The Neptune Contingency: Starship Fairfax Book 3 - The Kuiper Chronicles Page 4

  Lucas leaned forward, his frown deepening. “Excuse me?”

  “The drones are going to launch anti-ballistics, all of them. This place is going to light up like the core of the sun for a few seconds. Buck us nose-down and shoot out through the bottom, and fast, or else we’re all going to fry.”

  Lucas looked at Caspar, his mouth beginning to open.

  “She’s right,” Caspar said. “Much as I hate to admit it. It’s the only logical maneuver.”

  “Randall?” Lucas called.

  “Sir!” The short man at the station to the left of Lucas—Randall, the helmsman—swiped his console furiously. “Ready, Sir.”

  On-screen, the red thickened as an army of anti-ballistic missiles launched from the drones. Ada swallowed against a dry lump.

  “Do it.”

  Thrusters topside gave a quick burst, jolting everyone as forward became down for a fraction of a second. The Fairfax’s inertial dampeners and artificial gravity corrected before anyone could fly across the bridge. Still, it was more than unsettling.

  “Strap in,” Lucas barked, fastening himself in the captain’s chair. Ada looked around askance for straps for her seat. Caspar sighed, leaned over, and swiped a small command hidden away at the edge of the console. Security belting rolled out of the chair and around Ada’s waist and shoulders.

  “Don’t bother thanking me,” Caspar said. “I just don’t want to have to clean up the mess.”

  “Ready to drop, Sir,” Randall said.

  “Punch it!”

  This time there was a noticeable lag for the ship’s systems to catch up, and everyone was forced back into their chairs. Ada felt like a giant hand was pressing her down, trying to crush her ribs and squeeze the life out of her. The fiery ignition continued at a steady burn, and the Fairfax shot out through the bottom of the massive cloud of ships, just in time.

  The shockwave that rippled out from the explosion made the ship lurch.

  “Randall?” An edge came into Lucas’ voice. Fear. At the speed they were moving, if the ship began spinning stern over bow, she was liable to break in two. For a moment it seemed likely, as they continued to lilt. The hull seemed almost to cry out in protest. Then, suddenly, she leveled out.

  Ada’s ear beeped. “Hive has stabilized the Fairfax, Ada.”

  Randall’s eyes scanned the readings at his console. “We’re stable, Sir. I have control. Though I’m not sure why. We should have rolled and broken up.”

  “It’s the drones,” Ada said. “They’re acting as secondary thrusters around the hull, keeping her aligned.”

  Lucas nodded. “Jeffrey, what happened behind us?”

  Beep. “Congratulations, Sir. You are responsible for the destruction of nearly half of the Empire’s armada. You and your crew will likely be hunted, tried, and executed for war crimes, in peace time, no less—assuming my employer, whose fleet you also significantly reduced, does not find you and kill you all first.”

  Ada gripped the console in front of her, bent at the waist, and vomited on the deck.

  Chapter 6

  A klaxon sounded throughout the ship. Erick ran a hand over his face.

  “Counterattack ordered,” Jeffrey announced. “All ships to fire on the hostile target.”

  “Sounds about right,” Erick mumbled. “Wally,” he said into the comm, “get another two volleys ready. We’ve got attack orders.”

  “Aye, Sir,” Wally answered.

  Erick watched the disintegration of the other Rome ship on-screen. His stomach flipped. It was all over so quickly—like back in the days before shielding had gotten advanced enough to turn nukes aside. Back then it had been simple: one shot, and if your ship wasn’t big enough, it was gone. But it had been decades since that kind of power had meant anything. Surely the ship that had just been destroyed had advanced shielding. He pulled up a diagnostic on his console and checked shield health for the Spacegull. Operational, full strength. He pursed his lips. Maybe the things had gotten lucky. Maybe the first ship they’d gone for hadn’t kept up on maintenance.

  Maybe.

  “Fleet ready,” Jeffrey said. “Commencing fleet-wide volley.”

  “Fleet-wide?” Erick frowned. “Jeffrey, show tactical onscreen, would you?”

