Exiles of Earth: Rebellion Page 11

  “Colonel John Neville. United States Air Force. My God, this is it!”

  “What?”

  “Listen.” Her eyes scanned the paper, and she read, “As I write this message, I have at most an hour to live. For the record, there was no way that General Foster could have rescued us. I want that clear. As far as she knew, we were both dead. We couldn’t get the beacon working in time, and Challenger had to leave the system. General Foster is not responsible for our deaths. If anyone is, I am. The crash that killed was pilot error. My error.”

  “Poor bastard,” Romanova said.

  “Wait, it goes on.” Thiou read, “I’ll never know if they make it to our target. That’s the worst part. If anyone ever reads this message, they’ll find Challenger and her crew at Luyten 347-14. The fourth planet out. Tell my wife that I was thinking of her, right to the end, and that I love her. Loved her. Good luck to you, whoever you are.”

  “Luyten 347-14? A red dwarf star, six parsecs out, about as far again from Sol as we are now.”

  “We’ve got what we came for,” Thiou said, triumphantly. “We’ve done it!”

  “I guess we have, but there’s one problem you haven’t considered. I’m picking up multiple incoming targets. That last overhead pass was too damned close. They’ve vectored every soldier on the planet onto our location. I still can’t raise Endurance, or anyone else, for that matter. All our signals are being jammed. I think we’d better prepare for a glorious last stand. Can you use a firearm?”

  “I’ve never fired a gun in my life. I’ve never even held one.”

  “No time like the present to learn. If my sensor readings are even close to the truth, you’re going to get a lot of practice. And Colonel Neville and his friend might get some company.”

  Chapter 13

  “Attention, attention,” the voice of Fitzroy backed over the wall speakers. “Incoming missile salvo. I repeat, incoming missile salvo. Damage control teams stand by in Section Three.”

  DeSilva drifted down the corridor, toolkit in hand, pushing past Auxiliary Control. She turned to look at one of the wall monitors, the progress of the battle displayed on the screen. So far, both ships had only exchanged warning shots, testing the measure of their point-defense systems. Now the fight was about to begin in earnest and based on the trajectory plots of the incoming missiles, she was going to be right in the middle of it.

  “Attention!” Fitzroy barked, more urgently this time. “Malfunction in Point-Defense Turret Nine! Damage control teams report on the double!”

  One deck down. DeSilva kicked off the wall, nimbly diving towards the nearest maintenance hatch, activating the emergency release with the wave of an arm. Behind her, another figure raced, diving through the entrance to Auxiliary Control, toolkit in hand. She spun around as she slid into the shaft, seeing Lieutenant Hoffman chasing after her.

  “System lockout,” he replied. “It’ll going to take a senior officer’s authorization to get the damn thing working again.” As they dropped down to the lower level, he added, “What’s a Shuttle Technician doing working Weapons Maintenance?”

  “All the shuttles are working just fine,” she said. “Aside from the one on the surface, and I think that’s a little beyond my skill level. Chief Nguyen sent me down here instead.”

  “As long as you know what you’re doing?” Glancing at his watch, he said, “That missile salvo is a hundred seconds from impact, and if we’ve got a gap in our point-defense, it’ll tear us to pieces.” They dropped into the lower level, both kicking forward together, bathed in the red alert lights flashing on all sides. The speakers crackled, the voice indistinct, and Hoffman looked at DeSilva, sharing the same suspicion.

  Sabotage.

  The hatch to the turret was sealed, and Hoffman hurriedly tapped in his override code, pounding the control panel when it failed to open. Drawing his pistol, he pushed back, lining up his shot, aiming at the join between the two doors. DeSilva reached up to a handhold, killing her forward momentum, watching the veteran prepare to fire. He had to get the aim just right, the duration of the shot perfect, or he’d either warp the doors out of true and prevent them from opening short of deploying a laser cutter, or breath the hull on the far side of the hatch.

  He squeezed the trigger, holding it for just long enough, and the magnetic seal cracked open, the doors sliding wide. The smell of ozone filled the air as the two of them drifted inside, DeSilva’s eyes widening as she saw the damage done to the interior. Someone had smashed the control circuits, destroyed them completely. Hoffman slid his tablet into position, reaching for an undamaged data link and splicing it into the device.

