Victory Conditions (45 page)

More and more volume of space filled with deadly debris: the remains of blown and damaged ships and platforms, weapons that had missed their targets. Ky’s scan showed expanding and overlapping red zones, where only the most powerful of shields might allow a ship to go.

Still…they were gaining. She had no accurate count of Turek’s fleet now, but she felt a lessening of the pressure, a softening of the attacks, as more and more of his ships simply vanished. But even the heavy cruisers were down to less than 50 percent of their munitions load. Her own people must feel as worn as she felt.

Then the Moscoe fleet—small but fresh, and all supplied with the latest ansible improvements—jumped in just as a contingent of Mackensee ships came in on the far side of the primary.

“Admiral Vatta, this is Admiral Pollack, Moscoe Defense—sorry we were delayed—what are your orders?”

“Glad you’re here,” Ky said. Her pulse quickened; she felt a burst of renewed energy. Her mind raced, putting together the current situation with the new assets, new possibilities.

“Admiral, the Mackensee commander wants to speak with you—”

“I’ll squirt you the current integrated situation report,” Ky said to Pollack. She signaled her senior communications tech, who nodded. “I’m patching into the Mackensee commander so you’ll both get this. Please switch to channel forty-three.” All that time spent making contingency plans was about to pay off.

“Mackensee’s here? Oh—yes—” Admiral Pollack must have taken a look at the situation squirt.

Ky welcomed the Mackensee commander, Colonel Baxter, then Pollack came in on the same channel.

“You need to jump in to a one-hour lag,” she told Colonel Baxter. “We can feed you real-time data there, through ansible. How many of your ships are ansible-supplied?”

“About ten,” he said. Mackensee had sent fifty, far more than she’d expected.

“Excellent. Half your ships above the ecliptic, half below: you’re the cat by the mouse hole escaping mice want to reach. They need to see you and panic.”

“And our ships?” Pollack asked.

“
Bloodblade
is Turek’s ship. Built on Moray, new, only hit once that we know of, and we can’t tell how much if any damage. It’s still maneuverable. Go after that. His escort ships include another Moray-built heavy cruiser and several Bissonet-built. You should also know we have someone on their channel giving them false reports and orders.”

“A spy?”

“Sort of,” Ky said. “When Turek’s people notice you, I expect more will flee. Some may be decoys. Pursue at will, but if they jump they might be jumping back here, so don’t lose contact. His Bissonet and Moray ships—and maybe others—have that precision. However, we don’t want his fleet to escape and re-form.”

She was watching the holo simulator as she spoke, and already some of the Moray units seemed to be withdrawing, breaking off attacks to move away from the conflict zone as the Moscoe and Mackensee forces jumped in closer.

“They’re starting more general withdrawal,” Ky said to both. “Colonel Baxter, I’m switching you to channel forty-two; my comtech will be relaying any change in orders, but basically—go get ’em.”

Suddenly a burst of chatter came from the pirate channel, and the enemy ships all broke off and fled—jumping immediately if they could, wherever they were, or making abortive attempts. Scan showed the characteristic flutter of damaged FTL units or incomplete shield formation that would prevent uptransition.

Bloodblade
itself did not jump; its emissions flared, died, flared again. Turek had only three escorts left—two had fled—and Ky felt a surge of savage glee. He couldn’t run, and she had plenty of firepower to deal with three enemy ships, no matter how powerful. He was hers.

“He can wait,” she said. “Get all the other cripples. Let the bastard watch his so-called empire go up in flames. And by then, some of the mess in there will have cleared out. Then I want him myself.”

Vanguard II
stayed out of the chase; Moscoe Defense and Mackensee ships, the freshest, picked off the other ships in Turek’s force that could not make jump, while Ky stretched, closed her eyes for a few seconds. She told the CCC crew to take a break; most of them stood up, stretching.

“He’s broadcasting! And
Bloodblade
’s changed course!”

The CCC crew were back at their stations in an instant; Ky punched in for general ansible transmission and also enlarged the scan screen for Turek’s ship.

His maroon-and-black uniform was rumpled; his eyes red-rimmed; his left eyelid twitched. He stared at the video pickup for a long moment, then spoke.