  The screen changed to show a wall of blue dots—Rome ships—facing a wall of red dots—Empire forces—with one small red dot in the center, the hostile ship. All in a moment, smaller dots fired off from every single ship from either side. Red and blue.

  “That can’t be right.” He titled his head, watching as the missiles began converging on their target. Then another wave of weapons—this one from the hostile ship—shot out, like a massive energy pulse, toward the missiles.

  They were all about to explode. And the Spacegull was on the frontlines.

  Erick cursed. “Jeffrey, pull us up!”

  Beep. “We have received no instruction to change position.”

  “Instructions can be overridden in times of a ship emergency. Pull up, now!”

  “If you like, I can hail the Hammer again and check for orders.”

  “Jeffrey! PULL UP!”

  “Very well,” the AI said, smugly.

  Thrusters beneath the ship burned, tipping the Spacegull up and back, much too quickly for life-support systems to counteract. Erick was thrown over the back of the chair. He managed to grip the back of it with his hands, pulling himself in to hug it like a life-preserver, smacking his face into the unforgiving metal.

  “Wait!” he shouted.

  “One begins to wonder if you are in a fit state of mind to command, Sir.”

  “Just let me get strapped in!” He came around and slapped the comm open again. “Wally, you alright? Still with your sister?”

  No answer.

  Erick strapped in, peering at tactical. No one else had moved. What was wrong with these people? The missiles and countermissiles were seconds away from meeting. “Jeffrey, can you get us behind any of the other ships?”

  “Alright.”

  The AI seemed to have given up. It probably reasoned that if he humored Erick, Rome would discipline Erick later for his poor judgment. Maybe it was right. But glancing at the missiles, Erick thought it much more likely that Rome was about to be obliterated from the system.

  The Spacegull veered to the left, violently, and Erick felt crushed against the side of the chair. Those bruises would hurt in the morning, if they made it. One crisis at a time. Their little blue dot managed to squeeze behind another blue dot, hemmed in on either side by more of the same. That would have to do.

  The moment of the explosion was one of the eeriest of his life. Instead of a flash of light, tactical showed all missiles winking out into nothing, the glow of red light dropping a bit, the bridge growing darker. There was no escaping the shock wave that followed, though.

  Metal screamed against metal with a gigantic thud and screech as all three ships surrounding the Spacegull were rammed into her hull, as if they had all been thrown together into an enormous trash compactor. The lights on the bridge blinked and went out, replaced with emergency LEDs that gave the space an odd sort of harsh ambience. More alarms sounded.

  “Hull damage,” Jeffrey said. “Breach on level five. Sealing bulkheads five-A through five-F.”

  Erick’s mind raced. Five-A through five-F… ok, he thought, they could live without those compartments. Mostly just spare cargo storage, a couple of empty bunkrooms. Oh, no, he realized.

  And medical.

  “Bulkheads secured,” Jeffrey said. “Significant damage to ship’s power. Life-support systems failing shipwide.”

  “Oh, no, no, no! Jeffrey, reroute power from all auxiliary systems to life-support. Keep us alive, Jeffrey—that’s your job!”

  “Insufficient power available.”

  “Jeffrey!” Erick swiped to a submenu at his console, viewing current power allotment. Artificial grav, inertial dampeners, atmo cycling—all were plummeting. It looked like plenty of power was being
routed to weapons, though. “Take the power from the guns,” he yelled.

  “Negative. All ships have been ordered to maintain full armament capabilities at this time.”

  “WHAT?”

  “I said that all ships have been ordered to maintain—”

  “To hell with your orders!”

  Beep. “But they are your orders, Sir. From Rome.”

  “Remind me to pen a very nasty email about this later!”

  Erick began to unstrap. The straps locked around him.

  “Jeffrey? Let me go.”

  “That is not possible at this time.”

  “Why not?”

  “I fear you intend to disobey your orders, Sir. I am taking control of the ship until you have proven yourself capable of carrying out orders as they are given.”

  Erick ground his teeth. “I swear to you, Jeffrey, if you had a throat…”

  The primal urge to fight, bite, and claw coursed through him unchecked for a moment. Wait, he thought. I could use that. He wrenched his head down and to the side, coming as close as he could to the wound on his arm, and bit. The swollen flesh protested as he tore into the bandage. Adrenaline pushed him to open the wound.

