Hell or Highwater (Hell's Jesters, #5), page 26
Another pair of Valkyries was diving in for the carrier from y-plus twenty to port. Kelly’s shuddering maneuver would bring her sling-shotting around on their flanks just as they strafed. The Sacramento was already throwing everything but the kitchen sink at them and she experience a shriveling moment of panic that—even with her transponder—the old girl’s wild fire wouldn’t distinguish between friend and foe.
No help for it...
Her skid ended with her slashing across the tail of the trailing Valkyrie. Shit! She’d overshot the angle and wobbled just off its left flank, still flailing to get guns on the pair as they ripped by. Slamming power into the thrusters, she drove the juddering machine after them with enough force to bring the gray in her eyes dangerously close to black.
Targeting alarms squalled as the particle beam halo settled upon the second Valkyrie. With more reflex than thought, Kelly pulled the trigger, sent azure hell coursing into the Alliance fighter. Shields flared. The delta-shape of the ship suddenly jerked, then flashed backwards, hurtling past Kelly to starboard as it hit braking fields and let her shoot by.
The first Valkyrie was still plunging for the Sacramento. Putting the second one from her mind, even as the first of its particle beams began clawing past her, she nudged the targeting halo over the leader and fired. Azure and cyan whipped out, pasting its aft shields. But a phosphorescent glimmer about the fighter gave it a shiver and then it was pulling out of its run—
—leaving a full, four-scatter-pack spread of missiles fountaining towards the old strike carrier.
Kelly let the Valkyrie go, grinding teeth till sparkles of pain fluttered through her jaw, hosing the quad-blaster across the rapidly receding missiles trails. She got two, three. The Sacramento’s own defenses feasting upon more, filling the heavens with the deadly snowstorm pattern of antimatter immolation.
But alarms blatting their warning. To aft, the Valkyrie pursuing her unleashed as its peer had, with every scatter-pack emptying. Oh, my God. She had a moment to realize she was dead as two dozen missiles filled her scopes—then another moment to realize she wasn’t.
Because every one of those missiles shot by her on their way for the Sacramento.
Jesus. She walked her quad-blaster fire frantically across the passing salvo, Marauder shuddering as energy bolts burst missiles at near-suicidally close ranges. Riding through the brief storms, she lashed out after the rest, rapidly leaving her behind.
Jesus...Jesus...
The strike carrier’s defenses had cleared the last of the first volley. But the second was coming in so close behind the first, Kelly could almost feel the panic of the gun crews in the frenzy of their fire. She sawed her plasma fire after the missiles, desperate to help, finger numbing as it crushed the trigger, flesh gluing to the insides of her gloves, perspiration sizzling down the sides of her face, into her eyes.
The first missile hit, splashed across the shields harmlessly.
Four more hit, almost at once.
Antimatter fire doused across Kelly’s viewscreen. Only instinct saved her from becoming an even deadlier missile, slamming into the carrier’s flank. She climbed, knew should couldn’t clear the terrible globe of white flame. The Marauder’s shields glared. The viewscreen blanked for a second to save her eyes. She felt the whole machine slam from beneath and wobble.
Then she had control again and stars were miraculously opening up before her.
She was alive.
But she could take no relief from it.
To aft, the Sacramento was burning.
“HIT!” ARRIAN SQUAWKED from behind the tactical station. “My god...the Sacramento is hit, sir!”
“I can see that, Commander,” Greer growled.
And it was horrid, no doubt. As Greer watched the hologram, a second explosion, bigger than the first, billowed out of the old strike carrier’s upper, ventral decks. Munitions explosion, he thought critically, willing his mind to remain unemotional, simply gauge cause and effect before him. At least one of the launch gantries wrecked now.
“What about the rest?” Greer demanded, turning his attention back to the raging melee all around the fleet. “What’s happening?”
Arrian paused, probably to collect himself. “Alliance starfighter strikes falling off, sir. Spotters think they have taken extreme losses.”
“How about ours?”
