’Pavo’s captain strode over to see the monitor for himself. “Where away?”
“Quadrant N-seven-outer, Sector Red One.”
Toward the Mageworlds, thought Gil. The closest point of approach to the Inner Net. Captain Rosselin-Metadi’s lead was shorter than she thought.
“What do you have?” the captain asked.
“Multiple contacts, small, spectrum analysis shows realspace engines in use.”
The XO came over to join the group at the screen. “Any friendlies out that way?”
“Negative, sir,” said the crew member. “And these contacts aren’t identifying themselves, either.”
“Ah,” said the XO. “I see.”
He stepped away from the monitor. Then, without haste and without changing expression, he pulled a miniature blaster from the pocket of his coverall and shot the ’Pavo’s captain neatly in the back of the skull. Continuing the same motion of arm and body, he brought the blaster around toward Gil.
Gil sidestepped, feeling the heat of a blaster bolt brushing his ear, and flicked the grav-release on his own sleeve-mounted blaster. He missed—but another shot connected, and Gil found himself looking across CIC at the usually inconspicuous Lieutenant Jhunnei, who was holding a blaster of her own.
The compartment smelled of blaster fire and blood. Everybody seemed frozen, shocked into immobility by what they had just seen. Gil knew he only had a few seconds before they gave way to hysteria. If that happened, the battle was lost before it even began.
He slipped the miniature blaster back into its hidden grav-clip, then swept the room with a glance. He had their attention now—good.
“In Combat,” he said in a carrying voice, “this is Commodore Gil. I am assuming command.”
A shaky chorus of “aye”s arose from the crew. Gil gave an internal sigh of relief as they all turned back to their duties. Jhunnei, meanwhile, was already bending over the XO’s body.
“He’s still alive, sir,” she said to Gil. “What shall we do with him?”
“Sick bay,” Gil told her. “Under armed guard.” He put the XO out of his mind for the moment and turned to the tactical action officer. “Do you have a course and speed on those contacts out there?”
&nb
sp; “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” said Gil. “Figure an intercept course, and put a spread of active/passive homers in their path. Follow up with crewed fighters.”
“Fighter detachment, stand by,” the TAO said. “Maintain lightspeed comms.”
So far the crisis had been proceeding in the measured increments characteristics of realspace maneuvers. Now the action picked up speed. Contacts from close by—in speed-of-light terms—began showing up in the tactical readouts as the info arrived, each contact tagged with an assigned probability for real-time location based on known position and time of light-lag. In the interior of the main battle tank, red lights started blinking, one by one.
“Get me some speed,” Gil said. “And take evasive measures. Launch those fighters.”
“What do we have?” the TAO asked.
“We have a dangerous situation. Move us back to where we can support the Net Control Stations. They can’t move, and they can’t fight. But as long as we can keep the Net up, the Mageworlders aren’t going anywhere.”
Somebody has to bar the door, Gil thought, remembering Captain Rosselin-Metadi’s words over the comm link. The longer we can hold out here, the better chance she has of getting the word through to Galcen Prime.
“Right,” said the TAO. “Course plotted and laid in.”
“Evasive/deceptive steering,” Gil said.
“Roger,” said the TAO.
The status lights on the fire-control side of CIC began flashing. “We’re taking the unknowns under fire,” announced the tech at the fire control station.
“Report status,” said the TAO.
“In range, recording hits.”
The TAO turned to the crew member at the comms station. “Any idea how anyone else is doing?”
“Negative,” said the comms tech. “No comms with other Task Unit vessels.”
“Right. Assume that they also have their comms down.”
Gil listened to the colloquy for a few seconds, then turned to his aide. Jhunnei had already sent the XO down to sick bay on a nullgrav stretcher accompanied by several muscular crew members, and was once again standing quietly by and awaiting developments. In a low voice Gil said, “If or when the Net goes down, that’ll mean we need to get going. Figure us a contingency course to Galcen.”
“Aye, aye,” she said.
At that moment a vibration came through the deckplates, and a slight overpressure made Gil’s ears hurt.
“Hit alfa, hit alfa, compartment two-oh-two-one-lima” the crew member on the damage control status board called out. “Damage control crew responding from Repair Five.”
Gil turned back to Jhunnei. “And get me a course to the nearest friendly or neutral world as well, just in case.”
“Already working on one, sir.”
“Good thinking,” said Gil.
He stepped over to the tactical action officer’s station. “Keep us alive and make them dead,” he said quietly to the TAO, before raising his voice for the benefit of the watch-standers and the log recordings. “In Combat, this is Commodore Gil. TAO has control.”
Then, to the TAO again: “If you need me, I’ll be down in sick bay. I want to ask the XO a couple of questions while he’s still in shape to answer them.”
By the time Gil strode into the ’Pavo’s sickbay, the XO was already plugged into one of the beds. A crew member with a blaster stood guard nearby.
“He’s stable,” said the head of the medical department, a lieutenant commander from somewhere in the Middle Worlds. “If that’s what you wanted.”
“I want him awake enough to answer questions,” Gil said.
“Well, you’ve got that,” said the medic. “You won’t have him for very long, though, unless we get him into a healing pod. That blaster bolt took out some important stuff.”
Gil frowned. “How much pod space have you got?”
“Four full-bodies and a couple of partials.”
“Not enough to waste. Save the room for our own people—they’re going to need it.”
