Lujan pushed himself up, teeth locked. He had to use his left arm to do it. The right one wouldn’t bear his weight, and pain lanced through his shoulder.
He reached up for the table to pull himself to his feet, and heard someone groan on the deck nearby. In the dimness he couldn’t see who it was, or even where he was at first, but Lujan recognized the Ops Officer’s voice. “Robard,” he said, turning toward the sound. “What’s wrong?”
“My back!”
“Don’t move. I’ll try to contact the bridge.”
Lujan winced, gaining his feet. He staggered under a moment’s dizziness, and leaned on the intercom button. “Sergey to bridge, come in!” The words came as if he’d been running.
They had no visual, and static disrupted the audio, but he recognized the captain’s voice when he replied. “Admiral, are you all right?”
“We’re intact, Ben, but,” Lujan glanced around the CIC, at the shadows of scan operators slumped over blank consoles and Robard on the deck, “there’re some injuries. What happened?”
“Explosion in hangar deck one, sir. Cause unknown at this time,” said Horsch. “It started fires in hangar two and the pilots’ quarters up one deck as well. Damage Control is on the way.”
Lujan nodded. “How many casualties?”
“Thirty-nine presumed dead, sir. Sixty-seven reported injuries so far, some serious.”
“There’s at least one serious injury down here,” Lujan said, glancing around at Robard, “and there may be more.”
His own knees felt as if they might give out. The pain in his shoulder mounted, and the CIC already felt stuffy and too warm. But he said, “Our intership comms and tracking displays are down, Ben. Is Communications still functioning?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Patch through to the carrier Ouray and request them to keep us informed until we’re back on line.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” he heard, and then remotely, “Admiral? Are you still there?”
* *
Someone moved him, turned him. A stab through his shoulder shocked him back to awareness, made his breath catch. Lujan opened his eyes.
A firefighter and a med-tech, both with sweaty faces and smoke masks dangling, bent over him in the dim red of emergency lighting. Sweat soaked his uniform, too. “Help Robard first,” he said, and motioned at the Ops Officer.
“Relax, sir,” the fireman said. “They’re with him already.”
“The crew at the consoles?”
“Mostly just cuts and bruises, sir. They’re okay. Take it easy.”
The med-tech ripped his uniform from his shoulder with one practiced yank, baring massive bruises down his right side and the old scars that twisted around his upper arm. His shoulder appeared misshapen, already discolored. He grimaced. “Is it broken?”
“Dislocated, sir,” said the med-tech, probing the joint. “It’s swollen some but it doesn’t look too bad. More painful than anything else.” She shifted back and offered a hand to help him sit up. He clenched his teeth at the pain that came with the movement. He passed his good hand over his face when his vision momentarily tunneled.
“Take it easy, sir,” the medic said. She took the canteen from her web belt, twisted off its cap, offered it to him. “If you’ll come back to sickbay with us, we can run a holoscan and reposition your shoulder.”
Lujan took a couple of swallows from the canteen. “There’ll be time for that when the battle’s over. Just wrap it up so it’s not in the way. I’ll come in later.” He surveyed the Combat Information Center, saw medics strapping Robard onto a med sled and shaken scan operators being ushered away from dead consoles. “Right now,” he said, “I have to get up to the bridge.”
* *
“Admiral on the bridge!” someone shouted when the doors slid open to admit him.
Lujan said, “Carry on,” and crossed to the communications station, where he steadied himself against its rail. But for the medic’s blanket thrown around his shoulders, he was naked to the waist, his right arm braced and bound against his chest.
“Admiral?” said Captain Horsch.
“I’ll live,” Lujan said through clenched teeth. “What’s the battle status?”
“We’re recovering the first wave of fighters now, sir,” said the officer of the deck. “The second wave is over the target area. We’ve taken some losses but we’ve inflicted worse.” He indicated the forward screen, where green lights and red, transmitted from Ouray’s Combat Information Center, diagramed the battle. Only two enemy carriers, two destroyers, and five planetary attack frigates remained of the combatants, and their flashing markers indicated damage.