“Still collecting data, sir,” the younger man replied. “Other than the Sacramento, the Hermes has suffered engine damage—”
That was one of the heavy cruisers. Damn.
“—the Spearpoint is fighting to control fires, we’ve definitely lost the Dart and the—”
Greer nodded as Arrian read the butcher’s bill off globulars hovering about the tactical station, cataloging the losses, trying not to think of ships’ names as thousands of lives. He watched the tactical, watched as Harrison’s surviving starfighters receded like the tides. It had been nearly an hour of the frantic attacks, now—the last ten minutes of it continuous and intense—in multiple waves, each of these breaking up on their defenses, but circling back over and over again.
He couldn’t help a grimace. The courage was undeniable; the slaughter immense.
And the Alliance had hurt him. But not enough.
Watching the Valkyries fall back behind Harrison’s slowly, steadily approaching juggernaut, it was clear to Greer what old Nehemiah was attempting. As the rest of his fleet coasted down the gravity well and the Union’s sensors continued to get a read on them, Harrison’s heavy divisions became obvious, drawing ahead of the rest with the carriers trailing and beginning to take on survivors, while others launched fresh groups.
He wants us to bum rush after the crippled fighter groups, Greer thought, either to trick us into bleeding our own off in similar attacks, or to lure our battle line into a big gun duel, then spring his fresh fighters on us in the middle of it. But his first and second waves hadn’t really diminished Greer’s hitting power that much, not enough to keep at a plan like that. And this doesn’t feel right. Harrison’s a shit, but he was never that cold-blooded, to just throw flight crews away that brazenly. This reminded him more of that maniac Geiger, back in the bad old days.
“Was DESRON-1 spotted during this last wave?” Greer interrupted Arrian’s grim recitation.
A tense pause. “It doesn’t appear so, sir. By all accounts, not a single Valkyrie made a play in their direction, and they refrained from engaging, as per your instructions.”
Greer allowed himself a grin. “Then we’ve still got our trump card.”
“Yes sir.”
“Admiral!” the communications tech called. “Signal coming in from the Sacramento!”
“Put it up on the main!”
A globular shivered to life before the tactical hologram, pixelated, and then steadied into an image of Avery, wreathed in smoke while the bridge of the strike carrier smoldered behind him, but still grinning combatively.
“Looks like a rough ride, there, Avery.”
The other man chortled. “I’ve had easier days. I need a ride for Slasher and Hammer Squadrons. We’re going to have to suspend flight operations till we get the fire in the Number Two Bay under control.”
Greer glanced at Arrian. “Get someone on that.”
“We’ve got engine damage, too,” Avery went on. “Propulsion’s at maybe thirty percent. And shields are about shot.”
“Sounds like you should be transferring you flag to the Solomon, Admiral.”
“As soon as we get the Sac out of trouble.”
“I’m going to need your cruisers for this next part, Avery.” Greer smiled at the hologram, but anyone who knew him knew it wasn’t the friendly sort. “I’m going to need you back to work.”
Avery glowered back through the hologram. “Aye sir.”
“The old girl will be all right, Admiral. She’s been through a lot. Contact me when you’ve made transfer. Greer, out.” He turned fully to the communication station. “Signal to all starfighter wings: ‘do not pursue. Reestablish near space combat patrols. All available fighters recalled for rearmament.”
“That could take forty minutes, sir,” Arrian said in surprise.
“Does it look like Harrison’s in some kind of a hurry, Commander?” Greer snapped, suddenly tired, irritable. He tried not to notice the kid’s reddened face, or the scowl from Kelin over her shoulder at the treatment of what was really her subordinate. But tough; it wasn’t their responsibility. “It’s obvious he wants us to follow,” Greer said and pointed at the tactical, “right into those battlecruiser guns. But we’re not going to oblige. If he wants us, he’s going to have to come down here and dig us out.
“All ships hold position.”
