Queen of Chaos, page 32
part #3 of Sequoyah Series
Ennis's voice came over the comm once she switched it to the general ship channel, still directing the battle. Moire frowned. She'd thought he'd been with Frankenstein before, when Raven lost engine power—but then she remembered where Frankenstein had gone. That meant he was still up there in a ship that was drifting. By himself.
¤ ¤ ¤
So far it hadn't been too bad. There'd been a certain amount of drift and rotation once Frankenstein had let go, and in the interest of keeping up the appearance of a wreck Ennis had not attempted to change that. Besides, he still only had one side of sensors and the rotation made sure nobody was sneaking up on him.
It sounded like there were still two holdout ships, but the crab cruisers were making up for their late arrival. It could just be a protracted mopping up. He should be making notes for the inevitable report.
“Raven, come in.”
Ennis sat up. That was Moire's voice. Where was she? The scope didn't show anything.
“Where do you keep the coffee on this ship? I need to stay awake.”
She laughed, and he smiled, feeling shaky. A near–run thing, from start to finish. But Moire was laughing and alive, so it had been worth it all.
“We're out, remember? Are you OK up there?”
Up there? “I just remembered I can't get to the galley anyway. No air. How about you? I heard you were busy.”
“Yeah.” She didn't sound happy about it. “I did what I could. Good thing the fighters couldn't follow down to the deck or we'd have twice as many of the bastards to deal with dirtside.” She paused. “Did the crabs get the rest of the fighters?”
“They got most of the ones escorting the shuttles,” Ennis said, fiddling with the scanner resolution. “I saw a few around the command ship before it got taken out, but I don't know what happened to them.” His screen was showing him things he didn't want to see, and his stomach tightened. “Never mind. I think I found them. Or they found me.”
“On my way.”
Ennis had the sinking feeling they had somehow figured out he was the one sending the commands. There had to be plenty of transmissions from other damaged ships, yet there they were, homing in on him. To make matters worse, there were only three shells left, assuming they would be considerate enough to attack on his good side.
“Don't dawdle,” he managed. He opened another channel to Control. “Any chance of getting some crab help here? I've got enemy inbound.”
“Crabs lost a lot of fighters,” Control responded, sounding ragged. “I'll pass it along but I doubt the cruisers can get there in time.”
Terrific. Well, if he was going to get shot at he should at least try to shoot back. Ennis took a last look at the scanner screen and headed for the gunner's chair. It wasn't long before the first shells hit. He was blind that direction and had to wait, sweating, for the scanners to pick up anything useful. Alarms were shrilling, so something that hadn't been damaged before was damaged now. Most of the ship was dead anyway, but the fighters wouldn't know that.
The Toren fighters swung into view. Three of them. Ennis wasted one precious shell by undercompensating for the new rate of rotation, but then got a hit. The last shell was a miss. No reason to stay here now. Where the hell was Moire?
He unbuckled the harness and reached for the handhold to swing himself out and down to the deck below. Suddenly the section of hull near the gunner's chair buckled and broke, spewing metal and slamming him against the bulkhead in the explosion. Somehow by instinct he kept his grip on the handhold, despite the pain. Everything hurt, but especially his left leg. His hearing was damaged too, because he could feel the wind of escaping air but everything was silent.
Down. Down was where the emergency suits were. Where the comm was. He tried to climb down the ladder, but any attempt to move his left leg was so painful he was in danger of blacking out. He looked down. A jagged spike of metal had impaled him just above the knee.
The metal spike was still attached to the hull, and there was no way for him to cut it off. He had only seconds before lack of air or blood loss made him lose consciousness. Ennis gritted his teeth and jerked his leg free. He screamed and let go of the handhold. He landed on the deck hard, dimly sensing snapping feelings in his body adding to the raging agony already there. Somehow he managed to pull himself up to the control that shut the hatch to the gunner's position. It wasn't airtight, but it would slow the loss of atmosphere.
