Shall Not Perish (Lincoln's War Book 1) Read online

   Closing his eyes, Flynn sighed, and said, “You were an infiltrator, weren’t you?”

   “No, sir. Not at all.” He paused, then said, “My mother was employed by a criminal syndicate, based in cislunar space. As was my step-father.”

   “You worked for the Lunar Mafia?” Flynn said.

   “As a fighter pilot, primarily, though our ships were designed to make that less than clear. Weapons were concealed, though there were occasions when we were forced to fire our guns in anger.” His smile grew wider, and he said, “I have two kills to my name, though I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to formally claim them.”

   “That’s putting it mildly, Ensign.”

   He nodded, and said, “I did that for five years, after I quit the Academy. I had never truly intended to complete my training; the sickness was a manufactured excuse. Essentially, once I had learned the basics, I was ready to progress to my real employment.”

   “Then why did you join the service? I’d have thought...”

   “I am a United States citizen, Commander. The onset of war came as little surprise to me. The Pacific Federation had been mobilizing for some time.” Raising a hand, he added, “I hasten to add that the CIA had been informed of everything we knew. For a price, I presume, but I don’t personally know the details. Nevertheless, those of us with military experience managed to pull sufficient strings to return to active duty. It seemed the least we could do.”

   “And now?”

   “I’m an officer in the United States Space Fleet. My loyalties lie to my squadron, my ship and my commanding officer.” He paused, then added, “There are two other former members of my syndicate aboard this ship. Both have, shall we say, additional skills that might prove valuable in future operations. Do you think that I can trust the Captain with that information?”

   “I think a quiet meeting might be arranged at some point in the near future. Prepare a dossier of everything you know, Ensign, and I mean everything. We’re starving for intelligence, and any details you can provide will be more than useful.” He paused, then said, “You realize that if I had learned this under any other circumstances, you’d be heading to the brig under heavy guard?”

   “Under other circumstances, sir, you’d never have known about it.”

   Cracking a smile, Flynn said, “I suppose I asked for that one, didn’t I.” Looking down at the datapad, he pushed it away, and said, “I might as well be reading a novel.”

   “In a way, sir, you are.” He looked down at the report, and continued, “I am a loyal officer, sir. I would have served faithfully during the war against the Pacific Federation, and I will serve faithfully during the war against the Guild. As proof, I will state again that had I not wanted you to know about my background, I wouldn’t have.”

   “Two kills, you said,” Flynn replied. “How many sorties?”

   “Three hundred and nine, the majority of them under covert conditions. I can probably talk to Chief Wong about some methods of camouflaging our ships. I flew Jackals for the majority of that time, to answer your next question, though I have some familiarity with Cheetahs and Wolverines as well. Not that we’re likely to come across those babies any time soon.”

   “Very well, Ensign, I’m going to trust you. I want a full, accurate report of your flight experience. Leave nothing out. And I will expect you to talk to Chief Wong about those modifications you suggested, but hold off on any implementation for the moment. You never know when we might want to make use of a Q-Ship.”

   “Of course, sir. You’ll have it within twelve hours.”

   Reaching for the communicator on his desk, Flynn said, “Wing Commander to Bridge. Is the Captain there, please?”

   “I’m here, Commander,” Forrest replied. “Is there a problem?”

   “I need to promote one of my pilots, ma’am,” he said, while Tanaka’s eyes widened. “I’ve got to start picking flight leaders, and I’ve already got my first one.” Looking at the surprised pilot, he added, “You’re going to want to meet with him yourself when you get a chance, but for the moment, I need the authority to promote Ensign Tanaka to Lieutenant Junior Grade.”

   “Tanaka? He’d only just made his rating before...”

   “Trust me, Captain. I wouldn’t make the recommendation if I didn’t think he was the best choice for the job. He’s got the experience and ability I need.”

   “Very well, Commander. I’ll go with your judgment. A provisional promotion only, though, at least for the moment. Until I’ve seen him in action.”

   “Understood, Captain. Wing Commander out.” He looked at Tanaka, and said, “Surprised?”

   “I honestly thought I had a fifty-fifty chance of being arrested, sir. Being promoted never actually occurred to me.”

   “It’s a bit of a shock to me, Lieutenant, but I don’t think I have any alternative. I want you flying Jackals, and I’ll let you pick your two pilots. Anyone but Armstrong. I’ve got an eye on her as another potential flight leader, but not until I’ve had a chance to take a look at her performance myself.”

   “For a rookie, sir, she performed pretty well, though I’d wait until she was bloodied before making a final decision. Though I appreciate you might not have much choice.” Looking at the door, he added, “Just out of interest, sir, how are you going to explain my promotion?”

   “That’s simple, Lieutenant. You’ve been tied up in covert operations for years. They don’t need to know that you weren’t actually working for the government, do they?”

   With a smile, he replied, “I suppose not, sir.”

   “Dismissed, Lieutenant. I’ll be out there in a minute. Go share the good news with Lieutenant Mendez that she isn’t on her own out there.”

