Starpilot's Grave: Book Two of Mageworlds (23 page)

Read Starpilot's Grave: Book Two of Mageworlds Online

Authors: Debra Doyle,James D. Macdonald

BOOK: Starpilot's Grave: Book Two of Mageworlds
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“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?”
“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 drinking 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.”
Saben maneuvered herself into the communications seat. She fastened the safety webbing to keep herself from drifting away, then put on the earphone link and began to work.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Somebody just shot
Ebannha
all to pieces,” Cantrel said. “I don’t know know who or why. But right now, I don’t want anyone who’s looking for me to find me until
I
tell them where to look.”
Saben and Falkith nodded. A few seconds later, Saben looked up from the communications board.
“Getting a signal on the lightspeed comms, sir.”
“Put it on.”
The comms tech pushed a button. The last notes of the “attention” signal came over the speaker, followed by words:
“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.”
The transmission ended.
“Who was that from?” Cantrel asked.
“
Karipavo
.”
Chief Yance nodded in the direction of the expanding ball of glowing gas that had been their home vessel. “Guess
Ebannha
didn’t get the word in time.”
“Not at lightspeed they wouldn’t have,” said Cantrel.
“And it might not have done any good anyway. Whatever hit them, it hit them fast and nasty.”
In the darkness beyond the viewscreens, the brief lightning of energy fire continued, though more sporadically now. Falkith nodded toward the starfield.
“What d’you think’s going on out there?” he asked.
Cantrel shook his head. “Who knows? Maybe the fighters are still at it. Maybe the bad guys are shooting lifepods.”
“Too bad we don’t have guns,” said Falkith.
“I feel sorry for the pilots in the fighters,” Saben said.
“No food supply, no hyperspace engines. Even if they can get up near lightspeed, if nobody comes after them they’ll die of starvation or old age before they get to a friendly world.”

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