The Lazarus Particle (37 page)

By then, other ships on both sides had positioned themselves to join the fray. The Irregulars churned out a steady stream of fire with their railguns while Tyroshi plasma burst in spectacular blooms of yellow and white. So far the Irregulars were holding their own, the largest and most well armed ships providing cover for the smaller, faster vessels to jump out and rendezvous at the next waypoint. Yet it was only a matter of time before the superior size of the joint enemy fleet overwhelmed even the larger vessels’ ability to withstand such punishment.

“Come on, people, we’ve got to push it,” Dell said, even though he knew full well they were already red-lining their engines.

“We’re going to have a bit of a problem with that,”
Ohana announced.
“Sensors show multiple contacts launching from the enemy fleet. I’m betting it’s at least a couple squadrons coming to tie us up so they can keep pounding on the big boys.”

“How long till they can fix firing solutions?”

“Two minutes, tops.”

“And us without any god damn ammo!”
Gold Five barked, a note of obvious fear creeping into his voice.

Dell knew he had to get his people ready and do it quick. Things were about to get hairier than any of them had likely experienced. “Alright, let’s keep it together, people. We don’t have ammo but they don’t know that. There’s a good chance they also don’t know we have their engine tech, so let’s use both of those to our advantage as much as possible. Remember, they’ve never seen the likes of us before. Use that, too. Get them scared, get them riled, then get to
Liberator
as fast as you can. Combat landings authorized.”

“One minute.”

“Break ranks on my mark. Pursue your aggressor for one pass as if you’re engaging, then do whatever you have to do to give yourself the space to break off and retreat.”
 

“Thirty seconds.”

“Here we go, people. Gold Wing leads the way.”

“Gold Wing leads the way!”

“Ten seconds. Five, four, three, two…

“Break now!”

Even breaking when they did, the first pass took a brutal toll on Gold Wing. Their fellow wingmen could only listen as four of their own frantically tried and failed to outrun their pursuers. Any hope of cowing the enemy with their fancy new tech was lost as the surviving members of Gold Wing quickly abandoned the gambit for a breakneck retreat toward the protective fire shield of
Liberator’s
railguns.

“Chaff!” Dell ordered. “Everyone deploy your chaff packages now, now, now!”

The chaff burst behind them just as the enemy squadron loosed a coordinated barrage of guided missiles, most of which detonated upon coming into contact with the countermeasures. Two were far enough apart to skirt the edges of the cloud on either side, however, vectoring in and claiming two more of the retreating Gold Wing.

“Fuck!”

“They’re chewing us up!”

“We’re never going to make it!”

“Contact,”
Ohana practically sang as Dell’s board lit up with more than two dozen bright green pips rapidly approaching them.
“They’re friendlies!”

She’d barely finished announcing their presence when Red Wing’s first volley of fire went sailing overhead, followed in rapid succession by the Reds themselves. They were flying the older model fighters the Banshees were intended to replace, but at this point anything boasting live ammunition was a welcome sight in Dell’s eyes.

“Red Wing brings the heat!”
Red Leader announced through the public channel as they engaged the enemy squadron with guns blazing.
“Get on out of here, Gold Wing, we’ve got your backs!”

“You heard the woman,” Dell told his wing. “Move it!”

Dell gritted his teeth as his Banshee bounced and skidded across
Liberator’s
main deck. They had yet to practice combat landings in the new birds. They were all learning on the fly, so to speak. Still, Dell managed to keep control and bring his to a reasonably clean stop shortly before the far bulkhead. Ohana was next, her landing even cleaner owing to her experience with the familiar systems.
 

Dell and Ohana came together almost magnetically. They embraced each other tightly as the rest of Gold Wing piled out of their Banshees. Some were dejected, some stoic, others outright angry. More than one helmet was cast violently to the deck below as the weight of their losses landed with them.

“That was a mess,” Ohana whispered into the basin of his neck.

“Yeah,” was all he managed by way of response.

She pulled back, putting only the slightest distance between them. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

She didn’t have to elaborate. Dell just nodded. He was about to say something of his own, though he had no idea what when a fresh commotion erupted behind them.