   “Very good, sir,” he replied, standing to attention and snapping a parade-ground salute before turning and leaving the room. The smile on Flynn’s face faded as he realized the full implications of Tanaka’s deception.

   What other surprises might they have hiding in their crew?

  Chapter 14

   “Wake up!” a gruff voice said, forcing Romano from his hard-won sleep. The young officer’s eyes snapped open with a start, and he looked up to see Diego making his way to the open door, a tall, black-uniformed man standing in the corridor with what appeared to be a cattle prod, crackling with electricity, in his hand. Romano looked around, trying to spot some means of escape, but found none. Instead, he rose to his feet and walked through the door, ignoring the sneer of the guard as he followed Diego to the end of the passage.

   All the prisoners were following, mostly four to a cell, either wearing the ubiquitous beige overalls or the remnants of spacer jumpsuits, battered from long use. It was immediately obvious that while the Guild were keeping their prisoners fit enough to work, that was all they were doing, and that the barest possible minimum level of comfort was provided for them. That all the guards were obviously well fed only added to the carefully measured sense of inferiority they were attempting to foster, techniques right out of the manual.

   The prisoners, most of them obviously broken, shuffled into the room, hundreds of them moving to cold metal benches, all facing a stern-faced woman at a lectern, wearing the same uniform as the guards but with silver insignia on her shoulders. She looked at Romano, and a twisted smile crossed her face.

   “Fresh blood,” she said. “It’s always fun to break in someone new. I’m sure you’ll find your stay here most pleasant, given the intransigence of your commander.”

   “I’m afraid there’s been some mistake,” Romano replied. “I asked for a single, not a double, and I’ve got to say, the room service around here sucks.”

   Intense, agonizing pain erupted between his shoulders as one of the guards jabbed his prod against his skin, the electric pulse ripping through his system. Somehow he didn’t – quite – fall unconscious, but it was a struggle for him to remain awake, to suppress the
deep cry of pain he desperately wanted to make. The other prisoners looked away, aside from Diego, none of them willing to face him.

   “Speak only when you are specifically instructed to do so,” the woman said. “I am the Administrator of this facility, and my word is law. For you, effectively, I am God, with the power of life and death, and I am responsible only to my conscience.” She looked into his eyes, and her smile spread wider, as she said, “Splendid. There is still some of the fire burning within you. I think this is going to be a most interesting experience.” She gestured for one of the guards to stand behind him, and added, “Indicate your acknowledgment.”

   “I understand,” he replied.

   “That’s a start, I suppose,” she said. “What training do you have?”

   Cracking a smile, he replied, “Lieutenant Junior Grade Frank Romano, United States Space Force. Serial number O-3310-06.”

   The pain whipped at him again, and this time he fell to his feet, writhing in agony, still somehow able to resist the all-but-overwhelming urge to scream, to cry out in agony. The guard stood over him, prod at the ready, but the woman shook her head, and he stepped away.

   “You are fortunate that I have orders not to permanently injure you. Apparently it is considered that you might have some value as a bargaining chip. However, I will feel free to override those orders if I believe you are of no further use, and your life expectancy is currently dropping at a rate which should truly concern you.”

   Taking a deep breath, Romano struggled on the ground, feigning more weakness than he truly felt. No lethal weapons were in evidence, not surprising in a pressurized environment loaded with complicated, delicate equipment. Everything looked low-tech, and he doubted that any sidearms would be fitted with target discriminators.

   The cattle prods, or whatever they were. Those were the key. The guards were holding them in the same place, two black rings near the end, designed to allow the wielder to thrust forward as though using a quarterstaff. None were wearing any visible armor, just the black uniform, and all of them would be counting on the docility of their prisoners. Presumably most of them had been broken long before they had been transferred to this facility.

   Which gave him one edge, one chance. He had no intention of sitting meekly and waiting to be rescued. Captain Forrest would find a way to reach him, and he planned to take a full part in that effort. As well as contribute to the battle he felt sure was coming. The guard loomed over him, raising his foot to kick him in the ribs.

   He rolled to the right, crashing into the guard, sending him tumbling. The others raced forward, weapons at the ready, but he was faster, snatching the dropped prod and jabbing it into the prone guard before swinging it dangerously around, catching another on the shoulder and sending him falling.

   “Stay back,” he said. “Or you’ll have to take what you’ve been giving out!” He looked at the prisoners, and said, “Come on, damn it, you outnumber then ten to one and more! Take them!”

   A few of them tentatively moved forward, but he could sense that the moment had been lost as the guards split into two groups, the larger pack moving to cover the room, watching for any sign of rebellion, the remainder moving carefully towards him, the woman at the lectern staring at him with ill-disguised hatred.

   He had no idea what the layout of the base was. No real idea of the surface conditions, and certainly had no plan in mind when he began to run, choosing a corridor at random, waving the prod into the air one last time to buy him a brief moment to escape. All the signage was unfamiliar, a language he didn’t recognize, but the flashing red lights told a tale all their own. Behind him, boots pounded on the cold metal floor, racing towards him, and as he turned a corner, he knew that the race would soon be over, and that the Guilders would undoubtedly win.