  “I can handle the software if you can handle the hardware. You’ve got sixty seconds.”

  Frowning, she looked frantically around the cramped compartment, and replied, “No chance of engaging the manual override from here. I can slave the systems from Turret Eight. We’ll lose some fine control, but at least it’ll get them firing. Can you run the circuits out that way?” She paused, then added, “Sir?”

  “Get going,” he replied. “I’ll handle it this end. Just move quickly!”

  She pushed back out of the room, swinging nimbly on a handhold and racing down the corridor, almost crashing into a life support technician heading in the opposite direction. She ducked through the hatch into Turret Eight, mercifully sliding open just in time, and reached for the controls, cursing again. The automatic systems were out, the targeting links from the tactical station disabled. Now she knew what the second message was, the distorted transmission from the bridge.

  Sliding a hand across the display, she called up a firing solution, slaving the other turrets to her station, bringing them back online one after another. Frowning, she worked the controls, trying to find a way to bypass the damage, trying to restore the link to the bridge. Nothing she tried had any effect, and a quick glance at the diagnostic systems explained why. Someone had severed the optic cables, slashed them physically. Replacing them would be easy enough, but not in the time.

  “Turret Eight to Bridge,” she said. “This is Spaceman DeSilva. I’m in Turret Eight, and I have control of the point-defense systems. I cannot transfer control to the bridge, data links severed. Request orders.”

  The sensor display winked up, showing the Coalition missions heading right towards her, a full seven-strong salvo bearing directly on Endurance. The helmsman was weaving from side to side, trying to throw them off, but ultimately, it was going to come down to the twelve point-defense cannons, lined up around the inside of the habitation ring, to shoot them out of the sky. Assuming she could find a way to make that happen.

  “Bridge to Turret Eight,” Ikande replied. “I’m sending Lieutenant Fitzroy down to you now. He’ll be there in about three minutes. You’re going to have to take out the incoming salvo yourself. Have you had any ballistics training?”

  “Some,” she said. “And I trained as a shuttle pilot, though I didn’t get my license.”

  “At lot of the targeting systems are up here, on the bridge. You’re going to have to fire the cannons yourself, on manual override. As soon as the enemy ship realizes that we’re vulnerable, they’ll do everything they can to sneak a warhead through. If you must let one land, then make sure it hits a non-essential part of the ship. Even if it means suffering casualties.” He paused, then added, “Chief Khatri is getting teams down to fix the data linkages. Help is on the way, but it can’t get there in time.”

  “I understand, Captain.”

  “We’re depending on you, Spaceman. The survival of everyone on Endurance is in your hands. Good hunting. Bridge out.”

  “No pressure,” she muttered to herself, sliding her hands to bring up the targeting computer. Her shuttle training had been back during her first tour of duty, so she’d had at least some practice on the weapons systems of armed shuttles, but they were nowhere near as complicated as the point-defense turrets. A green light winked on, and she nodded with approval, Turret Nine coming on-line.
For a brief second, she contemplated racing to get Lieutenant Hoffman, but there simply wasn’t time. Twenty-five seconds until impact. She might make it to Turret Nine in time, but not back again, and with local communications out, there was no way to signal him.

  This was her problem. Nobody was going to be riding to the rescue.

  She looked up at the trajectory plot, trying to make sense of the spaghetti-swirl of dotted lines on the display, the enemy tactical officer doing his best to confuse her. She had to get the timing right. The particle cannons had only a limited range, and if she fired too soon, there would be insufficient charge to destroy the missiles. Wait too late, and they’d still suffer damage from the shrapnel, a thousand kinetic warheads hammering into the hull.

  Twenty seconds to go. The missiles were still dancing around, and she looked down at the impact projections, trying to determine where the enemy starship was trying to strike. There were so many potential targets, so many key systems that would cripple Endurance if they were disabled. She had to try to put herself in the mind of the enemy, quickly running through the options.

  The point-defense turrets.

