Troy Rising 2 - Citadel (13 page)

“This isn't the shuttle Spade and Boomer are on,” Hartwell said. “Hell.”

“Where are they?” Dana asked.

“Further back,” the engineer said. “Past turn-over but still further out. Damn these Columbia class, anyway.”

“They are slow,” Dana said.

“They're obsolete,” Hartwell said. “They're only still flying because Boeing had a contract for two hundred of them. They're also overpriced compared to what we get from Granadica. Of course, they generally work.”

“You'd think a fabber would get things right every time,” Dana said. “I mean . . . it's a fabber!”

“Ain't magic, Danno,” Hartwell said. “Just high tech. And sometimes it has issues.”

“And . . . burn,” Dana said. It was programmed in so she didn't even have to hit a button. “Uff da.”

“Yeah,” Thermal said. “I was enjoying the break.”

“And now you're enjoying the brake,” Dana said.

“What?”

“Braking maneuvers?” Dana said.

“Very funny.”

“Shuttle Seventeen, Myrmidon One-Four-Three-Charlie-Thirty-Three,” Dana commed. “Approach for docking.”

“Roger, Thirty-Three,” the shuttle pilot commed. “Good to see you. We were feeling all lonely out here.”

“Your dock, Seventeen,” Hartwell commed, standing up. “I need to go play doorman.”

“Right,” Dana said.

“Confirm my dock,” the pilot said. “Stand by for dock.”

Dana had managed to get the Myrmidon within fifty meters of the shuttle and stationary once the shuttle cut power. She also had it turned so their docking bay was pointed, more or less, at the shuttle's.

She had to admire the finesse of the shuttle pilot, though. He slid his shuttle over and docked in what looked like one smooth motion.

She felt the impact of the shuttle docking and saw the light go on for the hatch opening. All the indicators were in the green. She wasn't sure what to do so she just held her seat. She could hear, faintly through the bulkhead, the vibration of feet and the increasing sound of voices. Then the hatch indicator light went off.

“And they're in,” Thermal said, closing the hatch to the flight compartment and taking his seat. “We're undocked. But don't hammer it. Keep the accel down to standard. I need to call command.”

“What's up?” Dana said, backing away from the shuttle and heading for Troy. She set the accel for one hundred gravities which was about the maximum that the inertial system could handle without going into high grav conditions.

“We've got three pregnant women on the manifest,” Hartwell said. “Command, Thirty-Three.”

“Go, Thirty-Three,” Longwood replied.

“All the chicks onboard,” Hartwell said. “Including three with eggs. Advise.”

“Standby, Thirty-Three,” Longwood commed. There was a definite note of frustration in the transmission.

“What's our time to make the Troy?” Hartwell said.

“At this accel,” Dana said. “Assuming a simple turn-over . . . Fifty-seven minutes.”

“Too long,” Hartwell said. “Too bloody long.”

“WE could head for Earth,” Dana said. “I mean, if we turned around now.”

“An hour and a half,” Dana said. “More every second we accelerate. But if the Horvath come through, we'd be running away. We're just about as fast as a Horvath missile. There are all sorts of choices if we just want to run. I can slingshot for that matter.”

“Command,” Hartwell said. “Advise best choice run for the World. We can also stop and try to pick up Twenty-Three passengers.”

“Negative, Thirty-Three,” Longwood said. “Maximum burn. Medical will be standing by.”

“Dammit,” Hartwell said. “Go for full burn.”

“Roger,” Dana said. “Tell them to hang on.”

“Paris, Thirty-Three. Tell me the door is still open.”

“Thirty-three, Paris. We're holding the door open for you.”

“Roger,” Dana said.

The shuttle was decelerating at four hundred gravities, headed for the narrow slot left at the opening. The plug had been moved into position to close while they were gone and there was only a two hundred meter gap left.

“Tell me you can hit that,” Hartwell said.

“I can hit that,” Dana said.

“And by hit I mean miss the big chunks of metal,” Hartwell said.

“I'm going to miss the big chunks of metal,” Dana said. “Just make sure nothing breaks or I'm not going to miss the big chunks of metal.”

“Thirty-Three,” Paris said. “Abort, abort, abort. Horvath emergence. Door is closing.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Hartwell said.

“Paris,” Dana said, coolly. “I don't have enough burn to abort.” The door was visibly closing as the tugs went to full power. “It's either shoot the gap or impact.”

“Roger,” Paris said turning metallic. “Understood. Insufficient time to make the gap.”