“You think you’ve won, bitch. I know you’re watching, or you’ll see this later. I don’t care. You haven’t won. I won. Your family’s dead. And you haven’t saved Nexus and anyone you care about down there. You can’t stop me now!”

He was heading for Nexus II itself, and Ky had no doubt he was heading for its capital, for ISC’s headquarters. Three of Moray’s heavy cruisers, coming in like old-fashioned planetary weapons…they could vaporize the city and surrounding territory, just as an impact of that much mass at that velocity. They could do worse, if he sent off all his remaining munitions to collide with the planet. She had to blow him before he did—if he hadn’t already.

“Argelos—Pettygrew—” They had been with her from the first; they deserved a chance at the final kill, and she knew exactly how fast they could react. Turek expected this, she was sure, expected her to come dashing in, and had something planned. But she was all admiral now, not the rash Ky of her first encounters nor the uncertain Ky of the flight from defeat…she could outthink Turek. She had been doing that all along.

She gave her orders crisply, and in moments the ships she’d chosen appeared where she’d ordered. Ahead of
Bloodblade,
Argelos in
Sharra’s Gift II,
painting a swath with his stern beam that detonated the cloud of weapons and debris Turek had sent toward the planet, then jumping a quarter second to blast Turek’s escort. Pettygrew in
Bassoon,
much smaller than the others engaged, drew fire from Turek’s second escort, distracting it until the Moray-crewed
Bannockburn
poured enough ordnance into it, and it blew messily, debris impacting
Bloodblade
’s shields until they flared a little.

“Power’s iffy there,” the senior scan tech said.

“So I see,” Ky said. “Two down, one—” but the third escort accelerated away from
Bloodblade
and jumped abruptly, just escaping a fusillade from another of the Moray cruisers,
Mameluke.

“Now,” Ky said to her flag captain. “Now we attack. The rest of you, give us the first shot then join in.”

Vanguard II
launched its remaining missiles, then the beam stabbed out, first sparkling on
Bloodblade
’s shields, then flaring them. Ky punched in to transmit on Turek’s own channel, using visual at her end.

“You haven’t won,” she said. “You’re dead; I’m alive. Slotter Key is alive.
Vatta
is alive and we will remember you only as an unpleasant interlude in our long and very successful history.”

“You—” A burst of what must be profanity in his native language; the visual from him was blurry and flickering. Then it blanked.

“It’s blown! It’s gone! Turek’s gone!” came from several stations in the CCC. Cheers rang through
Vanguard II
’s CCC, and Ky knew they were being echoed throughout the ship, in other ships. She felt a visceral surge of glee, almost as powerful as when she had killed Osman. She had done it. She had avenged her family; she had saved many others.

Ky’s moment of jubilation faded over the next hours as exhaustion rolled back over her and the damage Turek had inflicted became clear. Ships had blown or taken damage; crew had died or suffered injury. The death toll on ansible platforms, on Nexus II’s ruined main orbital station, continued to rise as search and rescue teams went to work. And they had not destroyed every one of the enemy. They might have fled in disorder, but they’d fled in whole ships, with weapons and ansibles. Bissonet and other systems were still—as far as anyone knew—in enemy hands. She knew she had to let her people celebrate, but she also had to get them thinking about the future.

But not now. Now she could rest for a while, knowing what she had accomplished, knowing she had earned the rank she now held. Admiral Vatta signed out of the CCC and made her way back to her quarters through the passages lined with applauding crew.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

T
he formal celebration of victory came later, when the last of the enemy had been scoured from the system, when five of the six ansible platforms were back in service and the sixth was being rebuilt. Nexus’ government had allied with the other governments, but Nexus no longer centered human space in the minds of most, for even ISC formally agreed its monopoly on ansible communication was broken. The Space Defense Force had the support of nearly all governments from Lastway to Sybilla, four systems hubward from Moray. Bissonet was already free, its ansible back in operation; without Turek’s influence, his associates had fled with what wealth they could. Only the anti-humod worlds refused to join.

