Hells jesters, p.9
Hell's Jesters, page 9
The Valkyrie had shot by Five and peeled away hard, the Alliance pilot reading Five’s desperate maneuver correctly, seeing that to continue on course would put him with a Jester to both bow and stern. A streak of ionized particles drew the curve of the pilot’s equally desperate evasion path, grav drives straining to give him room to run.
Tim’s targeting icons followed the Valkyrie, going red with lock. “Not cute enough, pal.” He hit the firing studs and watched cerulean bolts punch through flickering shields to chew fuselage. Plasma blasts caught up a nanosecond later, scooping divots from armor plate, walking a crazed path over engines and bulbous hump of cockpit. The Valkyrie began an end-over-end tumble but split open before the first rotation finished, dissolving in a sun-like smear of rent fusion bottle.
“Get clear, Jesters!” Red’s harried voice snarled across the tactical frequency. “We’ve done enough. Scatter for hyper!”
Tim searched the tactical display. The fight between the Jesters and the Valkyries had spread out and away from the capital ships, a vicious dog fight, the kind of apocalyptic brawl the Jesters prided themselves on. But this hadn’t been drones and automated ships. This had been the real thing. And it was ending.
The rest of the Alliance capital ships were closing now and the Valkyries that had been strafing Gallaton were on their way back. The last of the refugees, those probably without hyper drives, streaked for the far corners of the system in a vain attempt to find invisibility in distance. Blue-white halos pinpricked the sky as Jesters reached the safe edges of the gravity well and jumped free. In moments, those that remained behind would be staying for good.
But Tim’s eye went to the Retribution-class battle cruiser, alone now that the scrap had flung so far and wide. He noticed a readout blinking yellow. “Jeanie, the Number Three scatter pack never fired.”
“It jammed in the first strike,” the AI replied. “It’s an electronics failure, not hardware. I can get it bypassed when we get back to Junction.”
A strange calm settled over Tim. There would never be victory. They’d always be running. And the Jesters would always be dying, until Red killed them all. This is it...this is the last one... He smiled, at peace in a way he hadn’t been in nearly three years since taking up with this madness. “Can you get it bypassed now?”
The AI’s long pause seemed like hesitation. “I can.”
“Do it. And give me speed.”
The machine complied and Tim turned his Hellhound back towards the battle cruiser. If this is the last one, it’s going be one that counts. He signaled his wing mate. “Get out of here, Five.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice. Do I want to know what you’re doing?”
Tim Watkins cackled as the fighter accelerated. “I’m leaving a little Jesters calling card.”
THE BRIDGE OF THE Immolator stank of burnt electronics and blood. Overloaded shield generator coils had exploded, sending white-hot shards lancing up through its deck plates to spread smoke, flame, and death. The tactical station was a smoldering hole, its officer having been flung backwards to Anton King’s feet and now writhing and howling as a pair of medics tried to stabilize him. Firefighters plied handheld force field projectors to contain and suffocate blazes. Alarms warbled throughout the wounded ship.
Admiral Geiger blinked through smoke and grimaced at the panicked bleating of Ms. Brown. He spun savagely and pointed at the untouched Syntar executives. “Clear the bridge now.”
Marines manhandled the civilians to the lift while the medics got the wounded officer onto a stretcher and scrambled to follow. A sense of calm descended as the lift doors slid shut, left only the cacophony of alarms and the dazzle of still-functioning displays.
“Is anyone else hit?”
“I’m fine,” King grunted. A flap of his uniform vest dangled from a bloody gash across chest and shoulder.
Geiger nodded, wouldn’t impugn on the man’s pride yet. “Systems, give me a damage report.”
The tech, clearly relieved to have the Syntar folk gone, said, “The gravitic disruption generators are crippled. The aft and port weapons suites are destroyed. Linkage to weapons control is severed. We should have it restored in a couple minutes.”
“We don’t have a couple minutes. Make it sooner. What about the shields?”
“A third of the generator coils are blown. Overload forced emergency shut down to the remaining suites. Section Chiefs are working to restart them now. Hull breaches are contained. Navigation, Artificial Gravity, Life Support, and ancillary systems still show nominal.”