“Do I have permission to try?” Dana asked.

“Permission
.
.
.
granted,” the metallic voice said.

“We've got incoming Horvath missiles,” Hartwell said, cool again. “They're not going to hold the door open for us.”

“Not a problem,” Dana said, cutting power. She spun the craft in space and accelerated for the rapidly closing gap. “Tell the cargo to back up against the back wall. Get the guys against the steel.” The Myrmidon had not been configured with grav couches and there were more people in the compartment than it would have had couches, anyway.

“What are you doing?” Hartwell asked, too calmly.

“I've got seven kilometers to brake on the inside,” Dana said. “And about thirty seconds to make it through the gap. Which is a kilometer and a half long. You do the math. I'm doing this by the seat of my pants.”

“My math brain just went to bed and pulled the cover over his head,” Hartwell said.

The shuttle shot into blackness and all that Dana had was her instruments to guide her. There weren't even leading shuttles to follow. All she could do was try to keep to the center of the rapidly narrowing gap. If the five hundred and fifteen thousand tons of iron closed on the sixty ton shuttle, they were going to be an almost unnoticeable smear. The maximum normal velocity in the tunnel, when the plug was out, was ninety kilometers per hour. She was doing nearly ten times that velocity.

Dana shot out of the gap and didn't even notice the door clanging closed. She was far more interested in the great big red line directly on her vector.

“All vessels,” Paris transmitted. “Flight emergency in main bay. Avoid sectors seven, sixteen, forty-three, forty-four
.
.
.”

“SAPL!” Hartwell shouted. “Where the hell . . . ?”

“See it,” Dana said. She managed to figure out the powered skew turn maneuver by sliding under the SAPL zone. She actually passed through the edge but the marked zone was a hundred yards across and the beam was less than ten centimeters. Plenty of room. Then she applied maximum braking power.

“I'm green,” she muttered. “I am cool. I am a butterfly . . .”

“That is the craziest thing . . .” Lieutenant Commander Martin said. “I'm not sure whether to give her a medal or Mast.”

“She had permission to try, sir” CM1 Glass said. “If she doesn't crash, I say the medal.”

“The latter is looking increasingly unlikely . . .”

“Support beam,” Hartwell said. “Don't hit the . . .”

“Got it,” Dana said. She had to vector off-brake to avoid it, causing the pseudo-gravity in the shuttle to skew all over the place. She ignored the screams from the cargo. “I am a butterfly . . .”

“I don't think we're going to make it,” Hartwell said. Skewing off-vector had caused them to go out of pocket to avoid impacting on the far wall.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Dana said.

“Fifty bucks it's plasma, sir.”

Lieutenant Commander Carter “Booth” Bouthillier was the tactical officer of the Constitution Class Cruiser James Earl Carter, SC 6. And like anyone else not directly involved in the battle, he was watching the crazy assed pilot of 142/C/33 shoot across the main bay like a comet.

“I'll take that,” Captain Russ Kepler said. The commander of the Carter was watching the main tactical screen with his arms crossed. “Seems to be doing okay so far.”

“You're on, sir,” Booth said. “Be aware, the pilot is an EN cross trained as a coxswain.”

“You bastard!”

“Collision alarms, please,” Dana said.

Thirty-Three was already pulling three gravities even with ISS. Hitting was going to suck. Especially for the cargo.

“Collision alarms, aye,” Hartwell said. He braced himself in his chair. “Nice knowing . . .”

“Oh! Ow!” Booth said. “That had to smart!”

“And there were pregnant women onboard,” Captain Kepler said. “See if Medical needs assistance.”

“We're still up?” Dana said, shaking her head.

“Barely,” Hartwell said. “We're leaking air in the cargo bay.”

“Paris, vector to shuttle bay,” Dana said, bringing power back up. “We're outgassing and we have volatiles as cargo. Engineer, maximum pressure to cargo bay.”

“Max pressure cargo bay, aye,” Hartwell said.

“Roger, Thirty-Three,” Paris said. “Declared Emergency.
Direct vector Bay One. I'll have medical standing by. Good job, CA Parker. Very good job.”

“Thank you, Paris.” The shuttle handled like a brick after the impact. But it was limping along. And if she could get to Bay One before they lost all their onboard air the cargo would survive which was the task and standard. “We deliver the mail.”

“That's fifty bucks you owe me, TACO,” Kepler said, holding out his hand.

“Take a check?”

“Major To'Jopeviq! Come in! Come in!”

