Read Cobra Outlaw - eARC Online
Authors: Timothy Zahn
Tags: #Fiction, #science fiction, #General, #Space Opera, #Action & Adventure
Cobra Outlaw - eARC (17 page)
“So I see,” Lorne said as he sat down. The group’s third round…which meant that they must have been sitting here at least half an hour before Lorne burst through their office window. Assuming Quill was also able to fiddle his records, Reivaro would have to search long and hard for witnesses before he could prove otherwise.
And if Lorne did his job properly, the colonel wouldn’t have time to do that. He would, in fact, have considerably more pressing problems on his hands than a possible nest of uncooperative civilians.
“Of course, if they start a complete door-to-door you might still be in trouble,” Gary continued as if their earlier conversation had never been interrupted. “Got any ideas about that?”
“Not really,” Lorne said. Though now that he mentioned it, something
was
starting to come together in the back of his mind. “Though I’m guessing he doesn’t have the manpower for that.”
“Not unless he whistles up a whole raft of reinforcements from the Dominion ships,” Gary agreed. “The Trofts did that, you know. We made such a screaming nuisance of ourselves they couldn’t keep a lid on us alone.”
“Easy, hero-boy,” one of the women said dryly. “It was the Cobras and the ranchers who did most of that screaming, remember? The rest of us didn’t do a whole lot except sit on the sidelines and cheer.”
“Hey, cheering is part of it,” Gary insisted. “Especially when we’re also not turning people in to the Trofts. Am I right, Broom?”
“Absolutely,” Lorne said. “It’s a lot more than Capitalia could manage to do.”
“There you go,” Gary said to the woman. “Though I suppose you could make a case that comparing us to Capitalia is damning with faint praise.”
“No damning or faintness intended,” Lorne assured him. “The way I see it, in war or any other kind of catastrophe you have to do whatever the universe drops onto your plate. If you get thrown onto the front lines, you fight. If all you get is a support role, you support.”
“And sometimes that landing-on-your-plate thing happens literally,” Fred commented dryly.
“Hopefully not very often,” Lorne agreed.
“But seriously, a disguise would be good,” Gary said. “Quill isn’t the most politically astute person on the block, but he knew who you were the second he saw you. Most of Archway will, too.”
“Not to mention any Dominion man who spots you,” Kath warned. “They’ve downloaded the whole province ID listing, and they’ve got some kind of implant that lets them just twitch an eye and pull up who you are.”
“Yes, I know,” Lorne said. “What do you suggest?”
“False nose and beard,” Fred said promptly. “That always seems to work on Anne Villager.”
“And considering you don’t seem to have shaved for a couple of days, you’re already started on the beard,” Gary said, peering critically at his face. “Don’t know where you’d find a false nose, though.”
“I’ll think of something,” Lorne assured him. “And I’d better get going.” He started to stand up.
“Whoa, son, what’s your hurry?” Gary admonished. “You need to stay put for awhile, remember?”
“Besides, the third round’s on the way,” Kath added. “You don’t drink, it just gets thrown away.”
“I guess we can’t have
that
,” Lorne conceded. “Twenty minutes, no more.”
“Twenty minutes,” Gary promised. “Speaking of stuff getting dropped on your plate, who’s up for some appetizers?”
#
Lorne’s twenty minutes ended up getting stretched to an hour by the sudden appearance of a squad of Marines on the street outside.
Fortunately, they seemed to be searching mostly empty shops and apartments, and though one of them stepped into the bar he left again after a quick word with Quill and an even quicker look at his notepad. Twenty minutes later, Quill came by the table to quietly inform Gary that the soldiers had left the neighborhood.
Still, there was no point in taking any more chances than necessary. Lorne gave it another twenty minutes, just to be sure, before heading out into the street.
He half expected a Dominion aircar to drop from the sky before he’d gone ten steps, with Reivaro and a squad of grinning Marines swarming out to make the arrest. But the sky was clear, the search having apparently moved elsewhere. Joining the crowds of pedestrians, he headed down the street.
He’d told his new drinking companions that he was heading to his apartment, which was four blocks east and two north from Jonquil’s. But in the intervening time he’d had time to reconsider his options and to come up with a new plan.
It was a risky plan. Worse, it relied heavily on the assumption that the vast majority of Archway’s citizens were as firmly behind the Cobras as Gary and his group. But he had little choice. With his face on the Marines’ files, he wouldn’t get very far unless he found a way to make that face unrecognizable.
And aside from Fred’s suggestion of a false nose and beard, there was only one way he could think of to do that.
The Malagar Building was one of three four-story structures at the edge of the southwest cluster. The bottom floor was taken up by shops, restaurants, and a small walk-in medical clinic, with the second and third floors containing offices of various sorts.
