The Battle for Terra Two (20 page)

"Her commander assures me they will not, Captain."

"Is this the same commander who was going to fire on us as we came in?" smiled K'Tran.

"Forgive him, Captain. He's very young."

"Fine. Consider us there, Ambassador. And thank you."

Z'Sha's image vanished from the desk screen. K'Tran turned to his executive officer. "What do you think, Number One?"

"Could be a trap." A'Tir was younger than he, but just as tough, a thin kid from a grimy industrial planet who'd risen through the ranks of the prewar Fleet, becoming third officer of a light cruiser—and a successful drug runner. When the S'Cotar had annihilated most of the Second Fleet, she and K'Tran had been quick to take advantage of the chaos, going corsair.

"Could be a trap, but is it?" said K'Tran, looking up from his desk. "Why should they suspect anything? We're what they want—reinforcements."

"The skipcomm buoy?"

K'Tran shrugged. "Even the best machines sometimes fail."

"Still . . ."

He waved a hand, the silver Academy ring catching the light. "You worry too much. This is our chance to add a heavy cruiser to our little squadron. We can start raiding closer in—hit primary shipping points. And that world down there—Terra—is open for some leisurely looting."

"You're so greedy, Y'Dan," she said.

"Of course I'm greedy," he laughed. "I'm a corsair!"

"Listen to me," she said intensely. "I say we blast
Implacable
now, while her shield's down, divide up our money and disperse. With the war over. Fleet's going to hunt us down and kill us."

"They'll try. We weren't expecting the Valor Medal."

She stood behind him, long tanned fingers massaging his muscular shoulders. "There's this grade-seven planet, Y'Dan, that's been offchart since the Fall. No people. I
know a stretch of coast where the mountains tumble into the sea—lush, tropical, fruit growing wild. Warm night breezes under triple moons. We could
..."

He stood, shaking her hand off. "We could what?" he said. "Eat fruit, live naked, love in the sand?"

A'Tir's face reddened.

"You sound like a travel broker, Number One.

"We have two commissions to execute," he continued, voice clipped. "For our primary client, remove
Implacable.
For our secondary client, fill those forty-one brainpods we're carrying. Seizing
Implacable
accomplishes both tasks and gives us a L'Aal-class heavy cruiser. And perhaps a side foray to Terra—nothing like a little rape and pillage to perk up the crew.

"We'll take all but a skeleton crew to the reception. How many shuttle craft is that?"

"Twelve," she said, emotions tucked back behind her usual diffidence. "Three hundred and twenty-one crew, dressed and armed as Fleet personnel."

"Eleven boats to land," K'Tran said. "I want you to command number twelve—thirty of your best fighters. Once inside
Implacable's
shield, have your pilot turn back for
New Hope,
reporting engine trouble. Proceed parallel to the top hull . . ." He touched the complink. An engineering schematic of
Implacable's
forward outside hull appeared. "Here." An access pod just behind the bridge began glowing orange. "That's the lift. Free drop as near
to
it as you can. Reaching it, just push the call tab and take it down to the bridge entrance."

"Fine," she said, looking at the screen. "We get to the bridge doors. They're armored and locked. A blastpak strong enough to take them out will destroy part of the bridge."

"Use this." He handed her a small black wedge.

"What is it?" she asked, turning it over in her hand.

"Shaped charge—pre-production model from K'Ronar via our primary client. See those rills along the bottom edge? That side is magnetized. Put it on the bridge doors and count to ten. It'll punch through them with no blowback."

"Cute," she said, carefully pocketing it, the magnetized side toward her body. "What about detection?"

"You'll be well inside the perimeter scan. Just avoid the hull-sensor clusters. If computer picks up an input anomaly, it's going to alert the bridge. Get to the lift and you're in."

"It may work," she said grudgingly.

"Of course it will work. I planned it."

"So, we take the bridge while you're shooting up the crew. Then what?"

"Seal compartments—coordinate with me on that. Cut life support to weapons batteries, engineering and armories. I don't want some heroes shooting up our ships, scuttling equipment, booby trapping the corridors. We'll let the survivors surrender, brainstrip the ones we need and space the rest."

"And what are we going to crew
Implacable
with?" she asked. "Don't you want to try for converts?"