Every control board had blinking red lights. More metal wreckage strewed the bridge, torn loose when the shell hit. He didn't feel any wind now. Ennis tried to walk but fell with another scream. He elbow–crawled his way to the emergency locker, knocking away debris that covered the door. One suit was ruined, sliced through. The one remaining had a small hole. He could patch that.
First he had to do something about his leg. He cut free some fabric from the damaged suit, using a sharp piece of metal, and used a piece of cable to hold it in place. Putting the good suit on was agony, especially where it contacted his injured leg. He remembered to put a patch on the hole before crawling to the comm panel.
“I'm hit!” he yelled. “Losing pressure.” Ennis shook his head to clear his blurred vision. The scanner screen…was it still working? He blinked again. Another section of sensors had gone dead. Only a sliver of screen was still active. Something was traversing it, but he couldn't tell who or how many.
His head was ringing. It gradually resolved to emergency alarms, and he realized his hearing was coming back. Someone far away was calling his name. Moire, on the comm.
“Ennis! Dammit, come in! Ennis!”
“I'm here,” he managed, and coughed. “Mostly.”
“Can you hold out for a bit? Still got two…” she paused, “make that one to deal with.”
“I'm suited up. Stuck on the bridge. It took two of us to open the door to get Palmer out, and I'm messed up.”
“How bad?”
“I can't walk.” That didn't sound quite right, so he repeated it. The words were thicker somehow. Talking tired him out.
“Ennis. Listen to me. Put your helmet on. I'll come and get you.”
Emergency suits only had ordinary comms, without encryption. Toren would be able to hear. Bad idea. He tried to explain but Moire wasn't listening. Arguing tired him too, so he put the helmet on and sealed it.
Slowly his vision cleared, and so did his mind. Lack of oxygen had nearly gotten him. He still felt very weak and tried not to think about why he couldn't feel his left leg anymore. He fumbled with the suit comm.
“I'm thinking again,” Ennis said.
Moire gave a short, shaky laugh. “Had me worried. Stand by.”
He shifted until he could lean against a wall and waited. Moire would be able to see better than he could the best way to get in. He wondered what she would do if she couldn't dock her ship.
Ennis woke from a light doze to find her kneeling beside him, suited, shaking his shoulder.
“We've got to get moving. Control thinks there may be a few more Toren fighters unaccounted for. Battlespace is such a mess with debris it's hard to tell.” She pulled his arm over her shoulder and lifted. Ennis couldn't suppress the groan. “Sorry. Let's get you out of here.”
Ennis concentrated on moving his one working leg, breathing, and not screaming. They rounded a corner and he saw Moire had taken advantage of the battle damage to back the attack ship up and drop the ramp inside, both easing his passage and anchoring the ships together. She dragged him in, raised the ramp, and when the pressure returned opened the forward compartment.
“We'd better check your damage,” she said, helping him to a reclineable seat. “You don't look good.”
Getting the suit off was even more painful than getting it on. The look on her face told him how bad it was. Moire snatched the medical kit and opened two packets of blood glue, one after the other, without even checking if the first one was holding. Then she opened a third one.
“The leg of your suit was full of blood,” she said quietly. “You need medical attention.”
“I'm not arguing,” Ennis replied weakly. “I just don't know where to get it. Dirtside is under attack and buttoned up, and I doubt Toren will help.”
“Better keep moving or we'll need even more,” Moire said, looking grim. She dropped into the pilot's seat. “Area's still clear. Checking the long–range…hmm, that's interesting. Or really, really bad news.”
“Don't keep me in suspense,” Ennis murmured. “Stress is bad for your health.”
Moire snorted. “Two more blips on screen. Outsystem, bound in. Why can't Toren take a hint?”
“It could be Palmer, with the ship he was chasing,” Ennis said.
“Not Palmer. No transponder code. Not crabs either, wrong direction. Hey, Control, expecting any visitors? Two unknown ships approaching.”
There was a pause, a long one. Moire exchanged a worried glance with Ennis, who shrugged.