The medic looked offended but said only, “In that case, Commodore, I’d recommend you start talking to him right now. He hasn’t got much time.”
“None of us do, Commander,” said Gil. “Thanks to him we may have less.”
He felt the deckplates shiver slightly under his feet. The bed holding the XO beeped as the hookups jiggled and the therapeutic and diagnostic systems worked to compensate. The bulkhead speaker clicked on and began to speak.
“Hit bravo, hit bravo. Compartment six-one-twentytwo-lima Supply from Repair Two.”
“You’re going to have some more customers in a few minutes,” Gil said to the chief medic. “Honest ones this time. Leave me with the XO. I’ll tell you when I’m through with him.”
Gil put the chief medic out of his mind and moved over to the bed. He looked down at the XO. The man was already paler than the pillow his head rested on.
“Who are you working for?” Gil demanded.
The XO gave him a death’s-head grin. “Why should I tell you? I’m dead anyway.”
“Talk, and I might change my mind about letting Doc give you pod space.”
“Not after casualties start coming in, you won’t. No deal. Go to hell.”
Damn. Gil drew a deep breath. “If you won’t tell me who, then tell me why.”
The XO’s eyes glittered—whether with pain or fanaticism or both, Gil couldn’t tell.
“Because the Mages have to be crushed,” said the wounded man. “You Central Worlders run the Republic while the people in the outplanets take all the risk, and you’ve coddled the Mageworlds ever since the end of the War. Next thing you know, the Council would have been wanting to take down the Net completely and let them into the Republic like regular citizens … .”
“Not likely,” Gil murmured. “What good has shooting the captain done for the outplanets? The fleet’s about the only thing left between them and the Mageworlds.”
The XO laughed, a ghastly sound. “It won’t be there for long. And the Mages aren’t heading for the outplanets. They’re going to have a victory big enough to make the Central Worlds finally understand what it’s like—and after that, what happens to the Mageworlds is going to make Sapne and Entibor look like a pleasure excursion.”
“And then the outplanets will be safe.”
“Yes.”
Gil sighed. He’s mad. Of all the motives for treason . . . “Who else is with you?”
“No one.”
He’s probably telling the truth as far as this ship is concerned. The Mages can’t have found so many crazy people in the fleet that they could afford to bunch them up.
“Did you know that hi-comms would go down?” Gil asked. “Was that the signal?”
“Yes.”
“What other surprises have the Mageworlders got for us?”
“Sorry—you won’t be finding that out from me.” The XO began to choke. All the lights and telltales on the bed flared red and then went biack. The bulkhead speaker clicked on—“Commodore to Combat Information Center!”—while Gil was standing there looking down at the dead man’s face.
RSF Ebannha’s boarding craft had been umbilically attached to the Magebuilt Deathwing for several days now, and Ensign Tammas Cantrel had long since decided that a boarding craft designed to carry a crew of four was nevertheless too small to hold that same crew for anything longer than a matter of hours. The pilots of the three single-seat fighters composing their escort had gotten rotated on and off the mothership, but Cantrel and his small command had to make do with taking turns at the two claustrophobic bunks located just forward of the engines, tucked in like an afterthought with the galley nook and the sanitary facilities.
Even for one person, a Pari-class scout craft was cramped. Ensign Cantrel wasn’t outside the normal size range in any dimension, but he’d had to walk sideways to get into the galley, where he was slapping together a sandwich to go with the last of the cha’a in the hotpot. Since he was drinkin
g the last, he’d have to make the next pot. He’d just reached for the pouch of herbals when the comm link in the bulkhead sounded, and he flipped on the link instead.
“Ensign.” It was Chief Yance, with a peculiar note in his voice. “You’d better come up to the cockpit.”
Cantrel left his sandwich lying on the galley counter. If something important was happening, food could wait. Cha’a, on the other hand … He kept his grip on the mug as he sprinted for the piloting position. He was forward and in the control section in only a couple of seconds.
Chief Yance stood by the cockpit windows, looking forward and up at the starfield beyond.
“What is it, Chief?” Cantrel asked.
Yance pointed to a dull red star that hung glowing in space—a star that hadn’t been there before. “Ebannha’s gone,” he said. “She just blew up.”
Cantrel stared at the red glow. Accident? he wondered numbly. Rescue … depends on what happened. But if somebody doesn’t do Something fast, there won’t be a chance.
“Get on the comms,” he said to Yance. “See if you can patch us through direct to Karipavo.” He hit the GQ button to rouse the boarding craft’s two remaining crew members from the bunks in the rear. “Stand by to cast off from the Deathwing and go looking for drifting lifepods.”
Then the starfield near Ebannha’s glowing remnants lit up with a quick, bright flash—the color of energy weapons firing in deep space.
“Oh, hell,” Cantrel said, as he started flipping switches all across the boarding craft’s control panel. “Belay my last. Go silent, go dark, go passive.”
The interior lights went out, the life-support system whispered to bare minimum, and in the starlight Cantrel could see the cha’a in his cup float away in a brownish, wavery globe as artificial gravity went down. Outside the cockpit viewscreens, the flashing of energy fire continued, silent and far away.
“Start racking the frequencies,” Cantrel told Elligret Saben as soon as she and Falkith arrived on the bridge—pulling their way along by handholds in the sudden zero-g environment and wondering loudly and profanely what was going on. “See if you can hear anything. But don’t transmit.”
Starpilot's Grave: Book Two of Mageworlds Page 22