THE HOVERLIMO’S HEAVY antigravity motors engaged soon after it had left the railhead station behind, confirming Jerry’s suspicion that it was actually a disguised aircraft as the vehicle left the road, and the ground soon thereafter. The steady whir of its drives carried them up into a driving snowstorm and soon any sense of civilization was swallowed in its whirling wake.
The journey passed in tense silence, Josie seated across from Jerry and her eyes on Renfield. Tina sat opposite the spook, but she lounged back in her seat, legs stretched out and coat unbuttoned with blastpistol obviously displayed. He didn’t seem to notice, seemed settled and comfortable with the station left well behind, staring out into the gray-white of the blizzard.
What couldn’t have been a half hour ended with a crackle from the comm built into the armrest beside Renfield. He touched the actuator crystal, sounded vaguely annoyed as he asked, “Yes?”
“We’re passing the outer markers,” a distorted voice said. “Control says we’re alone; no sign of a tail.”
“That’s good,” Renfield replied in mock-relief. “Then we won’t be blown out of the sky. Something’s gone right, at least.”
“Yes, Mister Renfield. We’ll be landing in three.”
“Great.”
“Blown out of the sky?” Josie asked.
“As I believe I told you before, my benefactor values his privacy,” Renfield said. “That includes a personal security force, hardened shelter, and anti-orbital protection.”
“Glad we’re all keeping this nice and relaxed,” Tina quipped.
Jerry felt his stomach drop out a bit as the limo began to descend, snow lashing by outside its narrow windows, darkness deepening. But he could make out lights clustered below, amidst darkened crags that their approach revealed as the face of a mountain. The hovercraft wobbled, buffeted by crosscurrents as it drew closer to what was becoming apparent as a large complex of dark slate battlements and high turrets. Paler, yellowy light gleamed from the upper windows of the latter, gave Jerry the sense of something older and ancient.
The hoverlimo dipped low into the mountain fastness’ courtyard and settled upon an antigrav cushion before clanking fully to the pavement. Shadows flitted forth through the snow to open the doors on either side. Wind blasted in and Jerry and the others emerged cringing into cutting vortices of ice. A glance at their greeters showed him black-coated men who rarely met his gaze, but all wore earpieces and were clearly following directions from them.
Renfield led the way striding across the courtyard to a massive double-doored entrance that opened as they drew near, spilling warm light and the faint echo of music into the snowy night. Passing through, those doors boomed shut at their backs, left them standing and stamping for warmth in a grand, columned entry hall. More shadowy servant-figures fluttered about the corners, here. A smell of spiced meat wafted through a side door, along with the faint titter of voices. The music Jerry had noticed before—a pipe organ, if he didn’t miss his guess, belting out something bombastically ominous—bloomed out from an exit on the far side, beyond a grand stair case leading to a second tier.
Jerry started that way instinctively.
“No,” Renfield said, putting a hand on his arm and grinning. “That way is for entertaining—not that much of that occurs, in these days.” He nodded to a door, whisking open from one the face of one of the columns to their right—what was obvious now as a lift chute. “This way for business.”
He led the way again, to the lift. Crowding in, the four made what Jerry was sure would be an almost comical sight. Renfield touched the control and the door hissed shut. An instant later, they thrummed upward and Jerry had the sense that they must be riding up the heart of one of the towers he’d seen.
“Listen to what my master says,” Renfield said in a near-reverent tone. “Try not to ask questions unless bidden to do so. He doesn’t accept many guests, anymore, and it’s likely you will find him somewhat eccentric.”
The lift car reached its destination with a gentle thump and the door slid back, revealed a short hall, dimly-lit by what looked like gas lamps. A door at the end hung open, beckoning into another room and lit from within by the flutter of a fire.
“This is as far as I go,” Renfield said and gestured them out. “But rest assured, you will be monitored and I can have people in there in a moment’s time.”
Jerry looked back at the man as he stepped into the hall. He didn’t look back. And when Tina and Josie had stepped free, he closed the lift and was gone.
“On our own,” Josie muttered.
“They didn’t take our weapons,” Tina said with surprise and peered down the hall. “Apparently, the ‘master’ isn’t worried about a double-cross.”
