Odyssey One 5: Warrior King (16 page)

Steph risked a glance for himself, noting the sweeps of laser light refracting in the smoke. “Yeah, you noticed that too?”

She shouldered her battle rifle and swept the field with its optics. “They’re firing blind for now, but this smoke won’t last forever. Skipper has their air cover standing down, from the looks of it. Now we just need to figure out if we have to kill these fools.”

“If they don’t stop using multimegawatt lasers like flashlights,” Steph grumbled, “I know what direction I’m leaning toward.”

►►►

IBC
Piar Cohn

► “What in the abyss was that? Show me again!” Aymes leaned over the controls, glowering at the displays as the two parasite frigates opened fire on the ship called
Odysseus
, only to explode in seconds. “Where is the laser trace? Missile telemetry?”

“There is none, Captain.” His tactical officer shook. “We must be too far out.”

“Too far,” Aymes hissed, knowing that wasn’t true.

There should have been
some
trace. Not even lasers were as efficient as this. There was no sign of beam reflection against the parasite’s armor, and there should have been, even if only for a fraction of an instant.

“Dump all data from the scanners to the long-term storage,” he ordered. “We’ll analyze it later.”

The situation was rapidly becoming too anomalous for his pay grade, to say the least.

“Navigation, give me a least-time course out of this system, with a nine-point evasion route to return to Imperial territory,” he said.

“As you say, Captain . . .”

“Captain . . .”

Aymes turned to his altern commander, whose hesitant tone felt profoundly irritating in that moment. “What is it, Altern?”

“What of the remaining parasite?”

Aymes sighed, considering the question.

It would hardly do to leave Imperial technology and people in the hands of unknown foes, even if said foes appeared to have access to at least part of the Oather database. Aymes returned to his station and took a seat before entering his personal access codes.

“For the Empire, we all sacrifice,” he said firmly.

►►►

AEV
Odysseus

► “No response from the enemy ship at this time, Captain,” Miram said, her voice holding a nervous edge as she observed the situation below them. “Perhaps we should signal again?”

Eric’s jaw clenched as he considered the tableau arranged along the moon’s surface. For the moment the ground situation was stable, but that would last only until the smoke began to thin. At that point, the Marines would have no choice but to take off the kid gloves. So far, no one appeared to have died on the ground, which meant that both sides were holding back.

He just didn’t know
why
the aliens were holding back.

Eric knew that if he were still a junior officer, he wouldn’t worry about motivations. Actions spoke, not intentions. Attacking his people was action enough to decide his course, even now, but he also knew that these weren’t the Drasin, and part of Eric desperately wanted to know
why they’d attacked
.

Why attack Steph in the first place? Why were they even in this system?

And, of course, the big question: the genocide in the solar system, as it were. Were these the ones who held the Drasin’s leash? And if so,
why
?

Why any of it?

“Signal them again,” he ordered finally. “Tell them to stand down.”

“Aye sir,” Miram said, nodding to the communications station.

The ensign standing at the station swallowed visibly, but turned to his console and quietly began signaling on Priminae frequencies.

Eric’s jaw clenched and unclenched reflexively.

Part of him wanted nothing more than to burn that pocket destroyer and its ground forces to ash for attacking his people, but if he wanted answers, then restraint was required. Additionally, he was aware that his anger wasn’t entirely rational at the moment, which was a strange feeling. To
know
that you’re not thinking rationally was not a comfortable thing.

Such circumstances could lead to Eric second-guessing his actions, especially if things turned out badly.

“Still no response, ma’am,” the ensign said in response to Miram.

“Damn!” Miram glared at the screen. “What is wrong with them? They have to know we hold every tactical advantage.”

“So did the other two,” Eric said quietly, “and they still opened fire on us. There’s something going on here that we’re not seeing. These people, no matter what their technology seems to indicate, are
not
the Priminae.”

Miram hesitated, then nodded slowly. “True enough, from what we can see.”

“Captain!” yelled Sams with a jolt. His hands were frozen over the console as he was an instant from firing the ship’s weapons reflexively.

Eric and Miram twisted toward the display, eyes widening in shock as the target ship vanished in a ball of fire and light.

►►►

Moon Surface

► Deirdre Conner flung herself over the commander’s body as the blast blew over them, shielding him with her armor and hoping that the pressure wave itself didn’t kill him. The flash of light had been her only warning that something had gone wrong, but she’d seen too many explosions in her career not to recognize the signs.

The blast blew away their smoke screen, which meant that she and her Marines had other problems coming their way as they picked themselves off the ground. As she got to her feet, however, she noticed that the opposing forces were more concerned with the sudden loss of their ride home.

“Marines! Take them now, while they’re distracted!” she snarled. “I want prisoners!”