“The first wave got a visual confirmation on the troop transports,” the OOD continued, “and the third wave is forming up for a run on them.”
“Are the transports armed?” Lujan asked.
“Minimal weapons, sir,” the OOD said. “They’re dependent on the combatants for defense.”
“Then they’re not to be destroyed,” Lujan said. “Relay orders that only weapons and propulsion will be disabled. If life support systems are left intact, the transports will suffice as POW facilities until we can remove the personnel.”
“Sir!” The communications officer pivoted around in her chair. “Sir, we’ve lost comms with the carrier Ichorek!” She pressed her earphones hard to her head, straining to hear. “Two internal explosions, seconds apart. . . . Both hulls have been breached!”
“On screen,” said Horsch.
Across the distance, Ichorek looked like a broken, burning toy ship in the moment before another blast tore it to spinning fragments.
There was silence on the bridge for a full minute. Then Horsch said, “Where did the initial explosions occur?”
“In hangar deck two, sir,” said the comms officer. “One of the forward launch areas. They had just recovered a couple of damaged fighters.”
Lujan stiffened. “Where was Gryfiss’ fighter recovered?”
“Deck one, sir.”
“That’s what I thought,” Lujan said. “Alert the deckcrews on all carriers to inspect incoming fighters for anything abnormal, and to take appropriate action. These explosions are not coincidences.”
* *
“Charger Fourteen, you’re cleared for ramp three,” said the controller.
“Ramp three, roger.” Lieutenant Marney checked off his landing list and banked into final approach. The AG lights came into line. He reached out to extend landing gear—
—a system failure light blinked on. His port gear hadn’t come down.
“Base, this is Charger Fourteen on the go,” Marney said. “My gear’s stuck. I’m giving it another try.”
He went around three times, toggling the switch, tugging at the manual lever. The light stayed on.
“Base,” he said, “I’ll have to make a gear-up landing, arresting hooks only.”
“Roger that,” the controller said. “Emergency fill and arresting nets are in place, and artificial grav level is being reduced to point five.”
No shower of sparks, no shrieking noise filled the ramp’s vacuum when Marney’s craft struck the emergency fill. It bounced, then fishtailed as it snagged the arresting net. When it skidded to a halt, he popped the canopy and leaped clear. His deckcrew moved in from all sides.
In another moment, one of the deckies gulped, “Holy Dzhou!” and scrambled out from under the fighter. “Clear the area! There’s an unexploded ordnance the size of a pulpfruit jammed up against the landing gear cover!”
* *
“Bridge, hangar three.” The speaker sounded like he’d been holding his breath. “I think we’ve isolated the threat, sir.”
Horsch pressed the intercom button to reply. “What is it?”
“A high explosive, sir, in a casing with suction surfaces,” the crew chief said. “It came in attached to Lieutenant Marney’s fighter. The EOD crew took it apart and found an ambient pressure-timer d
etonator set to blow ten minutes after the pressure registers one atmosphere—just long enough to get a bird down into the hangar bays after pressurization.”
Horsch glanced up at Lujan. “Limpets. Devious,” he said. “How difficult are they to detect?”
“Not very, sir, now that we know what we’re looking for,” the crew chief answered.
“Then don’t your lower guard,” Horsch said. “There may be something else as well. No fighter will enter the pressurized hangar areas without a thorough inspection.”
The crew chief said, “Aye, aye, sir.”
Lujan said, “Make that a general order to all carriers.”
As the comms officer spoke into her pickup, Horsch returned his attention to the forward screen, his brow furrowed. “Battle status?” he said after a moment.
“The third wave has just cleared the target area, sir,” said the comms officer. She listened briefly to the dialogue in her headset. “Ouray reports three transports destroyed and the rest disabled. According to Charger Lead, all enemy vessels are dead in space and some are still visibly burning.”
