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Chapter Thirty-three
A broken behemoth drifted against pinprick stars, flanks ripped and torn, and Simon Monkoto sat on his flag bridge and glared at its image.
He turned his head to glower at the man beside him. Ferhat Ben Belkassem's dark face was pale from the carnage, but he'd been the first to note the hole in Procyon's fire where an entire quadrant's batteries had been blown away, and Monkoto had yielded to his appeal to hold the SLAMs.
He still didn't know why he had. They'd have to destroy it sooner or later—why risk his people on the O Branch inspector's whim? But he'd taken Audacious into the hole and worked his way along the dreadnought's hull, and there'd been something sensual in the slow, brutal destruction of Procyon's weapons, in the lingering murder of her crew's hope.
His eyes returned to the main plot, still bemused by what it showed. Thirty Imperial Fleet ships, eighteen of them battle-cruisers. They'd been a more than welcome help, but the mercenaries' losses had still been horrendous. Assassin, three of nine battle-cruisers, four of seven heavy cruisers... . The butcher's bill had been proportionately lighter among the destroyers and light cruisers, but the total was agonizing, especially for mercenaries who lacked the resources of planetary navies.
Yet none of the renegade fleet had escaped, and only two destroyers had surrendered. The mass murders on Ringbolt—yes, and Elysium—were avenged . . or would be, when Procyon finally died.
A com signal chimed, and he hid a flicker of surprise as he recognized his caller's craggy face.
"Admiral Monkoto," a voice rumbled, "I am Brigadier Sir Arthur Keita, Imperial Cadre. Please accept my thanks on behalf of His Majesty. I am certain His Majesty will wish to personally express his own gratitude to you and all your people in the very near future. The Empire is in your debt."
"Thank you, Sir Arthur." Monkoto's heart rose, despite the pain of his losses. Sir Arthur Keita was not known for meaningless praise. When he spoke, it was with Seamus II's voice, and the Terran Empire paid its debts.
"I also wish to thank you for not destroying that dreadnought." Keita's face hardened. "We want its crew, Admiral. We want them badly."
"I also want them, Sir Arthur." Monkoto's voice took on the steely edge of a file.
"I understand, and we intend to give you the justice you and your people deserve, but we need live prisoners for interrogation."
"That's what Inspector Ben Belkassem said," Monkoto acknowledged, and Keita's tight face eased just a bit.
"So he is with you. Good! And he's right, Admiral Monkoto."
"Fine, but how do you intend to collect them? We've pulled most of their teeth and disabled their shield generator, but they have to know what the courts have waiting for them. Do you really think they'll surrender?"
"Some of them will," Keita said with flat, grim finality. "I've got an entire battalion of Cadre drop commandos over here, Admiral. I believe we can pry them out of their shell."
"Drop com—" Monkoto closed his mouth with a snap. A battalion? For just a moment he felt a shiver of hungry sympathy for the bastards aboard that hulk. He shook himself and cleared his throat.
"I imagine you can, Sir Arthur, as long as they don't blow their power plants and take your people with them."
"They won't," Keita said. "Watch your plot, Admiral." Monkoto's eyes dropped to the display as four battle-cruisers moved towards Procyon. For a moment he thought they were about to launch assault shuttles, but they didn't. Keita had something no one else did—the complete blueprints for a Capella-class dreadnought— and the battle-cruisers' short-range batteries stabbed into Procyon's hull. It was over in less than two seconds; long before the renegades could have realized what was happening, every one of Procyon's fusion plants had become an incandescent ruin.
"As I say, Admiral," Keita said with cold satisfaction, "they wont be blowing those plants." He paused a moment, then nodded as if to himself. "Another thing, Admiral. I don't know if it'll be possible to salvage that ship. If it is, however, she's yours. My word on it."
Monkoto sucked in in astonishment. Badly wrecked as Procyon was, she was far from beyond repair if a replacement Fasset drive could be cobbled up, and the thought of adding that eight- million-to
"But now," Keita said more briskly, "my people have a job to do. Ill speak with you again later, Admiral."
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Ta
She shook off her woolgathering thoughts with a wry smile. Her brain always insisted on wandering in the last moments before action was joined ... unlike Alley, who only seemed to focus to an even greater intensity.
She pushed that memory away quickly and watched the troop bay repeater as the assault shuttles formed up. At least Alley had gotten away. She hadn't been killed by her own, and there was still hope—
The last shuttle slid into place, thrusters flared, and they swooped across the kilometers towards Procyon's savaged hulk.
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Monkoto felt his stomach tighten as the silvery mi
But no weapons fired. The Bengals snarled down on their prey, belly-mounted tractors snugged them in tight, and hatches opened.
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Ta
"Sorry, ma am." The hulking commando, a third again Ta
"Yeah, well, thanks anyway." Her lip twitched as her team picked its way past the glowing wound. Jake Adams sometimes forgot how drastic the consequences could be when he got "carried away." Combat armor gave anyone the "muscle" to use truly heavy weapons; Adams also had the size, and his "plasma rifle" was the equal of a shuttle ca
Her amusement faded as she focused on her display. Boarding assaults were always ugly. Even though they knew every nook and cra
She peered about her, checking corridor traffic markings against her display, and grunted in satisfaction.
"Beta Company, Ramrod has cleared route to Tango-Four-Niner-Lima down Zebra-Three. Form on my beacon." Captain Schultz's acknowledgment came back, and she tucked away her display and swung her rifle into fighting position.
"All right, Jake. You see that hatch down there?"
"Yes, ma'am. I surely do."
"Well, this piece of shit's flag bridge is on the other side of it." She smiled up at him and waved a hand with the tick's dance-like fluidity. "Feel free to get carried away."
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James Howell crouched behind his useless console in his vac suit. The laser carbine was alien to him, clumsy-feeling in his grip, but he waited almost calmly, his mind empty. There was no room for hope, and no point in fear. He was going to die, and whether it happened in a few minutes or a few hours—or even in a few months, if he was taken alive—didn't matter. He'd betrayed all he was sworn to uphold to play the great game; now he'd lost, and his own stupidity had brought all of his people to the same degrading end.
Echoes of combat quivered through the steel about him, and he glanced across the bridge at Rachel Shu, small and deadly behind a bipod-mounted plasma rifle. Others crouched with them, waiting, eyes locked on the hatch. Any moment now—
The heavily-armored hatch shuddered. A meter-wide circle flared instantly white-hot, and a tongue of plasma licked through it, a searing column that leapt across the bridge. Someone got in its way and died without time even to scream as the heart of a sun embraced him.
Another bolt of fury blew the hatch from its frame in half-molten wreckage, and the first drop commando charged through it.
Howell braced his laser across the console and squeezed the stud. A dozen others were firing, flaying the armored figure with tungsten penetrators and deadly beams of light, and the invader staggered. His battle-rifle flashed white fire as he went down—an unaimed spray of heavy-caliber penetrators that chewed up consoles and people with equal contempt—and then Rachel's plasgun fired, and what hit the deck was a less than human cinder.
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Ta