Freehold (27 page)

Almanda felt his eyes on her and enjoyed the sensation. Like all men, he wanted her, and for now that suited her purposes. But soon that would change. After all, she had succeeded where no one else could, and would soon be rewarded accordingly. Then she would decide the fate of the man on the bed, and her own fate as well, because she would be free! A thrill ran through her, as her electronic brain sent a tiny surge of power down the silver wires of her nervous system and out to her fingertips. Olin had promised: As soon as a qualified robotics engineer could be brought in, the inhibitors scattered through her programming would be removed. And she would be completely free! Like humans, only better ... maybe the only completely free robot in existence. And she would use that freedom. After all, unlike sentients, she was immortal, and given eternity, there was no limit to what could be accomplished. And she was perfect. So perfect, that only one person on Sector Headquarters knew that she was a robot—Chairman Olin, the man who had caused her creation and would soon grant her freedom. What if he died soon thereafter? she wondered to herself. If she could locate and destroy certain records, and remove certain people, no one would ever know that she was a robot. The thought pleased her, and brought a smile to her perfect lips,

Then the room's silence was shattered by the shriek of an emergency klaxon. Simultaneously, Malik's personal communicator began to beep loudly from the chair, where he'd left it with his clothes. He bounced out of bed, picked it up, and thumbed it on. He listened for a moment, swore, and threw the communicator across the room to crash into the mirror behind her. Her reflection shattered into a thousand pieces, and glass cascaded to the floor as he grabbed her arm and jerked her against him. “Are you sure that Stell's dead?” he demanded.

She forced herself to remain physically passive. “Yes, Peter. He has to be. As you know, I left him on the surface of Fabrica with only a few hours of oxygen left.”

Malik grinned viciously. “Oh, really? Then maybe you'd like to explain why there's a fleet just off-planet? Those idiots in central control say they're pirates—but you and I know that's bullshit ... we know it has got to be Stell! No one else would have the balls.” He shoved her away from him and she fell among the shards of broken glass. If he'd paid closer attention and hadn't been struggling to get into his uniform, he might have wondered why she wasn't cut, might've noticed the hatred in her eyes. But he was too busy slipping into his armor and strapping on his sidearm. He grabbed her communicator off the dresser and was shouting orders into it as he left the apartment. He'd make that stupid bastard Stell sorry he'd been born.

Stell watched the Bitch grow larger in the viewscreen. The name was appropriate, he decided, but not because of the planet herself. She was small and not much to look at: Large bodies of water, punctuated with a few brownish land masses, the whole thing overlaid with a smear of white clouds. An average-looking world originally; however, man had changed that. Now she was a fortress. With the exception of Earth, this was the most heavily defended planet he'd ever seen. For a second, doubt fluttered low in his stomach. Maybe he'd miscalculated, forgotten something, made any of a thousand other possible mistakes. He forced those thoughts down and under, into that secret place where doubts and fears are kept. They were committed. There was no time left for anything but action.

He took one last look at the plot tank. The eight tiny blue lights of his fleet looked absurd as they headed for the large yellow blob of a planet. They were like ants attacking an elephant. He smiled at the thought. If so, he was aboard the lead ant—once the pirate ship
Avenger,
now rechristened
Freehold Avenger
—with Captain Boyko in command. Her precious
Zulu,
along with the
Z
's sister ships, were on their way back to Freehold with skeleton crews aboard. With them was another captured pirate ship, a new DE, rechristened
Fighting Chance.
Which was exactly what she would provide, if the transports were jumped by pirates or the Il Ronn.

The decision to send the transports home had been a difficult one. They had been designed for the purpose of inserting the brigade into hostile situations, whereas the captured pirate craft hadn't. On the other hand, the pirate ships were better armed, and could therefore defend themselves. That would free Falco's interceptors to attack the enemy, instead of defending the fleet. Besides, there just weren't enough trained crew members to handle both the transports and the pirate ships, so there had been little choice. And finally, there was another reason, which he hadn't shared with anyone. This way Krowsnowski would still have the transports and the DE with which to defend Freehold, should the brigade be wiped out. For a moment, he thought of Olivia. The ships weren't much ... but they would help.