   Then, at the end of the corridor, a hatch opened, a hand gesturing him inside. The rapidly advancing guards left him no option other than a leap of faith, and he dived towards the hatch, sliding through the narrow gap just as the first of the enemy soldiers raced into the corridor behind him, the hatch slamming shut just in time.

   “Quiet,” a strange voice whispered, as the boots raced past. “We’ve arranged a little distraction. Had to put it together on the fly. We didn’t expect you to make a break so quickly.” Finally, silence reigned in the corridor beyond, and the shadowy figure reached up, tapping a control to bring his image into stark relief.

   “Juan Kuznetzov. Once of the freighter Kolchak, now what passes for the local resistance.” He smiled, and said, “I managed to fake my own death, out on the ice, during an escape attempt that apparently went wrong. It took more than a day for me to creep back to the base and get into the conduits. Fortunately, our friends out there are far more concerned about preventing escapes than stopping unauthorized entry.”

   “Frank Romano, United States Space Force.”

   “If you say so,” Kuznetzov replied. “I’ll take your word for it.” He reached to the floor and pulled open a hatch, revealing a ladder descending into nowhere, hundreds of feet down. “This wasn’t originally a Guild installation. They just put their dome on top of an old American military base, dating back to the Formation Wars.” He frowned, and continued, “Say, you weren’t in cryogenic suspension, were you? The record’s only eighty years as far as I know, and nobody’s seriously tried to break it for centuries.”

   “No, I came...I guess I came through a hyperspace malfunction, along with my ship.” He took a deep breath, knowing this could be a trap, and said, “Help’s almost certainly on the way. We’re going to have to do anything we can to help my people break into the facility. Can you get to a communicator?”

   “Not a chance. That was the first thing I tried. They’ve isolated all communication systems from the local computer network, I mean physically isolated them, and they’ve got the area under maximum guard. You’d never get through.”

   “Then a prison breakout.”

   Gesturing at the corridor, Kuznetzov said, “You saw them out there, didn’t you? Broken. Which is exactly what they count on. Usually, the prisoners spend time in a treatment facility before coming here, designed to render them compliant. I think they’re putting suppressants in the food, as well. Have you eaten anything yet?”

   “A mouthful or two.”

   “Probably not enough to have any effect on you.” Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a silver-foil packet, and tossed it to Romano, saying, “Emergency rations. My ship was carrying thousands of them when we were captured.” He grimaced, and said, “My former Captain decided to save some time by doglegging through this system. I don’t think he really believed that his Guild buddies would actually take his ship from him.”

   “These suppressants,” Romano asked. “Where are they stored?”

   “I had a feeling that you’d ask that. Food processing is right down at the lowest level. Well protected, but not as bad as the communications system. The problem is that as soon as we hit it, they’ll realize something has happened and put the entire base on lockdown. We’d have to find a way to get through their security without them knowing we’d done it, and I don’t have the first idea how to do that. And to answer your next question, there is a shuttle, but the control system is locked to the DNA of half a dozen of the guards. Impossible for any unauthorized personnel to access. I found that out the hard way.”

   “Oh?”

   “There were three of us originally. Now it’s just me.” He paused, and said, “There are some actual weapons on the base, kept under lockdown.”

   “Layout?”

   “Three levels. And one smaller level on top, but that’s just the Governor’s residence, the damned penthouse suite. Most of the refining equipment is on the lowest level, along with the detention area for the prisoners. It’s pretty rare for any of them to get up there, and security is usually pretty light. Where would anyone run?”

   “What about the rest of
the planet? The other bases?”

   “No idea. I presume mining, mostly. Shipments of ore come in every few days, robotic trucks. The whole system could be automated, for all I know. Second level is recreation, I suppose. That’s where the guards take people they want to play with, anyway. Third level has communications and weaponry. They only need to really protect two parts of the compound, food storage and the command levels. It’s pretty well-designed.”

   “How long have you been down here?”

   “Five weeks, give or take. Most of my shipmates were captured. I was hoping to get them out of here, but now I’d probably settle for blowing this place right to hell. You know the Guild gets two-thirds of its gadolinium out of here? That’s a prize worth dying for.”

   Hefting the cattle prod, Romano looked down the shaft, and said, “You said there was an old military base down there. How old?”

   “Centuries. Back before the formation of the Terrestrial Federation. This world was originally occupied by the United States, shortly after the start of the last of the Foundation Wars.” He smiled, then added, “I used to read a lot of history. You get bored quite quickly doing the same run, back and forth, every few weeks.”

   Centuries. Diego had told him some of it. As much as he could coax out of him. Most of him still thought that he was living through some sort of strange nightmare, that he’d wake up back in his bunk at any moment. Kuznetzov looked at him strangely, and with an effort, he struggled to focus back on the task at hand.

   “And the base is still intact. Airtight?”

   “Carved right out of the rock, then lined with hardened alloys. I guess the original designers were worried about orbital bombardment. The air comes down from the dome, through a few connecting shafts. It’s not great, a bit stale, but it’s enough for a few people, at least for a while. There’s an old reservoir down there as well. The Guilders tap it for their water supply, and so do I.”