The fourth floor, however…
He entered via one of the restaurants, coming in the main entrance then moving straight through to the kitchen and the back elevator. He saw several people along the way, but if any of them recognized him they made no sign. He took the elevator to the third floor, got out, sent the elevator back to the first floor, then forced open the doors and climbed up the cables to the fourth floor. All told, it was a transparent ploy, possibly even edging toward childish, but the more he could muddy Reivaro’s future investigations, the better.
The corridor he emerged onto was empty, but his audios could pick up the hum and muffled noises of activity. He walked toward the sound, turned a couple of corners.
And there it was, facing him from above a pair of double glass doors:
#
POLESTAR PRODUCTIONS
HOME OF TRIBECCA, GREENDALE, AND ANNE VILLAGER
#
The woman seated at the desk beyond the doors glanced up, did a double-take, and grabbed for her comm. She spoke urgently for a moment, got a reply, and buzzed Lorne in.
She’d gone quiet and goggle-eyed by the time Lorne joined her in the reception area. “Hello,” he said, shifting to his infrareds to try to read her emotions. She was nervous and stressed, but that was about all he could get.
Fortunately, the awkward silence didn’t last long. “Hello,” a middle-aged man said as he pushed open a side door and hurried across to the desk. “I’m James Hobwell, Greendale executive producer. This is a—” He broke off, harrumphed, and seemed to gather himself. “What can we do for you, Cob—young man?”
“That depends,” Lorne said, studying his face. At least as nervous and stressed as the receptionist. “What I need could be dangerous. Colonel Reivaro won’t like it if he finds out.”
Hobwell glanced at the receptionist, then drew himself up. “I’ve had better men than him mad at me. Tell me what you need.”
Lorne took a careful breath. He wasn’t reading any duplicity in Hobwell’s face, which was a good sign. But he also knew that promises made in a quiet place among friends could easily splinter when the going got rough.
Still, right now it was all he had.
Hobwell was still waiting. “What I need,” Lorne said, “is to talk to one of your makeup artists.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
During the three days the
Dorian
floated silently in the darkness nine million kilometers from the Trofts’ flicker-mine net, Barrington had spent some of his idle minutes running calculations on the likely moment when his ship would find itself plunged into battle.
Two of the numbers were straightforward. It was easy to calculate how long it would have taken the
Hermes
to arrive at Aventine from the point where the
Dorian
had dropped it, and equally simple to figure the time it would then take for the trip from the Cobra Worlds’ capital to the flicker net.
The other two numbers—how long it would take Commodore Santores to read Barrington’s report, and how long it would take him to decide on a course of action—were far softer numbers. Still, Barrington had spent a fair amount of time interacting with the Commodore on the voyage from Asgard, and he had a pretty good feel for how his superior thought and acted. The timing would also depend on other factors, such as whether the Commodore had been on duty when the report came in, and whether other matters on Aventine might be competing for his attention. Ultimately, he ended up with a probable six-hour range.
One hour before the shortest and most optimistic of his calculated times, he raised the
Dorian
’s readiness level from Battle Preparedness Two to BatPrep One.
Commodore Santores had apparently assigned a high priority to the
Dorian
’s situation. Exactly ninety-two minutes later, the
Hermes
hit the Trofts’ net and was yanked back into space-normal.
“It hit about fifteen percent off the center point,” Commander Garrett reported. “As close to a dead-center hit as I’ve ever seen. If we’re still looking for proof that the net was intended for us, this is as good as we’re likely to get. Range reads out at a hair over nine-point-three million kilometers.”
Barrington nodded, automatically converting the number to thirty-one light-seconds. Everything they were observing was therefore half a minute out of date. “Enemy response?”
“Both warships are moving in for the kill,” Castenello called. “Two is closest; it’s on the far side of the net and will be in laser range in six minutes. One is on our side and about four minutes behind it.” He threw Barrington a dark look. “Unfortunately, One is the closer target.”
Barrington stroked a finger thoughtfully on his lower lip. Unfortunate, because while One would be the easier of the two for the
Dorian
to tackle, it was also the smaller threat to the
Hermes
. If Barrington chose to engage One,
Hermes
would be alone as it faced off against Two.
There was, of course, a standard tactical response to this kind of situation. Barrington would normally bring the
Dorian
into the battle with a microjump that would take it into toe-to-toe range with Two and attempt to put Two out of action before One made it into range. If he succeeded, then it would be the
Dorian
and
Hermes
which would be double-teaming One instead of being on the receiving end of such firepower concentration.
The problem was that the geometry here made such a plan impossible. Two was on the far side of the net, where the
Dorian
couldn’t reach it. And as Castenello had already pointed out, tackling One would still leave the
Hermes
on the short end of the odds against Two.