He forced his attention back to the tank, reviewed the plan one last time. He had the
Freehold Avenger,
two destroyers, a captured DE, and a transport, all courtesy of the pirates. The ex-pirate ships would provide his main firepower and an effective disguise. Nars was right about one thing: If they could prove that Freehold had attacked Intersystems Headquarters, the Imperial Navy would have to respond. So the problem was how to attack Intersystems Headquarters while making it seem as if someone else had done it. There were only two possible scapegoats—the Il Ronn and the pirates. Of the two, the pirates obviously made more sense. First, because they already had a supply of pirate ships, and second, because they'd have a helluva hard time trying to look like Il Ronnian troopers. On top of that, the Bitch was a juicy target. Imperial authorities would find the idea of a pirate attack on the planet believable, and might even decide it was time to slap the pirates on the wrist, which would be an additional benefit. And for those who knew what had actually been going on, it would appear to be a falling out among thieves, with the pirates punishing Intersystems for not keeping its part of the bargain. So, as they approached the Bitch they were doing their best to act the part of pirates, using typical pirate formations, radio frequencies and so forth.

Meanwhile, the transports would be their alibi. He imagined himself back on Freehold talking with an Imperial Officer. “Oh no, sir. As all your records will show, the brigade only has three old transports, and as you can see, they're all in orbit around Freehold. Of course there is that DE we captured from the pirates, but surely you aren't suggesting we attacked Intersystems with that?” He smiled at the thought. To make the story work, they'd have to get rid of the other pirate ships, presuming, of course, that they survived the coming battle. Naturally, Intersystems would know the truth ... but could they prove it? After all, he knew Intersystems was trying to steal Freehold, but as Nars pointed out, knowing and proving, were two different things.

So their feet consisted of the pirate ships, Falco's
Nest,
which had been physically and electronically disguised, and the two old hulks with which they had originally suckered Drago. It totalled up to an eight-ship fleet. Which is about to become a six-ship fleet, he thought to himself as he turned to Boyko. She looked tense. He smiled, and she automatically did the same.

“All ships are in position and ready to attack, sir.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Stell replied. He took one last look at the plot tank. Now little red dots were detaching themselves from the planet's surface and swarming up toward space. They had launched their interceptors. Good, he thought. Maybe we can even the odds a bit. He forced himself to wait. Boyko began to frown. The minutes slowly ticked by until the lead interceptors were just about to enter the orbiting mine field. Once in it, their computers would guide them up through a complicated maze, allowing them to emerge safely over it. Then they would attack. It was time for phase one. Stell looked up, and said, “Send in the fireships.”

They weren't true fireships, like those used in ancient sea battles. In those days, older ships had sometimes been set afire and either sailed, or been allowed to drift, into the tightly packed ranks of enemy ships anchored in some harbor. If conditions were right, the fire quickly spread to the moored ships and destroyed them. Military history had been one of Stell's favorite subjects at the Academy. Now he was about to apply the same basic tactic to a different situation.

He watched the plot tank, as two of his blue dots detached themselves from formation and started down to the planet below. The old hulks had begun their final voyages. Soon one angled off and disappeared around the far side of the planet, while the second went almost straight down. Both had been evacuated and left under the control of their on-board computers, which now faithfully executed the suicidal orders they'd been given.

Stell held his breath as one ship, which was still visible, neared the orbiting band of mines. This was the most critical part of his plan. If it failed, the chances of the rest succeeding were just about zero. His fingers were white where they gripped the armrests of his chair. As the hulk approached the mines, he said under his breath, “Closer ... closer ... almost ... okay ... now!” A second later, there was an incandescent flash and the ship ceased to exist. The hulk's main drives had blown right on time, vaporizing the ship and the surrounding mines. Sensing the resulting heat, other mines not involved in the initial explosion triggered themselves and, because they'd been placed too close together, set off still more mines, creating a rolling wave of flame. Stell was amazed. It was much better than anything he'd dared hope for.

