Ghost fleet constellatio.., p.13
Ghost Fleet (Constellation Book 3), page 13
Oliver batted the shotgun away with his axe, ducked a swing from the cyborg’s meaty fist, and smacked Mamonov across the face with the prybar section of the boarding axe. Mamonov spun, and his face struck the whirling blades of an oxygen condenser, sending sparks flying and shredding the synthetic flesh covering his face.
Not to be outdone, the furious cyborg turned and barreled into him, sending the boarding ax sprawling. Oliver tucked his feet against his opponent’s chest and ignited the last bits of fuel in his jump pack. Mamonov staggered as Oliver hopped back to his feet. He went to retrieve his axe, but a metal fist wrapped in flesh cracked his visor and sent him stumbling.
Oliver felt around and grasped a tear gas grenade on his kit, then tossed it back at the enraged Russian. Mamonov snarled and groaned as the gas irritated his synthetic flesh and the connections between his synthetic eyes and brain.
The distraction gave Oliver enough time to recover his axe and get to his feet. His axe tore a groove through Mamonov’s chest and turned him around. Oliver pressed his advantage, driving the pry bar into Mamonov’s back and pushing him into the molten waste rock coming out of the extractor. The cyborg cried out in pain as the scorching material stripped the synthetic flesh from his arms and made his robotic limbs glow, the shear intensity of the moment seeming to override whatever dulled their pain response.
“You can’t stop what’s coming,” he snarled. Pushing off the extractor, he swung at Oliver and missed. “I’ll haunt your people forever!”
“I’ve had enough of your shit, damn it!” Oliver roared. He brought his axe sharply down through one of Mamonov’s weakened arms, then the other, before grabbing the back of the axe head and driving it into Mamonov’s neck like a guillotine. “The future is for our children to decide!”
All Mamonov could do was gurgle until the light in his optics faded and his partially molten head rolled off his shoulders.
Oliver tossed his axe aside and took a deep breath.
“The terraforming equipment is secure,” he gasped. “Now can I get someone down here who knows how to turn it off?”
TWENTY-FOUR
“Time?” Jim asked.
“Both Limas should be almost finished with their cooling cycle,” Minerva said.
Jim nodded to General Nellis.
“Inform Armstrong and Gagarin to stand ready,” the general said. “As soon as they get the signal, I want both of those battlecruisers pounded to scrap.”
Jim grasped the arms of his chair and nodded to George Teller.
“Make sure Engineering’s ready,” he said. “We only have a limited window to try this.”
They’re going to strike any minute. Only question is, will they go after us or the Ark?
The enemy answered his question promptly. They appeared above the Ark, pointed down at it.
“Jump us into their path and expand the field!” Jim snapped. “All batteries prepare to fire!”
Constellation spun through space until it reappeared ahead of the twin battlecruisers.
“Expanding field!” George Teller announced. “Drive temperature’s rising, but it’s staying within acceptable parameters.”
Jim grit his teeth. “Brace for impact!”
One of the beams washed over their prow, split across the long angular planes of the bow. George Teller announced shallow breaches, usually a single room or deck, but significant degradation to the bow’s ability to actively cool itself.
The second beam struck main battery G, the rearward ventral battery closest to the radiator. The gunnery house had been compromised, and the beam partially emerged from the other end. Above the wail of klaxons and the shuddering of the ship, Jim heard a sound that struck him like an angel singing victory.
“Renaudin field set and stable!”
The battlecruisers tried to jump away, and for a brief second, Jim thought they had succeeded.
So when they immediately reappeared in the space they’d been occupying and extended their radiators, a cheer rose up from the bridge.
“All batteries fire at will!” Jim ordered. The particle cannons rumbled deep in the ships, all seven remaining batteries concentrating their fire.
The front of Lima-zero-one caved in, its armor and space frame unable to withstand the onslaught of hydrogen shells accelerated to relativistic speeds. The engineering section went dark as the hull warped and broke apart, subjected to stresses it had never been designed to endure.
Lima-zero-two saw a similar fate. The particle beams didn’t strike her head-on, but their intense speed and heat ignited the highly pressurized atmosphere amidships. The battlecruiser was blasted in half, and her engineering section went out like a dying star.
“All batteries cease fire,” Jim said.
“Confirmed, both battlecruisers have been destroyed,” Ogden reported. “And it looks like the ground team’s reached out to us—they’ve secured the colony dome.”
Jim sank into his chair. “Begin recovery operations and damage control,” he said. “Let’s get our civilian, non-dependent types transferred to the Ark. I’m sure Mister Davis will want to be on the Ark for the crossing.” He exhaled slowly. “Get the last of the people willing to leave Mars and Oliver’s team back on board. All other ships, assume formation and stand by for Renaudin sequence.”
He looked over at Minerva. “Start cranking out more nanite shots instead of missiles. Focus on the replacement parts that we need, but we’ve got a lot of shots to distribute.” He blinked and chuckled. They were in the clear.
“It seems my trust was mistaken,” the Chairman said as he sipped his wine. “Sid Friedman seemed like such a good investment opportunity. He was a great bureaucrat and one hell of a politician. Too bad he wasn’t up to snuff as a leader.”
“So, how will we proceed?” he prodded. “My country and Russia are in shambles, and significant parts of the US’s spacelift capability has been damaged or destroyed. This setback could cost us access to the resources across the solar system.”
“It’s a problem but I believe a completely solvable one,” the Chairman said. “The mass driver under Sally Ride seemed to be effective.”