She left her Marines to it, glancing down to where Commander Michaels was groaning on the ground. There was a spatter of blood inside his oxygen mask, possibly from the pressure wave. She also might have landed a little harder on him than she’d intended.

Deirdre opened comms to the lander. “Bravo Bravo Bravo. I say again, Bravo Bravo Bravo.”

“Roger, Code Bravo,” the pilot of the lander responded. “Dustoff in three, Colonel. Medical on standby.”

The Marine lander’s reactors whined in the distance, closing fast as Deirdre knelt by the commander.

“We’ve got dustoff inbound, Commander,” she said. “You good?”

“I feel like someone dropped a couple hundred pounds of hard suit on me, Colonel.” Steph chuckled from where he lay. “Guess I’m lucky that whoever was wearing it couldn’t have added much more than another hundred or so.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere with me, Commander. Besides, I’m one eighty and not remotely ashamed of it.”

“Noted.” He grinned under the spattered oxygen mask. “That would explain the pain in my kidneys.”

“Are you alright, Stephan?” Milla asked, approaching cautiously while she kept an eye on where the Marines were disarming the still-stunned enemy troopers.

“I’ll live,” he said from the ground. “But Milla?”

“Yes, Stephan?”

“Next time, get someone else to do your check flight,” he whined. “I don’t think I want to be flying with you anymore. You’re
way
too dangerous for this fighter jock.”

The sound of the Marine lander’s retros scorching the ground nearby swallowed any response Milla might have made. A medical team jumped clear of the vessel with a stretcher between them and rushed over. Deirdre had to hold Steph down as he tried to get to his feet.

“I’m not that badly hurt,” he protested, his struggles ineffective against the armored gauntlet.

“Ask me if I care,” the colonel said dryly. “You’ve got internal bleeding on some level, so you ride.”

He slumped back down as the corpsmen arrived. “Fine.”

Deirdre left them to it and got to her feet, looking toward Milla.

“Lieutenant Chans,” she said, “you look like you can walk.”

“I can.”

“Good.” She smirked slightly. “It is the more dignified way to get to the lander after a crash.”

“Hey!” Steph struggled free of the corpsmen for an instant. “I was
shot
down!”

“Meh, whatever lets you sleep at night, Commander.”

►►►

AEV
Odysseus

► “Was that us?” Eric asked, though he knew the answer.

“No sir,” Sams swore. “I triple-checked. We did
not
engage.”

Miram looked lost. “What happened then? Accident?”

Eric shook his head. “Not likely. Either they blew their own reactor, or . . .”

He fell silent, eyes drifting to the telemetry display at the scanner station. “Where’s Bandit One?”

The scanner tech looked over the numbers. “Bandit One is three light-minutes out and . . . opening, sir.”

Eric grimaced, his teeth gleaming in the computer lights. “Cold-blooded bastards.”

“Sir? Captain?” Miram looked over, still more than a little lost.

“They”—he gestured to the Bandit One telemetry—“either ordered the ship scuttled or blew it remotely when they decided they weren’t going to try and take us. Now they’re running upwell as fast as that ship will carry them, which is probably faster than we can follow, since they’ve dropped a lot of mass and we have to wait to pick up our Marines.”

“They wouldn’t have . . . would they?” she asked, unbelieving.

Eric tilted his head slightly. “Yeah, I think they would. How long until the Marines are back?”

Miram shook off her shock and checked the reports on her console. “At least forty minutes, sir. They’re taking prisoners.”

“Good. At least we got something out of this.” Eric stood up. “Get me a full damage report within the hour. We’re going to have to decide if we can return to Earth or if we need a full repair bay at the Forge.”

“Aye sir.”

He sighed. “Probably have to be the Forge. We can comm Earth using the FTL relays at least. Commander, you have the bridge.”

“Aye Captain, I have the bridge,” Miram answered instantly.

CHAPTER 15

► Lieutenant Milla Chans sealed the seam of her uniform jacket and pushed back the still-damp flop of hair that was plastered to her forehead, feeling much better now that she’d managed to escape the tender care of Doctor Rame and gotten a proper shower. Steph was still in the medical center under an enforced stay, much to his disgust, while being treated for chemical burns to his throat, air passages, and lungs.

The Marines had rounded up the alien troopers, disarming them as much as possible, and bundled everyone onto the lander for dustoff within minutes of the destruction of the alien frigate. That flight had been about as far from comfortable as anything she’d ever experienced.

Since they couldn’t exactly strip down the alien troops on the surface of the moon, and the lander was too small for those sorts of acrobatics, the Marines had crammed fourteen prisoners against the raised ramp and held no less than ten battle rifles on them at all times until landing back on the
Odysseus
. This meant that everyone else was crammed into the
other
side of the lander, just as tightly packed.