Meanwhile, just as Stell had planned, some of the Intersystems interceptors were deep in the mine field and winding their way carefully through it. As the fireships triggered the mines, the pilots saw what was happening, but they were helpless, unable to maneuver within their narrow paths of safety. If they took control from their computers, they knew they would almost certainly make a mistake and trigger a mine with the heat of their own drives. Yet, if they didn't, the firestorm might roll over them. It had become a race in which the pilots were nothing more than spectators, helpless to effect the outcome, but with everything at stake. Which would happen first? Would they emerge from the mine field before the storm of exploding metal and flame reached them? Or would they lose and be consumed by heat and flame? The seconds crawled by, until suddenly the winners burst out of the mine field, and were just starting to sigh with relief, when their headsets were filled with the screams of those who'd lost.

The poor bastards, Stell thought to himself. It was a rotten way to die. He forced the thought aside, as he'd done a thousand times before, and turned to the next problem. The vast majority of the enemy interceptors hadn't entered the mine field when the chain reaction started, and had therefore survived. Now they were blasting upward, taking advantage of the huge holes in the mine field to build velocity, their pilots determined to avenge their dead comrades.

“We have confirmation on Fireship One, sir,” Boyko reported evenly. Her scouts now surrounded the planet and relayed back to the
Freehold Avenger
everything their sensors picked up. They were also dumping a variety of surveillance satellites into orbit. Pretty soon she'd know what color socks the officer of the day was wearing. Stell noticed Boyko's voice was rock steady. But the sheen of perspiration on her forehead suggested that she was just as worried as he. “Congratulations, sir,” she added. “It was a brilliant plan.”

Stell saw she meant it and smiled. “Congratulations yourself, Captain. It worked because you executed it perfectly.”

She smiled briefly. “And we were damned lucky.”

Stell nodded his agreement. “Now let's hope everything else goes as well. You may start phase two.”

Malik looked down into central control's main plot tank, and swore as he watched the mines explode in a rippling wave of white light. “God damn him to hell! The sonovabitch has got the front door open and he's coming in. We've got to stop him ... and I mean
now.
” He turned to his aide, Captain Foley. “Order our interceptors to take out those ships immediately. He hasn't launched any assault boats yet. Let's keep it that way.”

“Yes, sir,” Foley replied, relaying Malik's orders through her com-set. She'd already relayed the same orders a few minutes before ... but she knew better than to say anything. Just as she knew that it would be suicidal to point out that it had been Malik who'd insisted on adding more mines to the field, even though the engineers had advised against it. And she knew that nobody else would say anything, either. After Malik had assumed command, the more intelligent members of his staff had quickly learned to keep their advice to themselves, and to ignore the growing list of his questionable decisions. She sighed. It was going to be a very long day.

Falco danced his interceptor on its repellors. Around him the other members of his wing did likewise, the sound of their engines filling
Nest
's landing bays with a roar of sound. “Initiating phase two,” he acknowledged on the command channel. He chinned over to the wing frequency. “Okay, folks—this is where we earn our pay. Let's give ’em hell, but by the numbers; I want everybody back.”

“Even Carla?” somebody asked.

“Especially Carla,” a male voice answered. “Yum, yum.”

“Dream on, bozo,” Carla replied, “because that's as close as you'll ever get!”

Falco was grinning as he chinned the mic on. “All right, save it for the other side. Maybe you can bullshit ’em to death. Form on your section leaders and let's go.”

With his left hand, he tapped more power into his repellors, while his right hand pushed the stick forward and the nose down. Seconds later, and just yards from the open hatch, he hit his thrusters, pulled the nose up, and blasted out into the darkness. The rest of the wing followed, five interceptors at a time, until all were committed. There would be no reserve. Each section had its orders, and they curved off in different directions, heading for whatever assignment they'd been given. Falco, plus four sections, dove down to meet the rising interceptors. The Bitch hung like a huge brown ball, its surface marbled with white clouds, an enormous backdrop against which the battle would be fought. Scanning his instruments, Falco noted that where sections of the mine field had been blown, a curtain of drifting shrapnel had been left in its place. The curtain had huge holes in it, but hitting the drifting metal instead of a hole would tear an interceptor into very small pieces.