  They were damaged, disabled. Working on the assumption that the enemy had a saboteur on board, they’d be working according to orders. This battle was going to last for a long time, long enough for half a dozen more missile salvos to be exchanged. The priority would have to be knowing out Endurance’s defenses, opening them up to destruction from the second wave, or forcing a surrender.

  There was no time for her to second-guess her decisions. She had to make a choice, and she did, committing the turrets to defend against incoming fire, bearing directly. The guns moved by themselves now, sliding into pattern, working on the assumptions she’d programmed in. This was why there was still the human element, even with centuries of automation. Only a human could guess the responses of another human, could use that combination of instinct and judgement that could win a battle. Or lose one. If she’d guessed wrong, then she might never know what happened. She wouldn’t have time for any regrets, at least.

  A loud whine echoed from the power conduits overhead, warning lights flickering as the systems built up sufficient charge to open fire. She held her finger down on the override, holding back the particle beams, waiting for the proper moment. Endurance had an older system, might manage just three or four shots at least, perhaps less from the damaged Turret Nine. She looked down at the status panel, and her heart sank.

  Fifteen seconds to impact. Eight seconds to firing. And there was no chance that they could destroy all the incoming missiles. One of them was going to get through, and she had to choose which one. With no time at all to make her decision. There were two choices. Turret One, fully-functional, able to continue to deliver strikes to the enemy, or Turret Nine, being held together with hope and prayer. And manned by Lieutenant Hoffman, who wouldn’t have a chance to get out in time, even if she could warn her of the impact.

  The good of the ship or the life of one man.

  She didn’t know Hoffman. Somehow, though, she knew what he would choose, if he could make the decision for himself. She knew what she would choose, if it was put to her. The time seemed to slow to a crawl, and she stabbed her finger on the controls, opting to allow the missile to hit Turret Nine, less than two seconds before firing. Her command was acknowledged with an anticlimactic bleep, and she settled back to wait for the results of her decision to play out before her.

  The turrets fired, all twelve at once, hurling bolts of pure energy into the sky, each racing to target an incoming missile. Two of the warheads disappeared with the first burst, better than she could have hoped at the extreme range. Then two more with the second pulse, and one more with the third. The cannons pivoted, focusing on the last of the missiles, and for a brief heartbeat she thought that somehow, she might have pulled off a miracle. Then the final pulse fired, blue lights racing from the cannons, catching one of the missiles, just outside the danger zone.

  One left. Three seconds to impact. No time for another shot. Sirens wailed, warning all hands of the imminent impact, and she reached for a handhold, bracing herself against a wall, waiting for the missile to strike home. With an angry, savage retort, it struck the corridor, two sections to port, the force of the explosion rippling through the ship as blast doors slammed into position to contain the breach.

  She pushed out of the turret, hoping against hope that Hoffman might somehow have escaped, that he might have seen the missiles heading towards him and fled to safety. Almost immediately, she slid into a bulkhead, looking through the viewport, frantically flicking through the images from the surviving cameras in the exposed parts of the ship.

  There was Hoffman, in the corridor. He’d held on until the last second, nursing the cannon through the final few shots, only leaving when his work was done. When it was too late for him to survive. His body was battered and scared, laced with shrapnel, droplets of blood floating in the air. She looked down at the deck, speechless, then felt herself being thrown against the wall, turning to see the rage-laden face of Lieutenant Fitzroy, glaring at her with savage eyes.

  “You killed him!” he yelled. “As surely as if you’d shot him through the heart! By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll be begging for me to throw you out of an airlock!” He raised his hand to slap her, pausing at the sound of a laser pistol charging behind him.

  “I’ve got her covered, Lieutenant,” Spaceman Zhao said. “She isn’t going anywhere.”

  “Attention!” a voice barked over the overhead speaker. “Incoming missiles! Lieutenant Fitzroy, report at once!”