Now the main celebration, on Cascadia in the Moscoe Confederation, would be mirrored elsewhere—victory parades, speeches, award ceremonies, dinners. Rafe, leaving Penny behind on Nexus, had come to Cascadia to take part in the negotiations that would determine ISC’s place in the new order. And tonight was the opportunity he had most wanted—a grand reception in honor of Ky Vatta and all the militaries that had combined in what was now known as the Battle of Nexus.

Rafe went down to the car in a mood he himself knew was dangerous. The reception honoring Admiral Vatta and the forces under her command was no place for intimate conversation; if he saw Ky and shook her hand, it would be the most he could hope for—in that direction. In another direction, the evening promised to afford him an opportunity to indulge himself as he had not done for far too long, something even better than killing Zennarthos. Someone richly deserved a hiding and someone—his thoughts halted abruptly, as he saw who was in the car, waiting.

“You’re up to something,” Gary said. “And it’s not good. I’m assigning myself as your bodyguard at the reception tonight.”

“You’re not,” Rafe said. “You quit, remember?”

“I haven’t left yet,” Gary said. He signaled the driver, and they set off for Government House. “Consider this my last night of duty. If you behave yourself, I’ll be on the flight home tomorrow. And trust me, you don’t want to disappoint my wife; she’s expecting me for Hannah’s birthday party.”

“I don’t need a bodyguard inside with me,” Rafe said. He didn’t want anyone inside with him, not for this event. He checked his appearance in the mirror on the front of the passenger compartment: the formal shirt with its elaborate silk tie, the formal coat with its wider satin lapels and gold buttons, the silk vest, the right pale gray gloves, shoes polished to perfection. Under it he wore light armor, as always, but the clothes were tailored to conceal that. “It’s a reception, for pity’s sake. Military personnel, government—”

“Snakes, most of them,” Gary said. “And you’re wearing your protection, aren’t you?”

“Of course; I feel naked without it. But they’re not going to attack the head of ISC in front of everyone while swilling champagne, raiding the buffet, and bragging about their exploits.” Rafe put on his most beguiling smile and beamed at Gary. “No problems, and no reason for you to accompany me at all, let alone inside. And I didn’t put in for a badge for you, in any case.”

“But you’re up to something and you want to cause trouble. Don’t bother to lie, sonny; I can read you like a book.” This, Rafe knew, was unfortunately true. “The war’s over; the company’s crawling back into the black; I hear from my sources that the Board is now in the palm of your hand. But you’re lit up like a marker beacon. Is it something your lady would approve of?”

The car slowed to a crawl, behind others making their way up the driveway of Government House.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rafe said. He knew Gary wasn’t fooled. “But I’m not going to appear so fearful that I need a bodyguard in there—” He tipped his head toward the entrance. “You’ve had your chance to put in surveillance equipment; that will have to do.”

“Boyo, I don’t know what it is, but you’re in a killing mood and I’m not the only one who will read it that way. Whatever it is, don’t do it.”

Rafe allowed himself to subside into his ISC identity, all civilian CEO and business. “I am in the mood to celebrate a victory. The champagne is in there, and I am out here.”

Gary eyed him. “You may fool eighty percent of them, but you won’t fool them all. Where should I station the reserves, for when the blood starts flying?”

Rafe smiled. “There will be no blood.” And then, as Gary continued to give him the same challenging look, “There is more than one way to kill.”

“Money, family, or that woman?”

Rafe shook his head. Gary touched his, in a brief salute. “She is worth it, I will say that,” Gary said, before taking his station in the foyer of the ballrooms.

Rafe presented his ID and invitation to the liveried servants at the door—guards, he noted, and armed as well as decorative—and went into the first of the linked rooms. He passed through the receiving line, polite handshakes, nods, murmurs of conventional courtesy. Ky’s smile seemed genuine; he bent to kiss her hand and she flushed a little, but as he’d expected they had no time for more as the line behind him stretched to the door and beyond. Good. She should be stuck there long enough; with any luck he’d be able to complete his other mission and get back to her before she had reason to wonder where he was.

Somewhere in this crowd, Rafe knew, he would find the Slotter Key junior officer he most wanted to find. With consummate skill, he had extracted the crew list from each Slotter Key ship as it arrived…and on one, he had seen the name. Hal Coughlin, once a classmate of Ky’s, now a sub-lieutenant on
Bailey’s Reef. That
Hal. He’d obtained an image of the man’s face by means circuitous even for him and it was now in his implant, easy to compare with every face he saw.

