Vertigo: Aurora Rising Book Two (44 page)

“Yes, sir.”

Tentacled ships swarming outside the viewport resembled locusts in the onslaught of a plague. In fact, should he survive the day, he would recommend the strange vessels be christened ‘swarmers.’

Other than by accidental swipe, their larger ships had thus far failed at eliminating the small vessels; they were too nimble to get a hard lock on. The fighters did a marginally better job, but were being blown up faster than they could take out their opponents.

“Damage assessment?”

“Just a scratch, sir. Damaged section has been sealed off.”

“Casualties?”

“Medical is reporting six, sir.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Shield strength was being relentlessly whittled down and had already failed at one juncture, and the
Orion’s
powerful reactors were taxed to capacity keeping them up.

After the heartening opening volley of the battle the sole mission objective the fleet had achieved to any extent was pulling the superdreadnoughts away from the planet. Combat now occurred some five megameters from the outer atmosphere and expanded across twice the space. In desperation they resorted to using the distance to their advantage, spreading out and rendering the goliath ships unable to hit them en masse.

He blinked as a fighter shot vertically up the viewport and burst into pieces as it took the fire of a swarmer on behalf of the
Orion
.
Dammit.

Colonel Jenner:  Lexington, we’ve got one final chance to take out this monster. We’ve got lead.

He informed his three surviving frigates of the plan. He had to send the message out three separate times, as they enjoyed only point-to-point communications. “Helmsman Paena, approach X6 to maximum firing range.”

Target X6 was heavily damaged, previous strikes having ruptured its hull in four separate places. But the vessel was so massive it appeared unaffected by the damage.

Lt. Colonel Sanchez (Concord):  Colonel, I have an idea. I want to target its weapon housing from below.

Colonel Jenner:  Great idea. Don’t get yourself killed. And take the Bismarck with you.

“Weapons: fire everything you’ve got at that alien ship.” If they could destroy another superdreadnought, they could buy more time.

“Yes, sir. Targeting and…laser impact. Firing remaining missiles.”

Pinpricks blossomed against the bright silver energy rippling along rust-red shields. He felt like he was wasting the missiles, but to be a believable distraction it needed to wield teeth. He caught a glimpse of the
Lexington
as it swept up the far side and initiated firing, but the
Concord
and
Bismarck
flew too low to see in the viewport.

Yet after another second the glow of their lasers illuminated the belly of the enemy ship. A tiny explosion erupted on the upper hull as a damaged swarmer careened into it.

The lower hull ripped apart, followed by…nothing. For a second he thought they’d run out of tricks—even the aliens’ weapons ports weren’t vulnerabilities—then fiery red streaks spread from the lower section throughout the ship. The frigates’ fire had kicked off a chain reaction.

“Get us to safe distance!”

Colonel Jenner:  Concord, Bismarck, get out of there now!

At close range the destruction of the superdreadnought was considerably more savage than the prior one on the horizon. Part of his brain registered what he saw as the implosion of four separate reactors, though not fueled by anything he recognized. The rest of his brain registered amazement at the sheer scale of the violence.

The shockwave hit them and Malcolm landed on the floor for the second time in five minutes. Everyone who wasn’t strapped in landed on the floor. Alarms pealed through the bridge.

He grasped the rail and began hauling himself to his feet when the second shockwave roiled over the ship.

By sheer dumb luck he was thrown into his chair. He chuckled dryly to himself at the comical sight he would have presented had anyone been able to spare enough attention to notice it.

“Report!”

“Hull damage on Decks 2 and 4, but integrity holding for now. No breaches.”

Admiral Rychen:  Damn fine job, Jenner.

Colonel Jenner:  Thank you, sir, but the Concord deserves most of the credit.

He considered the tactical map while rubbing absently at his neck. Half a dozen frigates had retreated to protect the
Churchill
as two superdreadnoughts directed their focus to it. The correct move, but it meant the alien ships faced fewer distractions to hinder them.

Their options were dwindling.

Colonel Jenner:  Lexington, go help out the Churchill. We’re good for now.

The surrounding skies briefly appeared—relatively speaking—empty and he took the opportunity to get a handle on the macro situation.

They were losing. He was down one…he checked again…two frigates. Hampered by the earlier hit, the
Bismarck
hadn’t gotten enough distance in time and suffered serious damage in the superdreadnought explosion. It was intact but limping badly. He ordered them to retreat to the rendezvous coordinates before the remainder of their hull became a target.

With the crippled communications it was difficult to know precisely how the rest of the forces fared, but the tactical map showed far fewer green dots. The limited communications, while parsecs better than nothing, weren’t sufficient.

Battles moved fast and seconds made a difference and they were losing those seconds trying to talk to one another. Anarchy reigned in the skies above Messium; he’d already witnessed three fighter collisions due to crossed signals.

And in this circumstance anarchy was no longer their friend.

47

SENECA

C
AVARE

C
HAIRMAN
V
RANAS’ RESIDENCE
stood at the end of an enclave of homes so exclusive and secluded few people knew they existed, much less who resided in them. Graham knew, but it was his job to know. The occupants included the daughter of one of the founders of Cavare, the CEO of Seneca SpaceEX, the Dean Emeritus of Tellica University, and a famous professional syncrosse star whose name he never managed to remember.

He quickly cleared the perimeter security, then the property security, then the door security. The head of the Chairman’s personal protection detail escorted him to the man’s private office at the rear of the house.

