The Lazarus Particle (45 page)

“I love you, too, Roon. So much more than I can ever say.”

Xenecia scowled as another blast rattled the ship. “Can we please move this along?”

“Not without me,” Torrey declared. Snatching up Breed’s rifle, he racked in a fresh round. “Let’s do this.”

44 • ATTRITION

“You’re mad!” Trufant said with all the bravado of a man on the wrong end of a mutiny. “The Admiralty will never stand for this… this
treason
!”

“The Admiralty?” Orth scoffed. “The same Admiralty that sent the likes of
you
to mop up the Tyroshi threat? An up-jumped legacy with more name than brains? I beg to differ.”

The realization dawned visibly upon Trufant’s pale, fleshy face. “You’ve been planning this all along…”

“From the moment Admiral Bakhtiari informed me you were to be my relief.”

“But why?”

“I’m no fool, Armand. Do you think it lost on me that you received command of the battle group for which we were both vying? My posting to
Tau
was exile by promotion, punishment for my testimony in the Xavier Affair. No doubt your posting was compensation for whatever web of lies you parroted in yours,” Orth said contemptuously before returning to his rationale. “But if
Tau
was punishment, it was also my home. My command. Those were my people the Tyroshi slaughtered—good people, one and all. Had the Admiralty allotted me more than three aging Arbiters for a perimeter defense fleet, we might have saved more. And then, of all people, they send you. My people deserved better.”

“My battle group happened to be best positioned to respond!”

“It was a slap in the face and you know it!” he roared. His voice echoed sharply throughout the command module while he composed himself. “And you forget, old friend, it is no longer your battle group.” He smiled as he stepped in close, kneeling to meet the man eye to eye. “I knew if I played the dutiful soldier I could manipulate your oafish vanity to place myself in a position to seize command. All I had to do was bide my time and feed your delusions of grandeur. You always did have more ambition than sense. And now—” Arms spread wide, he stepped back to encompass as much of the command module as possible. “—here we are. I stand vindicated.”

Trufant blinked as he absorbed the totality of Orth’s diatribe. “My god. You really are barking mad.”

Orth sighed, letting his hands slap against his sides. “You never could see the big picture. A pity.” And just as quickly, he was done with the man, turning to the communications station. The officer previously stationed there had been relieved by a Marine specialist. “Have the infiltration teams boarded the Irregulars’ flagship yet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Patch me through. I want to speak to the team leader personally.”

“Commander Orth? This is Corporal Euric, sir. I’ve assumed command from Sergeant Larkin.”

“Very well, Corporal,” Orth said. “Report.”

“Sir, we’ve suffered moderate casualties but have tracked the targets to the flagship’s command module. They’ve sealed the blast doors and are most likely reinforcing against the possibility of a breaching operation. I recommend we open communications with those in charge and negotiate the surrender of the targets.”

Pruitt had served under Orth long enough to know that negotiation was not an option, not after all they had lost. “Unacceptable,” he declared, sure enough. “Prepare to breach immediately.”

Reluctantly, Corporal Euric complied.
“Yes, sir. Prepare to breach,”
he ordered his Marines.

“Remember, Corporal: Fenton Wilkes, Roon McNamara, and Xenecia of Shih’ra are priority number one. They are be taken alive by any means necessary.”

“Understood, sir. Charges are in place. Confirm order to breach?”

“Order confirmed, Corporal.”

“Yes, sir. Breaching in three… two…”

The sounds of pitched battle rang out over the comm—the boom of the breaching charges; tinny bursts of rattling fire; an overlapping chorus of shouted commands, guttural war cries… the sounds of men and women fighting and dying for a cause that was not and would never truly be their own.
 

As the battle reached its inevitable conclusion, silence prevailed in both command modules. “Report!” Orth demanded. No reply. “Euric? Anyone? Report, damnit!”

“What do you think of my methods now, Commander Orth?”
a sultry, familiar voice purred over the comm.
“By all means, send me more of your people. I shall be glad to add their heads to my growing collection.”
The laughter that followed was slow and throaty and deeply unnerving, punctuated by a sudden, sharp burst of static feedback before the communications specialist shut down the link.

Orth was clearly furious. “That Shih’rahi cunt,” he seethed, fists balled white-knuckle-tight against his sides.