“She’s a tough ship, Admiral.” Captain King didn’t quite hide a wince as he cupped a hand to his wound.
“She is, at that.” Geiger glanced at the wrecked station. “Transfer tactical functions to the communications station. Hurry, people, I need my eyes back!”
A flurry of work brought an unsteady holographic display shimmering to life above the Captain’s chair. Geiger grimaced. Immolator and Bedford continued to limp for Gallaton, largely alone now as Wolf Squadron chased the Jesters to the edges of the gravity well. The ambush had set the rest of the ships and fighters of the Task Force scrambling back to his aid. In the meantime, the remaining refugees had scattered. That’s not going to please Brown. He clenched a fist. The Razor’s gone, too. Bastard Jesters...
An alarm blatted. Tactical highlighted a Jester icon not in retreat, rushing instead straight for them.
“What the hell is that idiot doing?”
“Suicide run,” King hissed.
Geiger whirled to the communications officer now serving as tactical. “Summon the Wolves!” That would be pointless; a glance showed him the Valkyries were too scattered to reach them in time. “Tell Bedford to cover us.”
The officer shook his head with the frantic jerkiness of approaching panic. “They’re still fighting to control fires, sir.”
Geiger mopped his brow and for the first time considered the cool trickle of fear in his gut. The hologram of the onrushing Jester burned in his eyes. “Get those shields back online! And for Christ’s sake, get me weapons control!”
“THE NUMBER THREE IS operational again,” Jeanie told Tim. On his systems display, the scatter pack blinked green.
Watkins Five was long gone now and, as Tim watched, the last of the Jesters winked out of Gallaton, safe into the alternate reality of hyper. All other icons glowed hostile crimson and were converging towards him and his prey. “Now it’s getting lonely.”
“You don’t have to do this, Tim.”
“Free Will’s a funny thing for humans, Jeanie,” Tim replied. Tiny points grew on his forward view display, became the surviving light carrier and the ailing battle cruiser, which the AI painted with overlapping targeting halos. “Divert all power from the particle cannon and the plasma blaster to shields and engines.” Halos vanished from the display, save one.
“Valkyries closing to aft.”
Acceleration overcame inertial dampening, compressed Tim into his flight couch. He bit down as grayness began to creep into straining eyes. “Drop chaff and the jamming pod,” he grunted. “They’re too far, anyway, but it’ll confuse them. And keep that cruiser between us and the carrier. Mask their fire.”
The Retribution-class elongated in his forward display, began to pivot away from him, revealing blackened, warped hull. No blasts raced out to meet Tim. A grin spread across his sweat-washed face. We hurt her pretty bad.
The scatter pack targeting icon went red. “You are positive for weapons lock,” Jeanie urged.
“Just a little closer, Jeanie.” Tim began to grind the flight stick to starboard and the empty space beyond the Alliance ships. “When we’re clear, give me everything in the engines. Run like hell.”
Streaks of fire leapt from the light carrier, wide of their mark as she couldn’t risk hitting her consort. More lightning flickered to aft as the distant Valkyries flailed vainly. The battle cruiser rushed to meet Tim. The targeting halo blinked frantically as proximity alarms wailed.
“Yeah.” Tim stroked a firing stud, distantly felt the thunk of the scatter pack firing. He wrenched the stick to starboard and the battle cruiser heaved out of sight. “Give me all that you’ve got, Jeanie!”
Acceleration crushed Tim to the couch. He grinned through pain and approaching black out as the star field opened up before him, empty with the promise of life.
He never looked back.
“HERE IT COMES!”
Geiger clenched the back of Anton King’s chair, caught a momentarily glimpse of the waspish flitter rushing by. A spread of short-ranged, antimatter-tipped missiles glittered as their tiny thrusters lit and streaked for the Immolator.
“Shields coming up!” screamed the tech at Systems.
The first projectiles struck the energetic barrier as it shimmered to life, died in flickers across its faint nimbus of protection. An actinic flash amidships joined the brilliance, followed by tongues of orange as an internal explosion—shield generator overload—sent oxygen venting into vacuum. The trailing missiles clamored into fluttering shields, most rived apart by the fluctuating power. But one sailed through to punch the Immolator just forward of the bulge of the bridge.