  “Sir, you are inflicting self-harm. I must request that you stop.”

  “Must you?” He bit again. And again.

  The bridge doors hissed open. Protocol required the med-bot on hand to prioritize bridge officers. It rolled to the chair. One arm extended to restrain Erick by the neck. Another extended to release the straps that held his arm down.

  Bingo.

  Erick reached quickly for the tray attached to the side of the bot. It still held the bloody knife from the attack. Before Jeffrey could stop him, he had sawed through the strap at his waste. He kicked the bot—it was heavier than he thought it would be, but it rolled away a few feet—and used the time he had bought to cut the remaining strap. He was free.

  “Sir, I must recuse myself from the responsibility of protecting you if you decide to leave this bridge under these conditions.”

  “Consider yourself recused,” Erick said, running through the doors. “Good riddance.”

  His first thought was to get to medical, both to get Wally’s sister and to rebandage his arm. Then he remembered that medical had been cordoned off when the hull had been torn open. He set his jaw grimly. Just two stops, then.

  The first was the armory. “Wally?” he called, ducking as he ran into the room. The ceiling was low to save space. The whole gunning deck felt like a floor between floors. “Wall, you in here?”

  The ship bucked and rocked again. Another collision? Or maybe another explosion. Jeffrey had gone silent. He was cut off from whatever was going on outside now.

  A faint wail reached his ears. He knew, as soon as he heard it, that Wally wouldn’t be leaving the Spacegull alive. Especially not without a medical bay. He followed the sound and found him lying facedown beneath a shelf that had come down in the chaos. Heavy metal tools littered the floor around him. Wally turned his head, gasping for breath. Blood ran from his mouth.

  “Rylea… is she…?” His face contorted in agony. Erick tried to lift the shelf, and failed. It hadn’t been made to be moved by one man. He knelt beside his dying friend, trying his best not to show his anger and fear.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “She’s fine, Wall. She’s ok.”

  Wally smiled, wincing.

  “You’re gonna be, too,” Erick added. Wally’s face fell.

  “Erick.” He coughed, more blood spattering the floor around him. Erick flinched. “Erick, promise me. You’ll keep her safe? I don’t know what they’ve done to her… get her help, will you? Protect her. For me.”

  Erick’s face must have betrayed his consternation.

  “Please!” Wally said.

  “Ok, ok!” Erick shushed his friend, a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll do it. It’s ok, Wall. She’ll be ok.”

  Wally seemed to give up after that. He sighed, nodding, then convulsed. For a long minute Erick stayed by his side, waiting. Finally, after some silence, he checked his pulse. It was done.

  “Goodbye, Wally,” he said, rising to his feet.

  No more. He’d had enough of Rome, the Empire, any jokers who thought they could push him and the people he loved around because they had a bigger ship or better guns. He was done with the whole thing.

  For a moment, he considered going down with the ship. Then he realized he’d just made a promise. One he probably couldn’t keep. But he had to know for sure.

  He jogged to the airlock.

  Chapter 7

  Man cursed loudly and ran into the bathroom. “Thanks a lot, you lunatic! Had enough already? Don’t fight it, Gav—just go to sleep. They’ll have you all patched up when you wake up. My carpet, on the other hand… geez, you’ve made a mess.”

  Dolridge chewed, the bitterness of the pills barely registering. Everything was spinning—walls, floor, ceiling all one big tumbling mess. He fought the urge to vomit, swallowing instead. He chewed the rest and swallowed them, too.

  For a moment it seemed like Man just stood there, watching him, waiting to see if he would pass out from the sedative or bleed out from his wounds first.

  “Huh,” he said, feeling a little kick of energy. These things worked fast. Not that it should surprise him; clearly Man spared no expense.

  Another spike of energy. He registered pain in his hands and forearms and glanced down, seeing a blanket of red coating them. More energy coursed through him, and adrenaline took over.