“Picking up fire!” Garrett snapped. “The
Hermes
has engaged.”
Barrington cursed under his breath as he looked over at the tactical display. The images confirmed what logic had already told him: the
Hermes
was still well out of laser range of the approaching warship.
Which meant that Lieutenant Commander Vothra had just wasted energy and gained nothing.
Or had he?
Barrington twitched his eye, tapping into the tactical data stream, and keyed for a fine-tune filter. If he could get a view through the glare from One’s engines and cut through the sensor haziness created by the net itself…
And there it was. “Fresh movement,” he called. “Three spider ships engaging the
Hermes
—designate Three, Four, and Five.”
“Acknowledged,” Castenello called back. “The
Hermes
has fired on Three; Four and Five ten seconds from laser range.”
“The
Hermes
is engaging Five,” Garrett put in. “Damage unclear.”
“Two nearly within laser range of the
Hermes
,” Castenello said. “Captain, we need some orders here.”
“Thank you, Commander,” Barrington said, clenching his teeth as he studied the data stream.
“Captain, are we going to engage?” Castenello pressed. “The
Hermes
is facing annihilation.”
Barrington frowned, focusing on the beleaguered courier ship. Castenello was right. The
Hermes
was facing impossible odds. In fact, with a three-to-one advantage, the spider ships should already be blistering away the outer hull.
Only they weren’t. In fact, it didn’t look like they were even trying.
“Captain?” Castenello demanded.
Again, Barrington tapped into the data stream. All three of the spider ships were in range now, yet none of them had opened fire on the
Hermes
. They were taking the courier’s fire without replying, as if their goal was merely to drain its missile tubes and overheat its lasers.
And if they were genuinely reluctant to damage their prize…
“Helm: new course,” he ordered. “Take us into the net directly between—”
“Into the
net
?” Castenello interrupted. “Sir—”
“Directly between One and Two and as close to the
Hermes
as possible,” Barrington continued. “Tactical Officer: approach, please.”
“Yes, Sir,” Castenello said between obviously clenched teeth. Popping his straps, he stalked across CoNCH to Barrington’s station. “Permission to speak candidly, Captain?” he asked, his voice stiff but quiet enough that only Barrington and Garrett could hear. At least he had that much tact.
“Of course,” Barrington said.
“Sir, if you’re trying to pick up the
Hermes
and get out, this isn’t the way to do it,” Castenello said. “We can drop into range without hitting the net—”
“Can we, Commander?” Barrington interrupted. “With us over thirty light-seconds out and the
Hermes
likely already into battle maneuvers? If we try to jump into retrieval range without knowing their exact position, we have a small but dangerous chance of ramming right into them.”
“Those risks can be minimized, Sir.”
“Or they can be eliminated,” Barrington said. “Because the one place we
know
they aren’t is in the plane of the net itself. They’ll have drifted this direction and be making every effort not to cross the plane again.” He raised his voice. “Helm, once you’ve calculated our jump, I also want whatever rotation is necessary to turn us with our flanks facing the warships.”
“Captain, have you gone
insane
?” Castenello demanded, his eyes wide. “Running broadside tactics against ships that size will be suicide.”
“
If
they wanted our destruction,” Barrington said. “In this case, I don’t think they do. I think they’re hoping to take the
Hermes
intact. My guess is that the fleet commander is letting the spider ships probe for weaknesses or trying to come up with disabler codes.”
“And if you’re wrong?” Castenello shot back. “Let me remind the Captain that we’re thirty seconds behind what’s happening out there. They may very well have already engaged the
Hermes
.”
“Your concerns are noted, Commander,” Barrington said. “Helm?”
“Vector plotted and laid in,” the helmsman confirmed. He didn’t sound any happier than Castenello, Barrington noted, but he had nowhere near the rank necessary to object. “Yaw turn programmed.”
“Commander Filho?”
“Lasers, Pluto cones, and missiles ready,” the weapons officer confirmed.
And with that, there was nothing left but to do it. “Commander Garrett, bring us to full power:
mark
,” Barrington ordered. The
Dorian
had thirty-one seconds to bring its active sensors, laser capacitors, and ECM to power before the lightspeed-limited evidence of that activation propagated to the Troft warships. Ten more seconds after that, he decided, for the opposing captains to spot the Dominion warship and start turning their attention in this direction— “Make jump forty seconds from mark.” He looked at Castenello. “Return to your station, Commander.”
“Yes. Sir,” Castenello ground out. Spinning around, he stalked back across CoNCH.
“I hope this works, sir,” Garrett murmured. “If it doesn’t, I expect he’ll make it his goal in life to nail your hide to the hull.”