The Rangora had occasional eugenics periods. Every technological civilization required them if they were to survive for any length of time. Technology meant that the weak filled the civilization like fat upon the belly of a Glatun banker. From time to time the weak, the stupid, the useless, must be eliminated to prevent the whole of society from becoming weak, stupid and useless. They were a toxin that must be purged.

It was joked, among the crews of assault vectors, that they were part of that eugenics program. They must be stupid to do their, entirely voluntary, jobs. Assault Vectors were the primary Rangora superdreadnoughts for the breaking of enemy gate defenses and the casualties ran into the tens of thousands.

Major Egilldu To'Jopeviq was the survivor of five assaults upon lesser races. In the last attack, upon the Lho'Phirukuh system, he ended in command of the five hundred survivors of the AV Star Crusher. The Star Crusher had entered the gate with ten thousand personnel.

The major walked into the star general's office and, instead of sitting, saluted with a slight mechanical whir from his prosthetic right arm and a thump as it hit his chest.

“Major Egilldu To'Jopeviq, reporting as ordered,” the major said. “Long live the Empire!”

“Major, Major,” Star General Chayacuv Lhi'Kasishaj chided, hissing in humor. The Star General was, unlike the Major, from one of the Twenty Families that were the nobility of the Rangora Imperium. A tad out of shape he nonetheless could have the major buried under a rock with a word. His office was tastefully but expensively decorated which pretty much defined a son of the Families. “We are not under observation from the Kazis. It is all friends here. Please, sit.” The general got up and poured some skul. “How do you take it?”

“Red, sir,” the major said, sitting down. He even sat at attention.

“I see you're one of those,” the general said, hissing again. He handed the officer the steaming mug and sat down. “Well, we can work with that. Major, you are here to form a team for what will seem to be a minor matter. And given that there are about to be great actions in the galaxy, you may feel, at times, that you are a forgotten hero. You will see your classmates and nest mates conquering as Rangora ought while you languish in a minor little study group. What I cannot stress enough is the importance. For though there are soon to be great things done by the Imperium, they will be for nothing if your group does not do its job. Do you understand me?”

“No, sir,” the major said. “Because you have given me nothing but generalities.”

“You have a point,” the general said, hissing again. “A blunt one, but a point. Very well. Here are the specifics. You are about to be brought into secrets known only to the high command.” The general brought up a holo of the local star area and pointed at the Glatun Federation. “In six months the Imperium will be at war with the Glatun Federation. We intend to crush them in less than a year.”

“Great actions as you say, General,” Major To'Jopeviq said, his one remaining real eye gleaming. “Tell me this team is a command.”

“That is what I have to tell you it is not,” the general said. “Nor does it, directly, affect the war. Your mission is otherwise.”

The general dialed in on a small star system to the side of the Glatun Federation.

“Terra?” Major To'Jopeviq said, aghast. “This has to do with that little nothing system?”

“Terra,” General Lhi'Kasishaj said. “But do not dismiss them. The Terrans are infants on the space lanes it is true. Barely twenty years from first contact and several of those as satraps of the Horvath. But they just crushed the latest Horvath attack with an ease that you should find frightening. If you are not afraid of the sudden appearance of a polity with such combat ability, you are a hindrance to this task not a positive.”

“I understand, General,” To'Jopeviq said. “I will not let my assumptions affect this task. Please enlighten me.”

“The Horvath had lost control of the Terran system so, being good allies and having no real need for our remaining Devastators, we loaned them most of the ships we had in storage,” General Lhi'Kasishaj said. “Thirty-two Devastators, Five Conquerors and three of their own pitiful ‘battlecruisers.' They sent them into the Terran system with the unquestioned assumption that they were about to take the world and the Horvath intended to exterminate that perfidious race. This is what they got.”

The view in the holo was now of drifting wrecks. It was clearly taken shortly after the battle because the wrecked ships were still sparking and there were occasional explosions.

“One occasionally has to stick one's neck out to advance,” the Star General mused, watching the holo. Small boats were already moving amongst the wrecks and To'Jopeviq recognized the signs of boarding parties. Of course, they were probably just taking surrenders given the devastation. “And while I may seem to be in a high position, that just means that rising in stature is harder because the competition is just as ruthless and experienced as you are. And they are very good at making their own predictions and know when to stick their necks out and when to hold them in. I stuck my neck out arguing against supplying the ships to the Horvath. My point was that the Terrans were a formidable threat and that giving the ships to the Horvath was tantamount to losing them.”