“Captain?” Alice at Control sounded dazed. “They are transmitting on both signal levels.”
“Say again?”
“They are sending crab translator code as well as our regular signal. They demand identification of all ships.”
“It's Fleet,” Ennis whispered when he finally understood. “Fleet made it.” He closed his eyes.
“Captain, they want to talk to you,” Alice said. “It's Boorda and Temaire, Captain Pries in command.”
Ennis started. “Temaire? Who is in command of that ship?”
“Why?” Moire asked.
“Boorda is the main ship. It's old, probably the only hull of its class left. Temaire is brand new, a corvette. I know someone who was up for a command on one.”
Moire relayed the question. “Name's Shabata. Sounds vaguely familiar,” she said thoughtfully.
“I need to talk to her! Quickly, before Pries starts giving orders!”
Moire tossed him a commlink, looking puzzled.
“Captain? Shall I tell them you're contacting them?” Alice wanted to know.
“No. Tell them you are still fighting on the surface and she is not available,” Ennis said quickly.
Moire raised an eyebrow. “What are you plotting?” she asked.
“Nele Shabata is a personal friend. Fleet will have plenty of medical help, but I don't want them to get ideas about grabbing you.”
“She's enough of a friend she'd pretend she hadn't seen me?” Moire had a dubious expression.
“I won't try her that far. No, but she'll help and she knows who I'm working for these days. Switch it to external.”
Moire shook her head but toggled the comm.
Ennis had to fight to keep his concentration. It was harder and harder to keep his eyes open, and he could barely hold the commlink.
“This is Commander Byron Ennis. I need to speak to Captain Shabata.”
It took a few repeats before Temaire picked up, and then another request before he got Shabata personally.
“Ennis, what the hell have you been getting up to here?” was the first thing she said.
“I'm glad to see you too, Nele,” he said faintly. “Need a medevac.”
“You are aware Boorda has a fully staffed medbay, and I have a few corpsmen, correct?”
“Umbra business. I'll brief you as much as I can. The ship I'm in is needed elsewhere. Still fighting.”
“Which reminds me, I'd better have Control tell our crab allies the new visitors are friendly,” muttered Moire. “We don't need any diplomatic setbacks now.”
Shabata sighed over the comm. “Very well. I'm expecting a really good story, 'Ron.”
Ennis let the commlink fall from his hand. All his strength was gone. Awareness faded in and out; mercifully he was unconscious when Moire moved him from the forward compartment. Perhaps not completely, for he distinctly remembered warm lips against his cold ones before the sound of a door closing, the ramp opening, and heavy feet and strange voices beside him.
It was, he decided, a good memory to have before passing out.
Chapter 17
A World Made New
Kostas tried to hide the groaning noises he made going up the slope, but Alan heard them anyway.
“Why did you do that, back there? You pushed me away and got in the way when that man shot at us. Didn't it hurt?”
A laugh and a groan, mixed together. “Damn right it hurt. Just like the other two holes I got.” Kostas looked back the way they had come, his eyes sad. “Ain't complainin'. Coulda been worse.”
Some of the people with them had died, fighting. He kept thinking they would get up again, just like in the training he'd had back in the Place. The Toren place. He liked these people. How could they just die? And if they knew they could die fighting, why didn't they run away and hide?
“If it hurt why did you do it?”
“Wouldn't hurt near as bad as it would if you got shot and your mother found out,” Kostas puffed, wincing as they reached the top of the ridge. Alan checked: no movement below and no hiding places either. It was safe to walk down.
“She wouldn't hurt you, would she?”
“Didn't say she'd hurt me, son.”
Alan was going to ask more, but then they saw the dark shuttle on the beach. The one they'd been told to find. The comm had said a signal came from here, so the people fighting outside, the ones that were still alive and could walk, went there.
He watched carefully as the others checked the shuttle. He was glad when it was empty. Then someone shouted, and they went to look.