Horsch acknowledged with a nod. “Open hailing frequencies to the Isselan flagship,” he requested.
“Aye, aye, sir.” The comms officer worked briefly over her console keyboard, toggled a row of switches. In a few moments she said, “Sir, the carrier s’Adou The’n is responding.”
The s’Adou The’n.
Lujan felt his heart contract, his stomach knot up. Darcie had been taken aboard the s’Adou The’n.
“Admiral,” said Captain Horsch, and deferred the communication to him.
Lujan drew a deep breath and straightened. Made himself loosen his sudden grip on the comms station railing. “Put them on screen,” he said. If Darcie was still on board, he would know soon enough.
He noted the mix of human and masuk officers in the bridge crew when the flagship came on screen, and remembered the hologram of Darcie that Kapolas had delivered.
He recognized the ship’s captain. Knew him, via intelligence briefings and news media, to be Edouard Mebius, one of Issel’s foremost space fleet commanders. Lujan fixed his vision on him. “In the name of the World Government of Sostis and the Unified Worlds,” he said, “I order you to surrender your fleet.”
“There is no honor in surrender!”
One of the masuki had spoken, the equivalent of a space fleet captain by the shoulder clasp on his cloak. He said it with his teeth bared.
Lujan studied him as he said, “You don’t have an alternative, Captain.”
But if they’re holding Darcie they’ll try to offer me one.
They didn’t.
“We will die before we will surrender,” said the masuk officer. “We will be worthless to you, Admiral Sergey. And the most worthless one among us will die first!”
He half turned, snapped words that sounded like a snarl, and reached for the knife that rode bare-bladed in the sash of his tunic.
Two masuk subordinates flanking Mebius’ command chair seized him by the arms, dragging him to his feet and forward before their superior. Mebius had no chance to struggle. He started to shout, “What—?” but one masuk twisted a hand into his hair and jerked his head back, stifling him.
“It is a worthless commander,” said the masuk captain as he placed the point of his blade at the base of Mebius’ neck, “who leads his force into an ambush. We will all die, Captain, but it is by your mistake, and you will die first.”
With a motion surprisingly deft for thick masuk fingers, he flicked the blade up on its edge—
“Screen off!” said Horsch.
The faces of the bridge crew had paled. They appeared shocked when Lujan glanced around. They knew as well as he did what was happening on the bridge of the s’Adou The’n. They also knew what would be left when it was over.
Lujan forced it from his own mind. He watched Horsch press the intercom button, listened as he said, “Damage Control, report. What’s our condition?”
The OIC who answered said, “Fires are out, Captain, but hangar deck one’s been gutted and deck two’s got fire damage as well.”
“Ouray will have to recover some of our fighters, sir,” said the officer of the deck.
Horsch nodded agreement. “See to it, Mr. Dowlen. I’m going below to check on the damage.”
* *
Standing in the blackened cavern that had been hangar deck one, Horsch and Lujan studied the scattered wreckage of Gryfiss’ fighter. Flying debris had touched off the fuel network and severed power cables. The Damage Control officer pointed out evidence of secondary blasts, the source of the fires.
Horsch asked, “How extensive is the structural damage?”
“Severe enough that we’re not lightskip capable, sir,” said the DC officer. He indicated support beams across the overhead, which were bent like sportsmen’s bows from the explosions. “Those would never withstand the stress of making ‘skip, sir. They’d buckle, and we’d have a chain reaction that would end with an implosion.”
“Can the necessary work be done underway?”
The other studied the sundered overhead for a few moments and let out his breath in a whistle. “Yes, sir, it’s possible,” he said at last, and returned his attention to his captain. “But it’ll take time.”
“How much time?” Lujan asked.
“At least a full day, Admiral.”
Lujan glanced at his timepiece. They had no alternative, he knew. But there were only forty-six standard hours until the rendezvous at Saede.
Twenty-Four
“How’s he doing?” Chesney asked.