He realized he’d never been to Vranas’ home before. The office, like the rest of the house, was elegant but understated. The large desk was made of unvarnished wood native to Seneca with a muted bronze marble surface. Windowed doors opened to a deck overlooking an inlet offshoot of Lake Fuori.

It was almost peaceful, which was an aspect he imagined Vranas needed a lot of these days.

He had headed straight here from the spaceport upon arriving from Krysk. Orders had been dispatched from the transport for the arrest of two additional lower-level conspirators, one in Division and one in the legislature. Oberti had gone mute since their conversation but he no longer cared; she could rot in the hell of her own making.

The Chairman silenced a screen and stood as he entered. “Graham, come in. You can return to your post, Major.”

“Thank you, Chairman.”

Vranas went over to a hutch in the corner and pulled a silver decanter off the shelf. “How long have we known one another?”

“Fourteen years, give or take.”

“There’s no one here. It’s Aristide. Care for a scotch?”

“Oh, yes.” He accepted the tumbler and followed Vranas out to the deck. He assumed there must be a virtual barrier protecting the Chairman from assassination via the water, but if so he couldn’t discern it. The reflection of Seneca’s moon rippled calmly in the night-darkened waters.

“I understand you’ve been off-planet for the last three days. Getting into trouble, I presume, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Turning enemies into allies actually.”

“And I was hoping you were stealing the secret weapon which turned the aliens into particles. But in the absence of a weapon, I’ll take allies. Who is it? Romane? Atlantis? The Triene Cartel? Gagarin Institute?”

“The Earth Alliance.”

Vranas choked on his scotch. Graham had a brief vision of swarming agents and medics and accusations of poisoning muffing up the whole thing, but the Chairman thankfully recovered his breath. “Has anyone ever told you that you brandish the most inappropriate sense of humor in the galaxy? Of course they have. I have.”

Graham rested his forearms on the railing. “Aristide, I’m not joking.”

The man regarded him intently, took a long if more careful sip of scotch, and nodded. “Let’s hear it.”

“This war was instigated by a cabal of influential conspirators inside the governments and militaries of the Alliance
and
the Federation, with assistance from the Zelones Cartel. Minister Santiagar’s assassination was committed by a hired assassin and facilitated by our now former Assistant Trade Director. The Palluda attack was committed by a group of mercenaries in the employ of Zelones using missiles and codes provided by an Alliance general.”

“Hail Mary, Full of Grace….”

“There’s more, but it boils down to one crucial fact: we were tricked into this war. All of us. And with aliens destroying colonies as if they were toys, we need to end the war and end it now.”

“You say this like it’s an easy thing, Graham. Reversing the inertial force alone of a galactic war is not a simple matter.”

“Considering the threat both sides are facing, it damn well better be simple.”

“Fair enough. You have evidence to back these claims up?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’ll need to present it through channels to Alliance representatives and—”

“Not so much. The Alliance end of things is being taken care of from within.” At Vranas’ raised eyebrow he gave an innocent shrug. “I had help running everything to ground.”

“Alliance help?”

Graham dipped his chin a touch. “The intelligence business isn’t always black and white, sir. And the people in the Alliance are not our enemy. Not most of them anyway.”

“You’re correct, unmistakably. Still, my impression of the current Alliance PM is he’s not exactly the peace-making type.”

“It so happens I have it on good authority that the current Prime Minister will soon be the former Prime Minister.” He checked the time. “Very soon, in fact.”

“Well. You have outdone yourself this time, Graham.” Vranas smiled, but even in the moonlight his eyes conveyed far more emotion. The man had been given a second chance to alter—and perhaps to prolong—the course of human history and recognized it for what it was. “In all seriousness, thank you. You may very well have saved millions of lives today.”

Graham feigned disappointment. “I’d hoped I saved billions today, but maybe that will be tomorrow.”

Vranas clasped him warmly on the shoulder then made his way back inside. “It seems another late night awaits me. But this night will be one of hope instead of despair.”

Isabela stared at the balcony of the hotel room and the street below and contemplated whether she could shimmy down and get to the ground without serious bodily injury. She frowned…perhaps not. It was a
long
way.

She was going insane. She needed to get out of here, which explained why she contemplated making the attempt anyway. This holding her ‘for her protection’ crap wore out its welcome days ago.

With little to do in the hotel room but watch the news feeds, she had now been rendered properly terrified of the alien armada creeping ever closer to Seneca. The media had dubbed the aliens ‘Metigens,’ from the Greek for ‘born of Metis.’ Born of Hades, more like it.

The entire galaxy was spinning out of control and she was sitting in a hotel room in downtown Cavare with two guards outside the door.

She had holo’d Marlee three times now. Each time it became more difficult to project a calm, reassuring demeanor and keep a happy appearance upon her face. Each time it became more agonizing to endure the hurt shining in her daughter’s forlorn eyes.

She had extended her leave from the university. Between the war and the aliens she didn’t think they particularly cared, and odds were half the students had left campus by now in any event.

She had refrained from pulsing Caleb any more often than once an hour. Every message bounced back. She had also refrained from drawing any conclusions with respect to the results.

There remained nothing left for her to do to occupy the hours, which explained why she was wearing a rut in the woven carpeting when the door opened and Director Delavasi walked in. “Ms. Marano, I—”

She charged across the room to get in his face. He was a large man, but she didn’t care. “I am done with your spy shenanigans and your conspiracies and I am not staying here another minute. I don’t give a damn who’s betraying who—unless you tell me my brother is on his way here as we speak, I am walking out this door, and I dare you to stop me.”