"No. I'd rather run her short. That's L'Wrona's ship— D'Trelna's before that. Trying for converts would be a waste of time."

He looked at the time readout. "Operation launch minus fifty. Brief your assault team, meet me on the hangar deck at minus ten."

"Very well."

"Oh, and S'Hlo?"

"Yes?"

"When this is over, we're going to need a new base. Plan on a two-man scouting trip to your grade-seven planet. Just you and me. Agreed?"

"Agreed." She smiled faintly then left the room, mind on the assault.

"Farewell, my unlovely," said McShane, watching the dreadnought and its valley shrink in the rear screen.

"Home in time for lunch," said D'Trelna happily, switching the view scan forward. Earth filled the screen's center, growing larger as the shuttle raced away from the Moon.

The commodore keyed into the commnet. "Shuttle one-nine-seven to
Implacable."

"Implacable
flight control," said a hurried voice. "One-nine-seven, go ahead."

"Permission to land."

"One-nine-seven, hold."

D'Trelna frowned. "Odd."

"What?" asked McShane.

"Odd that I'm holding. Odd that flight control sounds harried—it shouldn't. We carry a lot of shuttles, but only three are scheduled out now—this and the daily Terran runs."

"One-nine-seven. Other traffic is ahead of you. Enter shield at point three-five and assume station forward."

"One-nine-seven confirming. Enter point three-five, assume station forward. Out.

"We're to stand by off the forward part of the ship," said D'Trelna, anticipating Bob's question. He pointed to a telltale. "Tactical summary. We've gained a light cruiser and two frigates." ' 'Reinforcements?''

"Finally. They must be shuttling their complements over to
Implacable
for a reception. No doubt Z'Sha will be there."

Five minutes brought them within sight of the four warships. A long line of shuttlecraft were leaving the light cruiser, making for
Implacable.

"Oh, no," said D'Trelna as they closed on the flotilla.

"Problem?" asked McShane.

D'Trelna nodded, dropping their speed. "Big problem. Those shuttles are going to a formal reception—it's customary. There's only one place on
Implacable
that'll hold that many—hangar deck. Hangar deck is now teaming with officers and crew, among whom is Ambassador Z'Sha. After the ceremony, Z'Sha, my officers and the new officers are all going to troop down to Sick Bay to look in on the ailing commodore."

"I forgot about that," said Bob. "Can't you land and sneak in? Hangar deck's huge."

"Yes, but all the lifts are at the back. Z'Sha will be between me and the lifts. I am not a small man."

They were gliding past the light cruiser, close beneath her engines. The shuttle would have been lost in any of those three great tubes.

"I suppose I could steal in through the lift-access pod, hullside aft of the bridge," continued the commodore, "and send you and the shuttle in on auto . . . No." He shook his head. "It would look like you were piloting a shuttle. They'd really go crazy then. We'll just have to land and brazen through it—somehow."

"What about
..."

D'Trelna stopped him with an upraised finger, staring at
New Hope's
engines, sliding out of forward scan range.

He split the screen, putting the rear scan of the engines on the left half, shrinking the forward scan of
Implacable
and the other shuttles to the right half. Their shuttle was now in line behind the rest.

"Quick lesson in starship architecture, Bob," said D'Trelna, suddenly tense. "Those oval engine tubes are unique—the only set ever made for a line vessel. They didn't perform up to the expectation, so only the test ship, a light cruiser, ever had them. That cruiser was assigned to the Second Fleet. The Second Fleet was destroyed at the start of the war—all but that one cruiser. For years. Intelligence listed it as missing, possible corsair. With war's end, they downgraded it to missing, presumed destroyed. Prematurely, it seems."

"Those are pirates?" McShane stared at the shuttles.

"More than even money says so. And about to take over
Implacable."

"Don't just sit there, D'Trelna! Sound the alarm, alert the bridge!"

"No."

Their speed dropped further as they passed through the opening in the shield, just behind the twelfth shuttle craft. The shield reformed behind them, a faint shimmer in their rear scan.

"A shootout this close to Terra could wipe your planet, Bob. These ships brim with poison—drive components, sublight engines, n-gravs, fusion cannon. Those particles get into your environment and you'll have a corpse-heaped world."

"You think we'd fare any better with those thugs?" said McShane. "Or the S'Cotar?"