Very unpleasant, to say the least.

Milla tried not to think too hard about the Marine colonel’s warning to the prisoners, reminding them that they
were
stacked against the landing ramp and if they gave any trouble . . . Well, the lander’s cockpit was sealed, and explosive decompression was overrated.

It wasn’t the physical discomfort that had mostly bothered her, however.

No, it was the prisoners.

They’d spoken, a little. Nothing useful in the content of their speech, not as far as she could tell, but it wasn’t what they’d said that bothered her. She was discomfited because she understood their language. She had no need of the Terrans’ translation process or the irascible but amusing linguistics expert Doctor Palin.

They’d spoken in clear Priminae, albeit with an accent she’d never before encountered.

Milla really didn’t know what to think of that.

They
couldn’t
be Priminae. They were . . . they were worse by far than the Terrans, who even Milla found occasionally distasteful in some of their actions and pastimes.

Taking a cleansing breath, she examined her reflection in the mirror briefly before deciding that she’d neatened up well enough. She made her way out of her quarters and down the corridor, heading for the bridge. She wasn’t on duty, officially, but the
Odysseus
had seen combat in her absence. She wanted to determine just how well the weapons had performed in the fight and whether the enemy’s arms were a significant threat to the Heroic Class cruiser.

This was all professional interest, of course. It wasn’t like she was itching to find out just how badly her systems had been mauled while she was gone.

►►►

► “Continue to track the ship when it goes to FTL,” Eric ordered the scanner chief as Milla stepped onto the bridge. “Get vectors and anything you can about their drive system.”

“Aye Captain.”

The
Odysseus
was still close to the gas giant, deep in the system’s gravity well. After the crew had recovered the Marines, shuttle duo, and prisoners, Eric had elected to remain and monitor the departure of the enemy ship from the system, using the light-speed delay to ensure nothing was missed.

He glanced in Milla’s direction as she walked over to the tactical station and relieved her second.

“Welcome back, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, Capitaine.” She glanced up briefly before refocusing on her instruments.

“Your systems performed admirably in your absence,” Eric assured her, smiling slightly. “As did your subordinates.”

“I expected no less. Both were of the finest foundation,” she responded, then scowled slightly. “The enemy lasers are at least thirty percent over our own in raw power. That is . . . annoying.”

“Still Class Ones, so it hardly matters.”

“You have shown them your capabilities, Capitaine,” she reminded him. “They are . . . not going to remain unchanged.”

“Because they’re Priminae?” he asked mildly.

Milla stiffened, then snapped her head around to look at him, eyes blazing. “They are
not
Priminae. I do not know what they are, but they are not my people.”

“No.” Eric nodded. “No, I suppose they’re not. They’re more ruthless, culturally, than I’ve known the Priminae to be, and there are enough differences in their technology to be noticeable, but you come from the same roots, Milla. You
must
.”

Milla seethed, but controlled her emotions, finally nodding as well. “Yes. I can see that too. They . . . your people, and mine, are the same genetically . . . but these people, they have too much in common with mine technologically, to say nothing of the language. Someone has hidden history from us. Someone must have.”

“You’ll get a chance to find out who soon enough,” Eric said. “We’ll be returning to Ranquil for repair and minor refit.”

“Thank you, Capitaine,” she said, calming down steadily.

“No need for thanks. The hull repairs need attention we’ll not be able to get in Sol space for at least a month, probably more, given the push for new ships taking up the slips. Ranquil is the best option, particularly given our prisoners.”

“Yes . . . them,” Milla hissed. “I do not know what to think of them.”

“Don’t,” Eric said. “Not yet. When we have more facts, then you can worry . . .”

“Captain,” Miram cut in, “they’ve gone to warp.”

Eric turned back to the displays, eyes on the space-warp signature that Miram was pointing to. Technically, their attackers had gone to warp several hours earlier, of course, but with full scanners out and recording, the
Odysseus
was picking up the details just then.

“Damn. Higher velocity change than we can manage short of transition,” he said. “More power in their reactors, no question.”

“More control as well,” Miram said. “They’re playing with space-time better than we can.”

“Lovely. So they’ve got some kind of connection to the Priminae, but they apparently haven’t been stuck in the mud since the split.” Eric sighed. “And they’re either hostile, or just plain violent.”

“There is a difference?” Milla asked, confused.

“‘Hostile’ generally means they have something against us,” Miram filled in. “‘Violent’ means they might just attack at random for no particular reason.”

Milla scrunched up her face even more. “That is insane, no?”

“Yes, but it also happens,” Miram said. “Rarely, and not usually on a cultural level, but it does happen.”