“What the hell?”

“Why are they closing the doors?”

“Hey! Hey! Red Wing is still out there! Give them a minute!”

“We don’t have a minute! The ship is taking too much damage!”

Marching over to the scene, Dell and Ohana shouldered their way to the fore of the operator’s station. “Open those doors immediately!” Dell demanded.

“We can’t do that, Wingman,” the deck foreman manning the controls answered. “Orders. We’re to jump immediately upon closing the doors.”

“You’re just going to abandon them?!” Ohana barked. “They’re out there dying for you people!”

“And we’re all going to die if we don’t jump as soon as possible. I have my orders.”

“To hell with your orders! Open those doors right now!”

“You need to stand down, DeCoud.”

“Where’s Commander Harm?” Dell was about to go find the man himself when a dozen fully armed soldiers strode in and took up position before the exit, Torrey and Breed among them.

“You’re not going anywhere, DeCoud,” their sergeant announced. “None of you are.”

The closing of the bay doors echoed loudly behind them, sealing Red Wing’s fate.

Dell could hardly believe his ears. The events of the last fifteen minutes were truly unfathomable. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Commandant Soroya’s orders, Dell,” Torrey said. “The entire fleet is locked down until we find out how the enemy discovered our location.”

“Now, are we going to have a problem here?” the sergeant asked.

“No,” Dell said after a tense moment. “No, we’re not.”

A moment later,
Liberator
and every last ship in the Irregulars’ fleet jumped away, leaving the heroes of Red Wing stranded in their wake.

PART IV

37 • BUTCHER’S BILL

“How many did we lose?”

“Thirty pilots, including all of Red Wing. We’re still accounting for everyone who was in the vicinity of the breach, but so far we have at least fifty still missing. I think by now we have to assume most if not all of them are gone. Throw in a handful here and there who were in the wrong place at the wrong time and we’re looking at a hundred-plus. And that’s just us. The other ships are only just reporting in. Most got away clean before the battle started. The reports from the ones that stayed behind to clear their retreat will almost surely be nearly as high.”

Fenton—Major Wilkes—barely heard the report as it was delivered by Corliss. He wasn’t even listening. Not out of disinterest, but of the whole mixed bag of emotions presently burdening all of them. Anger. Fear. Guilt.

Something had gone terribly wrong and they had paid dearly for it.

Marta had paid for it.

He still didn’t know her last name. Probably he’d been told when they met the day before but had already forgotten. He’d always been better with faces than names. She was newly arrived, a science officer from one of the other Irregulars’ vessels who displayed all the necessary qualifications to help run his laboratory facilities aboard
Liberator
. They were only temporary, of course, but there was still so much to be done and he couldn’t wait until permanent facilities became available. So, he had prevailed upon Commandant Soroya the necessity of gathering a competent and capable lab staff. Marta's name rose straight to the top.

She was in the temporary facilities when the attack began, right at the heart of the breach. There was nothing left of her, the facilities, of several levels of decking in all directions—nothing.

“Major?”

Fenton stirred at the voicing of his rank. Distantly, he registered only a slight annoyance at that. He was getting used to being called Major. “Yes? Sorry. I, ah, I must have… Sorry.”

“It is alright, Major,” Soroya reassured him. “I think it is fair to say we are all quite rattled after the day’s events.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Indeed. And at the risk of sounding callous, I must ask, do you have any idea how the loss of your facilities might impact your research?”

He was too numb to be offended by the question. He wasn’t used to thinking the way these people, these officers, did. He wasn’t used to accepting loss of life of any kind as a responsibility for his actions, even if his actions were as benign as to ask his new laboratory assistant to finish setting up the last of the equipment while he went to grab them a couple of sandwiches from the galley. Ten minutes later, he had the sandwiches and she was being sucked out into space, the victim of a cruel cosmic joke. “No. The impact should be negligible, though. We were just barely up and running.”

“Very well. We shall see what we can do about getting you more space and people.”

“Thank you.”