“If it doesn’t work, neither of us is likely to live to sit before an Asgard hearing,” Barrington pointed out. “Confirm readiness.”
“Capacitors eighty percent and flash-charging,” Garrett said, his voice back to its normal professional crispness. “ECM ready. Pluto cones armed and conditionally aimed; active sensors on line and tied into lasers and launchers.”
Barrington nodded. “Helm, as soon as we’ve delivered our first broadside, set course for a zero-zero with the
Hermes
and rotate to retrieval position. How fast can you recalibrate the drive?”
“The book says twelve minutes, Sir,” the helm said. “Commander Kusari thinks we can do it in ten.”
“Tell him he’s got nine,” Barrington said. The countdown timer hit zero—
In an almost-felt blink of an eye, the
Dorian
jumped into hyperspace, crossed the nine point three million kilometers, and slammed into the flicker net, bouncing out again into space-normal.
Right into a full-blaze firefight.
Barrington had used the half-minute time lag to his advantage. But that sort of information delay was a two-edged sword. Apparently, sometime in the past forty seconds the Troft warships had changed their mind about taking the
Hermes
and its crew intact.
And the courier ship was fighting for its life.
“Laser broadsides:
fire
,” Barrington snapped. There was the distant rumble of sequentially cascading capacitors as the lasers spat energy at the swarming spider ships. “Pluto cones:
fire
. Enemy damage?”
“Significant damage to Three and Four,” Garrett reported. “Five is moving to put the
Hermes
between itself and us.”
Though scrambling like a maniac to get out of the
Dorian
’s line of fire wasn’t stopping it from continuing its attack on the
Hermes
, Barrington
noted. “Missiles:
fire
,” he ordered. “Then signal the
Hermes
to prepare for pickup.” He shifted his attention to the two incoming warships—
Just as the entire ship shuddered beneath him.
Someone out there had scored a direct hit.
“Damage report!” Barrington snapped, his eyes flicking over the tactical display as he searched for the source of the attack. The three spider ships were disabled or out of firing position. The two Troft warships were still just barely in laser range, and there was no indication that either had fired a missile.
“Debris,” Garrett snapped back. “We were rammed—looks like there was a fourth spider ship.”
Barrington swore under his breath. With the limited sensor capabilities created by their distance and the net itself, there had always been the risk that they would miss something vital before they jumped in.
But to have come so close that the ship was effectively inside the
Dorian
’s point-defense system was something he could never have anticipated. “Get us to the
Hermes
,” he ordered. “And get the drive back on line.”
“That may be a problem, Sir,” Garrett warned tautly. “The epicenter of the collision was at Twenty-One Gamma.”
Barrington felt his breath catch in his throat. Starboard-aft, right over Reactor Two.
Where Commander Kusari was currently recalibrating the drive.
Twitching his eye, he tapped into the damage-control data stream.
It was worse than he’d expected. Fifteen men were down, though so far there were no deaths being reported. The impact had thrown Reactor Two into auto-scram, and it was in the process of running a self-check as it worked its way back up. Another three minutes, the computer estimated, and it would once again be at full power.
Under normal conditions, the
Dorian
could run perfectly well with only one operating reactor. Unfortunately, these were not normal conditions; and with a pair of Troft warships closing in on them, this was not a good time to be down to sixty percent of laser power.
They still had one ace in the hole. But just one, and it was risky, and Barrington had no intention of using it unless he absolutely had to. “Time to zero-zero?” he called.
“Three minutes twenty,” Garrett said. “Troft warships—”
There was a slight shudder as some of the
Dorian
’s outer hull boiled off. “—have reached laser range,” Garrett continued. “Hits on Four Epsilon and Eight Delta.”
“Full laser volley on Two,” Barrington ordered. “Follow with Pluto cones and missiles to both warships. ECM?”
“ECM reads active,” Garrett said. “We won’t know effectiveness until they start throwing missiles.”
And if the evidence from the Hoibie homeworld confrontation was any indication, the ECM would be only partially effective. “Status on drive recalibration?”
Garrett didn’t answer. “Commander?” Barrington demanded, turning to look at the other.
To find that his First Officer’s face had gone pale. “Sir, Commander Kusari is down,” he said, his voice under rigid control. “A ruptured hydraulic pipe. The pressure…both his legs, sir.”
Barrington cursed, tapping into the data stream and keying for sickbay. Dr. Lancaster ought to have at least a preliminary report on Kusari’s condition by now.
Only he didn’t. Because Kusari was apparently not in sickbay. Frowning, Barrington did a search.
And felt his mouth drop open. Kusari was still in Reactor Two, overseeing the recalibration.
Garrett must have caught that fact the same time Barrington did. “Sir, Commander Kusari—”