“Maybe,” Jerry said, starting down the hall, “we go and find out more about who this master is.”
“And what he can do for us,” Josie added, “so we can get the hell out of here.”
The doorway admitted them into a large study. A bookshelf lined the wall to their left, extended along the wall opposite the entrance until it reached a bay window. The beams of a hovervehicle flashed against this momentarily, caught snow in a wild, star-pattern. Rugs of thick, white fur covered gleaming oaken floors and marble busts of stern-faced men and women glared from atop pedestals interspersed through the room. Shadows draped everything, gradually winning their war against the only light in the room, shivering flames crackling in a fireplace on the far side of the chamber.
“Come,” a rasping voice ordered.
The door clacked shut at their back, startling even Tina, whose hand darted momentarily to the blaster holstered inside her coat.
“You’ll have no need for that,” the voice went on. “Come.” From around a chair with its back to them, situated before the fire, a pale crook of hand extended and gestured. “Please, come. Join me.”
Jerry and the others exchanged glances in the utter silence. Josie looked stiff with fright. Tina looked ready to blast her way out. He had to chuckle. They all looked ridiculous. “Sure,” he muttered. “Why not?”
A few long strides brought him over to the fire and its warmth. A pair of couches flanked the high-backed, antique chair and Jerry had to step around one of these from the left. This brought him into view of the occupant. And he’d be lying if he said it didn’t take effort not to react at what sat there.
The man—he was pretty sure it was still a man—had nearly sunken into the cushions, a frail wisp of flesh and bone in an outmoded black suit. Liver-spotted hands slid up onto armrests to support him, spidery fingers fluttering as they gripped and adjusted. Overlong fingernails weren’t quite claws. A grimace that might be a smile displayed crooked, stained shards of teeth. Jerry couldn’t help the sensation of a rat’s titter, echoing along his nerves.
“I’m told I sometimes have an effect on people,” the man hissed and the words ended in a horrid chortle. “It’s good to have it confirmed.”
“I...” Jerry stumbled over his own words. The eyes, staring out from a hairless, white face of shrunken angles—they had no color, were voids of glassy nothingness. “I’m...”
“You are Jerry Rodann.” He glanced at the other two as they stepped around him from the other side. “Tina Rodann, his daughter. Josie Wheeler, his” he let out another nerve-grating titter “friend.”
Josie winced uncertainly.
“And I am Anton,” the creature said, placing a decrepit hand upon his black-sheathed chest. “I am the one who summoned you, all this way.” He giggled once more and it sent a hideous ripple across his rat-like features that ended with a twitch of his oversized ears. “Please, sit.”
They did so hesitantly. The couch sagged under Jerry’s weight as he settled. He wondered how long it’d been since any of the furniture in the chamber had tolerated the weight of anyone but this Anton.
“Now, tell me.” The creature began. “How is my old friend, Carson Greer?”
Tina flicked a glance at Jerry before replying, “Probably fighting for his life, right now, at this moment.”
“Fighting, yes,” Anton sighed. “Always fighting. I told him he should stay, should wait this thing out. He only made it worse. No patience. The young ones never have patience.”
Jerry frowned, trying to imagine the worn-down Admiral as “young”. Perhaps compared to the wormy being before him. “Wait what thing out?”
“Politics,” Anton replied bitterly, “civil strife, civil war. I told him to let the High Council—Alexi Noovin—have their games, let the worlds simmer and stew and suffer. It would all pass. But he had his outrage. And he listened to that schemer, Levine, that overgrown snake-oil salesman. So, he got his rebellion.” A headshake. “So much waste. So much time lost. Now, I may have to wait another age.”
“You are with the Chiaroscuro?’ Tina asked.
Anton favored her with a look that made Jerry’s skin writhe. “My dear, I am the Chiaroscuro.” Those depthless eyes turned to the fire, barely reflecting it, almost seeming to devour its light. “I am the plan within the plan, the worm in the apple, if you will.”