White light washed across the bridge displays. Geiger staggered back from King as the deck plates wobbled beneath him and the artificial gravity quivered. He recovered balance in time to see a secondary explosion bathe the front of the compartment in flames, saw Anton King fling up his arms, screaming.
Something glanced off Geiger’s head and he felt his body falling, heard his own voice going shrill as he dropped with the side of his skull aflame.
He never felt the deck hit.
Part 3 – Darkest Before Dawn
HOLOGRAPHIC RECEPTOR ON>>>
>>>SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 5172384>>>RECEPTION>>> A nubile girl with designer teeth, a thick mane of blonde streaked in stylish glow-pink, and a spiteful glimmer to huge, unnaturally blue eyes smirks at the holocam.
“It’s been five weeks on the habitation sphere and the idiots just don’t get it.” She gives her hair a toss and chortles in a way that makes young men stupid and young women hate. “I did Jed in the hydroponics garden, right under the security feed, with that silly bitch Ekaterina watching the whole thing. Now she’ll trust no one.”
The view flicks to show heavily-edited but still suggestive footage of the girl rocking and moaning on top of a young man, their gyrations shaking the stalks of hybrid corn arrayed around them. The picture cuts momentarily to a pretty brunette sobbing in a security booth on another level.
“At the same time,” the first girl continues in a confidential tone, “I set up a doctored hologram of Himenez and me making out in the kitchen. The others saw but were too rattled to check and see if what they were watching was real.” She cackles. “God, this game is simple. Spread lies, sow distrust, and party. That prize money might as well be mine—”
>>>SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 3907891>>>RECEPTION>>> “—here with Dallas Bragg of the Tartan Trashers,” says a roughly handsome man with the massive shoulders of a former athlete and the carefully-uncorrected facial scars that make for good holo-viewing, “talking about the Smash Ball post-season.”
A monstrous, dark-skinned man whose expensive suit does not quite hide a metallic arm flashes pearly teeth and nods to the holocam. “It’s great to be here, Cal.”
“And with me, as always, is my partner and two-time Metal Bowl champion, Klaus Kraghammer.” The announcer nods to a shrunken, white-haired apparition to his other side, whose left face is a mask of metal and gears. “Gentlemen,” Cal continues, “how are the Trashers set going into the semi-finals?”
“I can speak for the other guys when I tell you, Cal, that the Trashers are spoiling for a fight,” Bragg says with bravado.
“And yourself, Dallas? You lost an arm against the Manglers two weeks ago.” Behind the trio, a hologram replays a clip of Bragg, in full exo-suit, cocking his arm back to pass the spiked, metal ball, only to have it sheared off by a vicious hit from armored defenders. Cal nudges the man playfully. “I see you’re still sporting the artificial.”
“It takes time to re-grow an arm, Cal,” Dallas replies good-naturedly. “Time is something we don’t have before the big matchup with Nova Terra.” He flexes the mechanical arm. “It’s regulation.”
“It’s a shame you won’t get that re-match with the Seine Slashers,” Cal says. The hologram switches to a view of fires and fighting in the Seine coliseum, several weeks before. “Half the team died in those riots, along with thousands of fans—a real tragedy for Smash Ball, that. And the rest of the Slashers won’t be back to fighting trim until next year.”
Klaus Kraghammer grunts at this and the bright lights of the studio catch a glimmer of spittle in the corner of his metallic mouth.
“Yeah, our hearts go out to the Seine folks.” Dallas shrugs. “But, you know, even with their losses, Nova Terra was the better matchup for us, probably deserved the semi-final bid more. We’re really looking forward to—”
>>>SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 666789 - NOVA TERRA - GOVERNMENT SPONSORED>>>RECEPTION>>> A rigidly-postured officer in the crimson and black of the Fleet takes a sip of water from a glass at his elbow and looks up from the table set up on the floor of the Assembly. His short auburn hair is streaked in gray and his blocky-jawed face is stonily unreadable under the scrutiny of the High Councilors.