“Hey, they sneaked in but wore this stupid knit hat!” The woman held it up, grinning.
It was orange, with holes in it, and he recognized it. “That's Montero's hat!” Alan said, surprised. “Why did they have it?” Then he remembered. Carlos Montero was missing when Toren came, and people were worried. “Maybe he's here somewhere.”
Kostas nodded, but his face looked hard. Wouldn't it be good to find Montero?
They found some footprints in the dirt, and scuff marks going up another hill. Alan kept watching for the Toren people from the shuttle, but he didn't see anyone.
“The comm relay is close, but the tracks lead away from it,” Kostas said. “What were they headed for?”
Alan could smell smoke now, and it was getting stronger. Now he could see a black hole in the rock, and big black mark in front of it…and strange black lumps, some outside the hole. They looked…wrong.
They were people. Burned people, some with bones coming through. The smell made him feel sick. One was collapsed near a comm unit.
“The exhaust vent? They can't have thought they'd get in that way, they ain't that dumb.” Kostas peered in the dark hole. “More inside. Maybe somebody told 'em that was a way in.”
One of the others came up and looked in too. “That don't make no sense. They aren't open unless the guns fire, an' then they real visible with all the smoke.”
“Yeah. Unless somebody knew to wait. Just before the first gun fired.” Alan stared at Kostas. One tear was tracking down the side of his face. “Some foggy guy who knew damn well where we put the vents and how they worked.”
When he understood, Alan started to cry too. It couldn't be real. “Montero…went down there?” Kostas just nodded. “No! I want him to come back! Why did he do it?”
Kostas wiped his face. “Because he got brave when he had to. Those bastards musta caught him, forced him to help. So he helped 'em right into a furnace.”
“But why can't he be alive?”
“Because he didn't have a choice. Help the bad guys kill us, or die fighting. You gonna say he did the wrong thing?”
Alan slowly shook his head, but his thoughts kept crying I want him back!
They didn't stay much longer, which was good. He didn't want to see the bodies anymore, or think that one of them was Montero. Someone talked on the comm and told the people in the cave, and they could go back. And he did, and he tried to sleep but the fighting and the screams he remembered kept waking him up again. Then he heard the noise that meant one of the smaller ships was coming in, and he ran to the cave.
People had said his mother was OK and he'd heard her voice, but it wasn't the same as seeing her. It made him feel everything would be made better. Even Montero. She looked tired, and there was blood on her clothes.
“It's not mine, kid,” she said when he ran up to her. Her face looked like pain, though. He wanted to make it go away. It frightened him to see his mother like that. Maybe…maybe she couldn't make this better.
“Then how–”
“I don't want to talk about it,” she whispered, and hugged him tight.
¤ ¤ ¤
The uniform was stiff with newness, and possibly confusion on the part of the fabricator who had made it. Moire sighed internally. Here she was, surrendering just like she was supposed to, and all she was getting was a big steaming helping of hurry up and wait. Precisely how many accused mutineers were on the docket anyway?
Finally the doors opened. An older man with thinning black hair entered, wearing the insignia of the legal division of Fleet. He gave Moire a steady look, without expression.
“Lieutenant, you are out of uniform.”
“Sir, with respect, this is the correct uniform for a United States Air Force Captain. Unless I have been discharged without my knowledge, that is my current rank.”
A very, very small quiver disturbed the corner of his mouth. “Ah, I thought I would enjoy this case. I am Colonel del Sor. I will be your representative in these proceedings. I will admit to some curiosity how you managed to find such an antique uniform.”
“Newly fabricated, sir, from memory and an illustrated children's encyclopedia. The history section.”
“Of course.”
He escorted her, with her guard, to a small room. The guard remained outside. Moire was impressed. Carriers did not usually have a lot of empty rooms, and del Sor had not even had to kick anybody out.
“I have been reviewing your case, insofar as the files have been made available to me. I understand a great deal has happened since, but we are only concerned with your actions aboard Canaveral before and during the mutiny.”