The door to the officers’ conference room swished open, revealing Dell, Ohana, Torrey, and Breed. The sight of the first two was enough to return a bit of feeling to Fenton. He was quite fond of them both. He might have jumped out of his chair to greet them if they didn’t look like they were about to do something very stupid.

Commander Harm stepped in front of them. “Easy, son.” Apparently he had interpreted the same intent.

“You left them to die out there,” Dell said. He glared daggers at Commandant Soroya. “They only needed a few more minutes.”

Soroya stood. She smoothed her robes as she moved to meet Dell halfway. “Step aside, Commander,” she ordered her husband. Reluctantly, he complied. Standing before Dell, she met his smoldering gaze levelly. “Minutes we did not have, Wingman First Class. I am truly sorry for the loss of your comrades, but the fact remains they understood the risk and volunteered nonetheless. We advised them against it, but Wing Commander Estes was firm on the matter. ‘They would do it for us,’ she said. To a person, her wing agreed. They were willing, and they were prepared. Not more than a minute after they launched we suffered a critical breach. There was no way to call them back in time. We barely had time for you.”

Dell sagged visibly at the news. Abandoning any pretense that may have still existed, Ohana wrapped one arm around the small of his back and another just below his chest, helping to steady him. He leaned into her. There was nothing left to say.

“If there’s nothing else, Commandant Soroya?” Ohana asked.

“There is not. Go. Honor those we have lost today.”

Together, they started to leave.

“Dell?”

Dell forced a smile at the sight of his friend. “Fenton, hey,” he said numbly. “Sorry, sir. Didn’t see you there.”

“It’s alright.” He didn’t even bother to remind Dell not to call him sir. “Have you seen your sister yet? She's been worried sick about you.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Last I heard she was lending a hand in engineering.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

Dell exited under the power of Ohana’s guiding embrace, clearly operating on autopilot. Fenton was glad he had someone to look after him, make sure he didn’t break down in the wake of the loss of so many of his brothers and sisters.

“Corporals Torrance, Breed,” Soroya said. “Report.” The cold, calculated cut of her voice reminded him there was still so much more to be discussed.

Breed laid out a handful of diamond-sized tracking beacons. It wasn’t exactly Fenton’s field of expertise, but he recognized them for what they were more or less on sight. “Found in the supplies acquired via trade with Ptsvy and Kalifka Bazaar, ma’am.”

“There may be others,” Torrey added. “We took on a lot of supplies. We’re searching all the electronics and weapons first, then moving them out. Afterward, we’ll sweep the hangars with low-grade EMPs to neutralize any other potential tracking devices. Still, the fact we haven’t been hit again suggests we’re probably safe.”

“I do not like the sound of ‘probably.’”

“Understood, ma’am. We simply can’t be sure until we’ve searched each and every crate. It could take days.”

“Do you think we can safely remove the fleet from lockdown status?”

“I think so. This is obviously Ptsvy’s doing. We have to assume he must be working with the Tyroshi or Morgenthau-Hale, but once we neutralize his beacons, they’ll have no use for him.”

“Well if that isn’t incentive to work quickly, then I don’t know what is,” Commander Harm said.

“Agreed. See to it at once, Corporals. Dismissed.”

The funerals began the next day. Most were simple, somber affairs, short and sparsely attended by the deceased’s section chiefs and any friends or lovers who wished to send them off with a few kind words and remembrances.

The pilots honored their dead together.

Thirty flags—six gold, two dozen red—hung from the second level railings and the near side of the central catwalk linking the walkways. The six gold flags hung from the central catwalk, flanked on either side by twelve of their red cousins. Beneath them, wreathed in the brilliant colors and larger than life seals of Gold Wing and Red Wing, the 66 remaining pilots of
Liberator
stood at attention in their dress uniforms. Up top, the space around the second-level railing and central catwalk was lined three-deep with deck crew. Many still wore their sooty, grease-stained coveralls. Every man and woman present wore a black armband above the left elbow demonstrating their solidarity.

Fenton sat atop the makeshift dais along with Commandant Soroya and Commander Harm. When the service began, Dell stepped forward from among the ranks of the gathered pilots. He passed Fenton without a word or nod of acknowledgement, headed straight for the small podium at the center of the stage.