“I could finish it, but I’ll need funding to do it,” Marcus Wu said. “And experts, actual experts, not board members’ nephews. This is something you want done quickly and done right.”
The Chairman chuckled and sipped his wine.
“I knew I was right to bring you on board,” he said. “Sid could have been an excellent figurehead. Unfortunately, he began thinking his accomplishments were his own and not achieved by the board putting a thumb on the scale.” He raised his glass to Marcus Wu. “Of all the board members, only you or I can say that.”
“And why is that?” Marcus Wu asked. “I’m sure that isn’t an accident.”
“It isn’t,” the Chairman replied. “I need a true successor, one that can safeguard my legacy going forward. As it is, I’m stretched to my limit, and I’m not as flexible as I used to be.”
Marcus Wu bowed slightly. “You could have fooled me. You look healthy for your age.”
The Chairman smiled and sipped some more wine. “I’m much older than I look, son,” he said. “I can thank some good wine for that.”
Marcus blinked. Just how old is this guy?
“Will I have some latitude with the board?” he asked. “I may need to shift some personnel around.”
The Chairman nodded.
“You’re going to need problem-solvers and innovators on the new board,” he said. “For the past seventy years, the board just needed people who could do what they were told and speak out of both sides of their mouth. Your needs will be different.”
“I’ll also need some history regarding the board,” the tech mogul said. “And some transparency and context pertaining to the board and its activities.”
“Oh, and do you have the faintest idea how far back this rabbit hole goes?” the Chairman asked.
“Clearly further then the last forty years, when the Global Prosperity Fund was founded,” Marcus Wu said. “I come from a place that deals in secrets, conspiracy, and subterfuge as a matter of routine, and I know no human could maintain such a secret for forty years, let alone seventy.”
The Chairman smiled, just a little too wide for Marcus’s liking.
“Three people can keep a secret if two are dead,” the old man said. “And in a sense, you’re correct. It goes back to Brazil in 1536.”
“I can’t believe this!” Sid Friedman cried. “How could this have happened? We had them!”
“I’m not sure, sir,” the engineering officer said. “All I can say is the drive spun up, fired, gave us an error, and dropped us right where we were.”
“Sensors?” McAllister asked. “Are we still in the Solar System?”
“Roger,” the sensor tech replied. “The rebel fleet’s gone. I believe they jumped away.”
“And Behemoth?” Sid asked.
“Gone,” the sensor tech replied.
McAllister stopped listening at that point. The only thing that mattered was survival. He was more efficient when it came to air and water—he could make those stores last. What came back to bite him was food. The drugs and stimulants that sped up or enhanced his biological parts burned calories at a ridiculous rate. He needed more calories per day than the average swimmer. The food stores had thankfully survived, but with the crew they had left, how long would that last, and was it enough for him? He glanced around the room. With the exception of the politician, all the people on the bridge and the crew were fit and healthy, most in the best shape of their life.
Subtly, he checked his knife and pistol and set in motion his plan to guarantee that he had sufficient calories.
TWENTY-FIVE
Jim barely blinked through the Renaudin sequence as the stars changed around him.
“How are we looking on jump sickness, Minnie?” he asked.
“We were able to administer nanites to all children and teenagers we brought with us,” Minerva replied. “Forty-five percent of all adults are experiencing the same symptoms our core crew did when we first jumped this far.”
Jim sighed, his sympathy resting with the people vomiting and feeling like they were being bitten to death by fire ants.
“Let’s get medical to those who need it,” he said. “General Nellis, we’re here.”
The older man rose from the crash chair and stood near Jim’s seat.
Before them, through the transparent metal of the flag bridge, a new Eden spun. Vast cloud systems just barely concealed the three supercontinents that made up the planet’s landmass. Healthy green indicated vast patches of forest and tall peaks on the planet below. Epsilon Eridani cast their new home, and the Exodus fleet they’d brought with them, in the perfect light.
“I never thought I’d live long enough to see the day,” the older man said. “Another home, free of domes or environmental controls.” He folded his arms behind him. “Get Miles Davis on the horn—I want to know what he thinks.”
“The good news is we have the entire history of New Amsterdam’s colonization from my time,” Minerva said. “So we can improve on the mistakes of the original timeline’s colony efforts.”
“We’ve got comms,” Elodie announced. “I can get the Ark in a matter of minutes.” Sure enough, as she spoke, the image of Miles Davis appeared with the generation ship’s much more utilitarian command center in the background.
“Mister Davis, are you seeing this?” Jim asked.
“It’s hard to believe it’s all real, though my crew is a little more focused on cleaning up our messes from the jump.” The reflection of the world below shone in his helmet, and an awestruck look passed over his face. “So, this is it? A world perfect for human settlement.”
“Welcome to New Amsterdam, Mister Davis,” Jim said. “She’s home for the foreseeable future.” He looked over to the center of the bridge and signaled for Minerva. “Minerva? Do we have a count for the refugees?”
“We’re looking at two-point-five million, counting military personnel,” Minerva announced. “I have some prefab weather satellites we can get in orbit to begin surveying.”
“Yes, let’s get onto that,” General Nellis said. “I also want to poll the refugees. We need to get a committee together to help us get settled into our new home.”
Mel joined Jim on the bridge, and he pulled her into a warm embrace.
“This is it,” he whispered to her. “We’re home.”
A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR
Dear Reader,
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T. E. Butcher, Ghost Fleet (Constellation Book 3)