“Well, that was cathartic,” Trufant said, smirking. “You see, Knolan? Your messianic complex will only take you so far. Your Marines couldn’t even overpower an ad hoc band of misfit rebels. It’s only a matter of time until you and all those under your alleged command meet the same fate.”

“Lieutenant Pruitt, get this fool out of my sight. I’m sure he’ll find the brig most accommodating. After all, it used to be his.”

Trufant’s smirk turned to sneering contempt at the notion of being confined to his own brig. For such a proud man, the insult to his ego would surely sting as badly as the injury. “Mark my words, Knolan: You may think your little mutiny successful, but you shall rue the day you crossed Armand Trufant III.” He spat at Orth’s feet. “That is a promise.”

“Noted.” He looked to Pruitt. “Lieutenant Pruitt, please escort the
prisoner
to his new quarters,
”
he said, emphasizing the word with a malicious grin. “I’ll decide what to do with him shortly.” To the weapons officer who had been overseeing the tactical bombardment of the Irregulars’ fleet before being rousted from his station, he asked, “Your name?”

“Lieutenant Dyson, sir.”

“Are you convinced I am firmly in command, Lieutenant Dyson?”

“Quite convinced, sir.”

“Excellent. You may retake your station. And the rest of you,” he said to the helmsman, the communications officer, the sensor operator, and the rest of the sundry command personnel, “I shall learn your names in time. Swear your loyalty now and you may continue to serve. Otherwise you may join your former commander in the brig.”

To a man and woman, they each swore their loyalty.

“Vile, traitor scum!” Trufant cursed them as Pruitt led him away.

Orth ordered his Marines to stand down but remain close and ready in the event some proved to value their lives less than their word.

“Lieutenant Dyson, order primary batteries to fix firing solutions on the Tyroshi fleet.” It may have begun with Fenton, but Orth was determined that it end with the destruction of Clan Ndeeldavono’s entire fleet.

Leaving the command module behind, Pruitt led Trufant onto the lift. “I hope you don’t intend to give me any trouble, sir. It would be against your best interests.”

“I find it so very comforting to know you have my best interests at heart, Lieutenant,” Trufant responded, “though I do appreciate you continuing to recognize my rank.”

Pruitt said nothing.

“And if I were to give you an order? Would you recognize that, as well?”

Again, Pruitt said nothing.

“You’re a bright young officer. I can see that.” Trufant regarded him pointedly. “You see it, don’t you? Orth, he’s not himself. I’ve known Knolan many years, and I don’t recognize this man. He’s clearly suffered a psychotic break in the wake of—”

“Stop talking, sir.”

“You have the power to end this. It’s not too late. The Admiralty will celebrate you as a true corporate patriot. It would be only the beginning of a long and illustrious career, I have no doubt. And I would put my own name in favor of your advancement, of course.”

“I said, stop talking, sir,” Pruitt repeated, turning toward Trufant. The man timed his strike perfectly, lifting both his hands and striking Pruitt flat across the trachea. Gagging and gasping, Pruitt staggered back as the lift opened and Trufant bolted down the corridor toward his quarters. By the time Pruitt recovered enough to give chase, Trufant had armed himself with the ceremonial blade given to him by Zj Soliorana.

“It doesn’t have to come to this, Lieutenant,” Trufant said, swaying on his feet, shifting the blade from hand to hand. “I’ll speak in your favor if you help me end this. We can do it together. Help me gather a sympathetic force to counter Knolan and I will guarantee you a place by my side.”

Pruitt narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t be begging to bargain if you were confident you could win this fight.” He flexed his fists, inviting the first strike.

Baring his teeth angrily, Trufant raised the blade and charged clumsily toward him. Pruitt dodged easily. He snapped his elbow down between Trufant’s shoulder blades for good measure.

“You little…” Trufant charged a second time, feinting right, then trying to cut in low and left at Pruitt’s knees. Pruitt read the move well in advance, dipping clear of the blade’s reach and snatching Trufant’s wrist between his hands. He twisted violently, snapping the bone and pushing Trufant away as he took the blade from the man’s mangled hand.

Pruitt just smiled as he tested the weight, the feel of the blade.