Alexi Noovin nods to one side with barely-hidden annoyance. “Assemblyman Levine, the floor is yours on behalf of the Committee for Naval Oversight.”
Levine strides to the floor, taking a moment to nod to the dais of the Councilors before turning to regard the officer. “Before we begin, I’d like to extend to Admiral Harrison my sincerest condolences for the loss of his daughter.”
Polite, but full-bodied applause descends from the Assembly.
The Admiral nods, a hint of pain to the motion. “Service is the lifeblood of my family, Assemblyman, and she gave herself in it. My wife and sons thank you.”
“Of course.” Levine bows deeply. “That said there is the matter at hand. Can you detail for our inquest, and for the Assembly at large, the sequence of events leading to the quarantine of the Gallaton System?”
“The system was secure. The Syntar representatives had set down and were in negotiations with the leaders of the Gallatonian Associated Trades, which had taken control of the planet—”
“Were they not appointed by the populace to deal with matters, with civil control broken down?”
“Hearsay,” Noovin cuts Levine off. “I’ve warned you, Assemblyman.”
“Apologies, High Councilor.” Levine’s reply drips with sarcasm as he glares over his shoulder. He turns back to Harrison. “Go on, Admiral. The representatives of Syntar Fleet Corporation were in talks with the appointed representatives of Gallaton.”
Noovin hisses in annoyance while some of the other Councilors whisper, but they do not stop the questioning.
“The system was secure,” Harrison repeats. “Task Force Subjugate had maneuvered into position to prevent flight from the planet.”
“And why would anyone flee, Admiral?”
Harrison shifts in his seat. “I’m not a mind reader, Assemblyman. I can only assume there were those doubting the legitimacy of their actions. But that is beside the point. The Task Force was operating along standard parameters for the mission in question. The planet was covered.”
“And negotiations were proceeding successfully?”
“I don’t know, Assemblyman.” Harrison fixes Levine with a cold stare. “That was when the raiders attacked.”
“The Hell’s Jesters?”
“That is correct, Assemblyman.”
“This is confirmed? They attacked with no warning, without anything occurring on the planet?”
“Yes.”
Levine pauses, seems to consider the officer as if gauging a new line of attack. “Task Force Subjugate was under the command of Rear Admiral Harlan Geiger, correct?”
“It was.”
Levine frowns. “And why is the Admiral not present?”
“He and most of his command have been transferred to the far Spinward Quadrant. Recalling him at this time was not deemed appropriate by the Admiralty.” Harrison leans forward a bit in his chair, spearing Levine with a chilly glare. “I don’t think I need to explain, Assemblyman, that the Outregion has many hotspots, especially after this incident.”
Levine returns the glare with a falsely cordial nod, but with an expression unsatisfied. “So Gallaton remains quarantined—”
>>>SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 5550987>>>RECEPTION>>> A stern-faced man with white hair and blazing green eyes stalks back and forth across a stage. “There is unrest in the Outregion. There is a HoloMedia feeding you amoral garbage. There are gravity storms clogging the hyper lanes. Does anyone think this is a coincidence?”
“NO!” the massive crowd filling the theater seats above bawls.
“No, my friends, it is not. There are no coincidences. It is all here!” The man holds up a holoreader. “It is all part of God’s Plan, laid out in clear, revised Galactic Standard for those to read who aren’t too scared to know the truth.”
“What can we do?” the crowd asks in unison.
“We can pray, friends, and we can ask others to join us.” The man’s frantic pacing causes the cross pinned to his suit breast to glitter under lights hot enough to bead his pale features in sweat. “Together, as one voice, we can shake the stars and bring order to anarchy.” He pauses and turns to a huge hologram, which suddenly displays a number, creeping up. “But we can’t do it alone. We need your help. You can do it with a quick pledge to—”
>>>SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 9205491>>>RECEPTION>>> “—the vacation you’ve always dreamed of, a whirlwind tour of the Foundation Worlds, starting on Powell.”
A scene shows young parents leading children on a walk down a tree-flanked mall towards a monstrous skyline, back-lit by a sunset, skyscrapers beginning to flicker with lights. They are laughing and joking, beautiful and clean while friendly passers-by wave.