  “I’ve got work to do,” Fitzroy said, glancing at the hatch. He turned to Zhao, and said, “Lock her up. No visitors, no communication, no food, no water. She isn’t going to live long enough to need any. Spacing someone makes a hell of a mess if they’ve got a full stomach.” Leering at DeSilva, he continued, “You’re going to pay for what you did. I know what you are planning, and I know what sort of a maggot you are, and I’m going to take great pleasure in hitting the airlock release personally. Scum like you don’t deserve to breathe the same air as the rest of them.”

  “I’ll get her to the brig, Lieutenant,” Zhao said, turning his pistol on DeSilva. He gestured for her to walk towards the elevator, the two of them walking inside as Fitzroy climbed into the turret control, sealing the hatch behind him. Zhao glanced up at the overhead cameras, tracking their every move, then glanced at her, raising an eye.

  It was a signal. She knew that there were concealed spaces on this ship, places that Ship’s Security couldn’t reach, but that would simply be another sort of prison. She was caught between tyranny and treason and needed time to work out which side she was on. Somebody in the Underground was working for the Coalition. That was the only explanation that made sense. She looked at Zhao, waiting for her response.

  He might even be the one. The sanctuary he was silently offering might simply be a way to secure her fate. At least in the ship’s brig, she was under observation, monitoring. She couldn’t simply be murdered without due process, regardless of the desires of Lieutenant Fitzroy for meaningless revenge.

  She shook her head, and he shrugged in response, stepping out of the elevator as the doors opened, gesturing for her to step inside the bare, empty brig. Taking a deep breath, she stepped through the hatch, the doors slamming shut behind her. Anyone could close the doors. Only an officer could open them. She looked around the barren, bleak walls, then sat down on the floor, legs crossed.

  She had to work out which side she was on. At least it looked as though she’d have time to make that decision. If she chose wrong, she’d be dead. And in all probability, the rest of the crew with her.

  Chapter 14

  “Get into cover,” Romanova said, grimacing at Thiou. “Come on, damn it, you’re meant to be an archaeologist. Don’t you know how to dig a foxhole?”

  “They skipped that during my training,” Thiou replied, desperately thrusting her sh
ovel into the ground, dust flying into the air all around her. “Is this necessary, anyway? Can’t they shoot through the rock?”

  “You can’t shoot what you can’t see, and they’ll be using gyroc bullets out here. Recoilless. Not so good against dirt, though.” She peered over the horizon, looking around, and said, “Where the hell are Thakur and Gurung? They must have spotted out position by now.”

  “Unless the Coalition got them first,” Thiou gloomily replied.

  Cracking a smile, she said, “Those two? Not a chance. They were stranded behind the lines for three months when the Coalition took Vesta, waiting for us to pick them up. When we got them back, they had a few new scars and a lot of notches on their combat knives. Why do you think I recruited them for this mission? I wanted the best, and I got them.” Looking at Thiou, she added, “Mostly.”

  “Damn,” Thiou replied, her arms aching as she hit a hard surface. “I’ve found the rock. We’ll need charges to get through it. These shovels…”

  “Never mind,” she said. “I’m not wasting my grenades on that. Get into the hole, stay in the hole. If you see anyone wearing Coalition uniform, take the shot. You’ve got plenty of ammunition, more than you’re going to need, so don’t worry about wasting ammunition.” Gesturing at her legs, she replied, “You’ll get some kick. That can’t be helped. The gravity’s low enough that it could be a problem unless you brace yourself properly. No point going to the trouble of carving out cover if you get thrown out of it the first time you pull the trigger.”

  “That might happen?” she asked, looking at her rifle. “Lieutenant, I’m not sure…”

  “We’re about to die together, Doctor. I think you can call me by my first name.”

  “Die?” she asked, her eyes widening.

  “Yes,” a gruff voice replied, cutting into their communicators. “This is the commander of the Coalition forces surrounding you. There is no escape. We outnumber you ten to one, have shuttles up above watching your every move, and our ship in orbit is in the process of tearing you to pieces. Our voice analysis suggests that Doctor Thiou is present. Is this correct?” He paused, waiting for an answer, and said, “I will work on the assumption that it is. My government wishes to speak to her. She has skills that we can use. I will make you an offer. Safe passage back to Mars in exchange for the Doctor.”