  He rose to a crouch, grabbing a towel from the wall and throwing it at Man, covering his head for a moment. Then he grabbed at the shower curtain and pulled himself up. It strained and snapped, sending him tumbling into the bathtub. No matter. He had enough juice in him now to keep him on his feet, he was sure of it. The curtain rod came down on his back and he turned, grabbing it.

  Man was on him in a second, bringing the towel down over his mouth and nose, stretching it tight and applying pressure to smother him. Dolridge hefted the curtain rod and brought it down over Man’s head with a satisfying crack. Man lost his grip, fumbling, and Dolridge brought a knee to his groin. Then he grabbed him by the robe and lifted, kicking him up and over, into the tub beside him.

  Man cried out as his body thunked against the hard, smooth surface. Dolridge stepped back, still wielding the rod, and brought his weight onto his back foot, preparing to strike Man’s throat.

  Man’s eyes wide with fear, he reached up and grabbed the string hanging from a pink loofa. Dolridge plunged the rod forward, hoping to hit Man’s larynx, but Man, it turned out, had a wicked hand with a loofa. Still gripping the string, he wrapped it around the rod and yanked, wresting it away from Dolridge. It clattered in the tub.

  Man reached up again and found a bar of soap, pelting it at Dolridge’s face. Dolridge raised an arm and retreated another step. Man leapt from the tub and retrieved the fallen rod.

  “Serves me right for trying pills,” he growled. “You know what they say. If you want something done right—”

  Dolridge dove for his ankles, surprising him and knocking him completely off balance. The rod fell again, and this time Man caught the lip of the sink with his forehead on his way down. Dolridge spun around, grabbed him by the hair, lifted his head, and mashed it into the sink once more for good measure. When he let go, Man fell, limp. He stayed that way.

  “—call a farmer,” Dolridge said, completing the proverb in his own way.

  He rose shakily to his feet, catching his breath. His heart was pounding in his ears. Blood was everywhere. Right. First things first.

  Bending over the sink, he thrust a bloody finger as far down his throat as he could reach, then yanked it out. A flood of coffee-vomit followed. He hoped enough of the stimulant hadn’t made it into his bloodstream yet to overload his heart, but there was nothing he could do about it now if it had. He rinsed his hands, found a few small shards of mirror to pull from them, and applied ointment and ba
ndages from the medicine cabinet. He decided to pass on the pain meds this time. He had enough chemicals floating through him right now—no need to add to the cocktail.

  Man was about his size, so he helped himself to a clean shirt, leaving the bloodied mess he’d worn in on the bathroom floor. Real cotton, indeed. He frowned at the thought. He hadn’t come here to kill anyone.

  What else? He ran a quick mental checklist. He thought about pilfering a device and searching for clues, but anything like that might be traceable. No, he just needed to leave. Now.

  He locked the apartment door behind him, crossed the creamy hallway, and called the lift. As the doors opened, another set of doors from the opposite end of the hall opened.

  It was the police.

  Dolridge ducked into the lift just in time to miss a volley of blasting charges. They flew down the hall, sizzling as they burned into Man’s door.

  “Stop!” one of the officers yelled.

  Right. I’ll do that. He slapped the doors button, muttering to them as if his command to close would cause them to move more quickly. They snapped together just as the officers reached him.

  Down? They would expect that. Up? He was already on the ninetieth floor. He squinted, thinking, then pressed the lobby button. As the car begin descending, he leapt up, punching the false ceiling open. It was thin and lightweight, but his wounded hands still stung.

  Another leap and he was gripping the edges of a metal support bar than ran down the middle of the ceiling, pulling himself up with a grunt. He was too old for this nonsense. And far too old for what he was about to try to do. But he couldn’t get caught with Man’s body. The Council would just deny knowledge of the whole thing, and he’d be tried as a common murderer. Assuming they didn’t simply kill him on the spot.

  He counted to three, knelt, and jumped.

  “Gahhh!” His arms nearly wrenched from their sockets as he grabbed the utility ladder and came back down. His body slapped against the side of the elevator shaft, and he squeezed the side of the ladder with his knees. For a moment he clung there, just breathing. I can do this, he thought.