“Physically,” said Brandt, “he’s doing okay. His vital signs are back to normal, the remaining kidney is functioning, and he’s starting to get some strength back. But he still has no appetite and he’s not sleeping well. He has a lot of nightmares. He’s really touchy about his back and ribs, understandably. Looks like post-trauma stress.”
Chesney glanced through the doorway into the cubicle. The boy lay on his belly with his face turned toward the bulkhead. The bedsheet didn’t cover the livid welts across his shoulders. She grimaced. “He’s probably got enough reasons for that.”
“More than enough.” Brandt sighed. “I’ve tried to persuade him to talk about it, but I haven’t had any success. I thought that giving him some time alone with his dead friend might help, so yesterday I took him next door,” —he jerked a thumb toward the neighboring cubicle— “where we’re storing the body. He stood by the stasis capsule for a couple of hours, stroking the alien’s hair, but that was all. He just seemed numb, even after I brought him back here.” Brandt shook his head. “If he doesn’t externalize it, he’s going to end up with some real problems.”
“So you want me to give it a shot?” asked Chesney.
Brandt nodded. “He seems more responsive to you, ma’am. It’s worth a try.”
Tristan didn’t seem to be aware of her until she stood beside his berth and quietly spoke his name. Then he jumped. He turned his head as if it were too heavy and questioned her with eyes that betrayed his inner ache.
“Sorry, hotshot,” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Feeling any better?”
“No,” Tristan said. His eyes kept asking why she was there.
Chesney unfolded the seat attached to the bulkhead and sat down. “I thought you might want somebody to talk to.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “It helps more over the long-haul than drinking does. Besides, your father would probably deep-space me if I got you blitzed.”
There was a brief silence, and then, “I can’t talk about it,” the boy said.
Leave it alone for now, Chesney counseled herself. She leaned back on the narrow seat, stretched out her legs, crossed her ankles. “You’re quite a pilot,” she said. “Even delirious. I didn’t have to watch you handle that boat for very long to know it was Jink’s kid at the controls.” r />
“Jink?” said Tristan. He wrinkled his nose in evident puzzlement.
“Your father’s nickname from pilot training,” said Chesney. “It ended up becoming his running name. . . . He’d really be proud of you.”
The boy looked away from her. “No, he wouldn’t,” he said.
She wasn’t expecting that. She softened her tone. “Care to tell me why you think that, Tristan?”
He shrugged, as well as he could lying down, and kept his face toward the bulkhead. “I don’t know what to think about my father anymore,” he said. “All that stuff about betraying people, and being an assassin. . . .”
“What?” Chesney straightened on the fold-down seat. “Who told you that?”
Tristan’s vision jerked back to her. He swallowed. “Governor Renier,” he said.
Chesney rolled her eyes. “He would,” she said, and leaned forward. “Tristan, your father never betrayed anybody. He just did his duty, and it was probably one of the hardest duties he’s ever had to carry out.” She shook her head. “We’d probably all be eating live dirvilice with pointed sticks and chanting prayers to some despot at the galactic center right now if he hadn’t.”
Tristan didn’t make any reply to that, so she asked, “Does that clear up a few things?”
He only shrugged again.
“Feel any better now?”
He shook his head.
She studied him for a long while before she reached out to brush his hair away from his eyes. He started at her touch, locked his teeth on his lip, watched her warily.
“You’re sure you don’t want to tell me what’s hurting you?” she said.
He only shuddered.
“Does it have to do with your father?” she persisted.
His features were taut, strained. He shook his head once more. “I can’t tell you!”
“Even if it’d release all that pressure inside you?” she asked. “Even if it’d let you sleep without nightmares?”
“I can’t!” he said again, and his breath caught.
For an instant Chesney thought he might break down, spill it out that way and free himself. But he didn’t. He just turned his face away and wouldn’t look at her again.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last, and drew the sheet up over his shoulders and left the cubicle.