“Think about what you’re doing, Lieutenant,” Trufant stammered, still holding his wrist as he backpedaled against the edge of his desk. His breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
 

Looking almost mournfully at the blade in his hand, Pruitt sighed, seemed to sag. “Maybe you’re right, sir. Maybe there’s been enough killing.”

“That’s the spirit, son,” Trufant said. “I like where your head’s at. Now, just hand me the blade and we’ll—”

Before he could finish, Pruitt lunged forward, thrusting the blade into Trufant’s expansive gut. Black blood poured forth, coating the blade, making it slick in his hand as Trufant wailed through gritted teeth. He tried in vain to wriggle away from the blade. Undeterred, Pruitt thrust it deeper still. He drove the blade into Trufant’s stomach until the man seized, his eyes going wide and the tiniest of gurgles escaping his throat. Grasping with both hands, Pruitt drew the blade up until he felt it notch against the sternum, rending flesh and tissue alike as he opened Trufant’s stomach. Pruitt withdrew the blade and Trufant fell limply to his knees. He clutched at his gaping, eviscerated gut and the blood and viscera slopping wetly through his fingers as if he had even the slightest hope of stemming the tide, but it simply wasn’t to be. With a wet, agonized rattle, Trufant pitched face forward into the pool of his own spreading gore and died.

Pruitt lifted a hand to wick the man’s blood from his face, realizing too late they were both similarly covered. He succeeded only in smearing it unevenly across his cheeks and forehead. The face that greeted him in Trufant’s washroom mirror was a crazed distortion of his own, finger trails of dark black blood streaked below his eyes like war paint. He started the tap, intending to wash himself clean, but decided he rather liked the look.

Let them see
, he thought.
Let them see the price of defiance
.

He stepped into the command module without a word. At first his return went unheralded. Slowly, however, a woman manning the comm station turned her head toward him. Perhaps she smelled death on him. Perhaps she heard the steady patter of Trufant’s blood as it dripped from the edge of the blade to the deck below. Either way, she nearly threw herself out of her station at the sight of him. Her reaction brought the attention of others, all of whom looked upon him as if he were some terrifying vision of death come to claim their souls. Even the battle-hardened Marines seemed to blanche at the sight of so much blood.

Only Commander Orth stood mute, without reaction.
Taking in the sight of him, he lifted an eyebrow. “The prisoner?” he asked.

“Attempted to escape and bribe me,” Pruitt said evenly. “When that failed, he attacked me. I defended myself.”

Orth shrugged dismissively. “No matter. The man was of no practical value in any event.” He smiled wryly. “Rather poetic touch,” he said, indicating the blade.

Pruitt seemed to notice it for the first time, as if he wasn’t even aware he was still carrying it until that moment. “Yes. I was thinking I might keep it. A memento, of sorts.”

“It seems only fitting.” Orth stepped forward, clapping Pruitt on his shoulder. It was one of the few parts of his uniform that wasn’t sodden with blood. “You honor me with your service, Lieutenant. Come. We have a battle group to address.”

45 • PROXIMITY

The ambush was right out of Morgenthau-Hale’s playbook, and she had missed it. She’d allowed their bloodlust and the promise of easy prey to lure them into the empty, indefensible space between the enemy fleet and their own—No Man’s Land—and now they were paying for it in blood.

At such close range it was only a matter of time before the Morgenthau-Hale rail guns crippled the fleet and the Tyroshi moved in to finish them off with their plasma cutters. Already several precision strikes had rent a handful of the smaller support vessels. Dozens upon dozens of tiny pinwheeling figures danced away from the shredded decks like dead little snowflakes into oblivion. It was infuriating. Terrifying. She didn’t know these people—hell, she barely knew half the people flying her wing—but she felt the loss of each one acutely.
 

“Multiple contacts inbound on your position!”
the voice of Marshal Harm informed them over the comm.
 

Combat instincts kicked in and Ohana snapped out of it. She couldn’t afford to think like that, she reminded herself, couldn’t allow herself to become emotional or overwhelmed. The numbers didn’t matter, not right now. All that mattered was protecting the fleet and each other.

All that mattered was surviving.

“Alright, people, you know the drill,”
Dell chimed in. His voice was effortlessly commanding, cool and even but with an authoritative edge she knew he must have picked up from serving with Marshal Harm.
“First we thin the herd, then we go after the big dogs.”