“Sometimes I find your people truly terrifying,” Milla admitted.

“Join the club,” Eric said, turning. “Helm, take us out of the system and put us on an arc to warp space for Ranquil.”

Kinder half turned. “Warp space, sir?”

“You heard me, Lieutenant. We’ll warp space for a few light-years before we transition. I don’t want to leave any traces here if we can help it.”

“Aye sir, course is already entered. Engaging.”

►►►

► Colonel Conner glowered through the security glass to where the enemy troops were being held. “Have they been saying anything?”

“Mostly small talk, ma’am,” Lieutenant Mitchel, one of her security staff members, said. “Nothing earth shaking, but we’re recording everything anyway.”

She nodded absently. “I believe the Earth has been shaken enough lately, Mitchel. I’ll settle for anything at all, useless or otherwise.”

“Yes ma’am. Quickie DNA tests are back,” he said, handing her a slate.

She glanced at the results but didn’t bother reading too deeply. “Highlights?”

“They’re Priminae, genetically speaking.”

“The same way Priminae are human, or . . . ?” Deirdre asked, one eyebrow rising.

“Negative. We went deeper than just common human DNA markers,” Mitchel said. “Their junk DNA matches the Priminae. They’re of the same stock as the Colonials.”

“Colonials,” Deirdre grumbled. “I guess we know now why they call themselves that. Someone should have thought to ask what they were colonies of in the first place. I mean, it was right there in the word. They even introduced themselves to us as being
the Colonies
. We assumed they meant colonies from a central world within the Priminae sphere, but now I’m thinking something else.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Deirdre looked through the glass, eyes on the men slumped within.

“Ruthless bastards,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Can’t imagine serving someone who’d blow my ticket off a hostile surface just because it wasn’t convenient to try and effect a rescue.”

“No ma’am.”

Deirdre glanced at the lieutenant but said nothing more. He was just answering with what he thought she wanted to hear, which was more or less what a good young Marine officer should do when he didn’t have anything useful to add to the conversation. But it didn’t help her much at the moment.

“Have we identified officers?”

“No,” Mitchel said, looking a little put out by that fact. “No hints even.”

Deirdre frowned, now more curious. “Really? That’s odd. Body language? Reactions?”

“Nothing, ma’am. Nothing on any of our analyses in fact,” Mitchel said. “They don’t talk to one another any differently, they don’t react to each other differently, just . . . nothing.”

“We killed three on the surface,” she said. “Check their gear and bodies against the living. Maybe we took out their commander.”

“Yes ma’am.”

►►►

► Eric kept one eye on Milla as he worked on, filling out after-action reports that he knew the admiral was going to want—in triplicate. Milla’s reaction earlier had been out of character for the normally quiet and reserved Priminae officer. Though he understood why, she had come close to the edge of proper comportment for a young officer serving on the command deck of the
Odysseus
. Whatever issues she had with the . . .

Hmm, what do we call them anyway?
Eric wondered.

He was loath to start referring to them as the “enemy,” even in his head. Their reaction notwithstanding, it was a very
bad
idea to start thinking of people as the enemy until you were in direct combat with them or at the very least understood why you were fighting. That sort of mental rigidity led to bad places.

They weren’t really aliens either. Yet nor were they human, or even really Priminae.

Well, nothing to it I suppose but to go down there and ask some of the prisoners themselves,
Eric decided, getting up.

“Commander, you have the bridge.”

“Aye Captain, I have the bridge.”

Eric strode off, taking the lift into Marine country, where the ship’s detention cells were located.

He was only mildly surprised to find Colonel Conner there, apparently staring through the security glass at the prisoners. He suspected that she was more lost in her own thoughts than actually looking at anything.

“Have they spoken?” he asked, coming to a stop beside her.

“Nothing useful.”

Eric nodded, unsurprised.

Any reasonably disciplined group wouldn’t give up much in the first few hours of capture. Over time, however, it would be all but impossible to keep from slipping out
something
of value. People just couldn’t maintain discipline indefinitely, not even when they
knew
they were being watched. Actually, being watched constantly was known to
erode
discipline faster than if a person believed they had some sort of privacy. The tension was just another factor eating away at them.

“I’m going to talk to them,” he said as he looked in.

They wore rather grungy uniforms, though maybe he was biased. He’d always been partial to Marine dress blues, unlike most of his fellows, and the current Alliance blacks were pretty decent too. The enemy . . . troops, as he refused to call them Marines, wore dingy gray uniforms with few marking elements he could spot. Eric thought they looked like cheap coveralls.

The men themselves were sullen, but otherwise reasonably fit and solid sorts. He wouldn’t care to tangle with them up close, but given the choice between them and the colonel standing across from him, Eric would take on the aliens without hesitation.