The shuttle in front of them suddenly broke away, climbing to disappear over the top of
Implacable.

"He's up to something," said D'Trelna. He dropped the shuttle to fly beneath the ship, flying along the bottom hull. "Let's see what."

The commodore slammed the shuttle forward. McShane pressed back in the flight chair, sure they'd collide with one of the turrets or pods flashing by, meters away.

"Number twelve shuttle reports engine malfunction and is returning to
New Hope,"
reported flight control.

"Acknowledged," said K'Raoda. He stood beside Z'Sha in the great cavern of hangar deck, watching as the last of the shuttles landed with a faint whine of n-gravs.

The corsairs' shuttles were parked in a long line just inside the atmosphere curtain, spanning hangar deck from maintenance bays to berths. Outside, Terra was visible, a blue-and-white sphere just above the shuttles.

"Would one of your shuttles leaving now come to grief, Commander?" asked Z'Sha, watching the corsairs form ranks in front of their craft.

"Without a doubt, sir," said K'Raoda, noting the Mark 44 cannon turret atop the center shuttle. He couldn't see if there was a gunner—the turret was a black pod, sheathed in one-way armorglass.

Wearing Fleet uniforms, almost three hundred corsairs were drawn up in four ranks of eleven units, M32s at order arms.

K'Tran walked down the ramp from the last shuttle, turning right past the flank of the last unit, then right again. As he stepped in front of the first corsair, the entire formation came to present arms, two hundred and ninety gloved hands slapping
one-Mo
against the polished M32 stocks.

"That man is very dangerous," said Z'Sha as K'Tran executed a right-face at the front of the formation, smartly returning the salute, hand-to-head at just the right angle for just long enough. The rifles crashed back down to order arms, butts clanging to the deck as one, the echo ringing through the hangar. "He's molded that rabble into a crack unit. Imagine what he could do with two cruisers and those frigates."

"Only the inner quadrants would be safe," said K'Raoda.

"For a while. Commander. For a while."

"Formation!" called K'Tran, eyes sweeping the ranks, "Port . . . Arms!" The rifles came off the deck, held at a forty-five-degree angle in front of the body. Heel and toe perfectly aligned, K'Tran executed an about-face. "Formation . . . Forward, march!"

"A mistake," said K'Raoda as the corsairs advanced with flawless precision, a column of eights with K'Tran at their head. "They should be at right-shoulder arms. To be at port arms displays either ignorance or hostile intent." The one-two cadence of five hundred and eighty-four battle boots striking battlesteel boomed along the deck.

The corsairs entered the long, narrow corridor formed by twin rows of commando assault craft parked nose-to-engine half the length of the hangar, their march resounding through the hangar.

"Tactical three," said K'Raoda into his communicator. "Remember," he said softly, his voice heard only by the thirty-man honor guard a few meters behind him, "when it starts, fall back to the lift access corridor and take out any who get through."

Z'Sha was watching K'Tran, now about two hundred meters away. "There's a Fourth Dynasty painting, Commander, in the museum ring on K'Ronar. It's done in old style—paint on spun plant fiber. The artist's name doesn't survive, but it's a brilliant work, 'The Assessor comes to T'Gan.' Do you know it?"

"No, sir," said K'Raoda, hoping K'Tran wouldn't notice the unfastened safety strap on his holster.

"It depicts a man at the head of a column of Imperial Marines, striding down the street of this squalid Agro town—you can all but taste the dust and smell the manure. The few people about are scurrying fearfully away. The artist's perspective is from the end of the street, watching the Assessor come. The Assessor is well dressed, handsome, with an assured, intelligent look. There is something cold and ruthless about the man's face, Commander, that holds one. It's the sort of face that comes toward us now."

The deadly parade halted, grounding arms with a crash that rattled off the distant ceiling. K'Tran covered the twenty meters to K'Raoda and the Ambassador in a few seconds, halting before Z'Sha and snapping a brisk salute. "Captain T'Ral, Task Force One-Seven-Five attending, Excellency."

"Welcome, Captain."

K'Tran turned to K'Raoda. "I await your salute, Commander."

K'Raoda nodded, looking into the other's pale blue eyes. "You're fronted and flanked on two sides, K'Tran," he said. "Surrender or die."