He was sure that Ky would not approve of what he intended, which meant he could not ask openly about the man: someone would be certain to tell her anything the head of ISC seemed to find of interest. On his search, he spoke politely to admirals and colonels and ship captains by the dozen, nodded politely to others from Nexus, Cascadia, Moray, Sabine, Slotter Key. The rooms were large, crowded, and interconnected so that the crowd could circulate…new arrivals coming in by one entrance, wandering past the cluster of dignitaries and most senior military to the long tables loaded with food and drink, and then on to the other two ballrooms.

Junior officers, he suspected, would hang around the serving tables and then find corners where they could talk without being overheard by their seniors. Hal might be the kind of suck-up toady who’d stick near his boss, but Rafe had eyed the name tag of every such youngster he’d seen near a senior rank and hadn’t found him.

In the first corner he investigated, he found Teddy Ransome holding court for an admiring throng of juniors from Cascadia. Rafe eyed the dashing Teddy without enthusiasm; he would like to have despised him for being all flash, but Ransome had performed well. The next looked more promising, an almost solid phalanx of Slotter Key Spaceforce uniforms.

Rafe paused a safe distance away, pretending to sip his drink while looking for the face matching the image in his implant. But it was not until he spotted a young officer edging along the wall, clearly making for the exit, that he found him.

Years of experience moved Rafe through the crowd faster than the young man; he caught up with him in the least crowded room near the exit.

“You’re Hal Coughlin, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” He was tall, square-jawed, conventionally good looking, the sort Rafe categorized as “a young girl’s fantasy prince.” Much like Teddy Ransome, for that matter, though dark-haired. Rafe himself had been good looking, had even played on such fantasies—something he abhorred now—but he had no tolerance for it in other young men. Especially not in young men who had mistreated Ky. The young man smiled, a little tentatively. “You’re—you’re Ser Dunbarger, head of ISC, aren’t you?”

“That’s right, yes,” Rafe smiled. The young man didn’t flinch, which meant he was projecting what he meant to: older man-of-the-world politely interested in a younger one. “You’re from Slotter Key, are you not? I believe I am right in recognizing that uniform?”

“Yes, sir.” Hal straightened slightly, the young officer aware of his duty to make a good impression for his service.

“Good,” Rafe said. “I had heard that you knew Admiral Vatta back on Slotter Key…”

Hal flushed. “Well…we were at Spaceforce Academy at the same time, but I can’t say we…er…knew each other.”

“Oh.” Rafe let Elder Authority weight his tone; Hal’s color faded a little. Rafe cocked his head. “Really. I find that interesting, since she certainly told me about you.” A lie, but this young lout wouldn’t realize that. “In fact, I understand that you were in the same class—”

“Well, yes, but—”

“And exchanged class rings. Unless, of course, you wish to accuse Admiral Vatta of lying—”

Hal’s eyes wavered back and forth, but no escape route appeared. Behind him, one or two uniformed men had slowed, paused, to see what was going on. Rafe let himself smile his most dangerous smile, and Hal stepped back a half pace. “Er…no,” Hal said. “No, she’s not lying, it’s just that…that…we were very young then.”

“And you, my boy, are very young still,” Rafe said, still smiling. He pitched his voice to carry to the men behind Hal. “It never occurred to you, did it, that she might be your commanding officer someday? When you sent that rather…how shall I put it?…disgusting missive discarding her like soiled tissue?”

“I—I didn’t mean it that way,” Hal said. Rafe watched the pulse now pounding in Hal’s throat, the sheen of moisture on his brow, with clinical interest. Beyond Hal, more men and women had slowed to listen.

“Really,” Rafe said. He dropped his gaze to his fingernails, as if fascinated by them. Beyond, though out of focus, he could see the tremor of Hal’s trouser leg. It pleased him; he let his voice go silky but he knew it would carry. “The phrase
deliberate attempt to sabotage not only my career but the honor of the service
was not intended to be just a wee bit negative?”

“Well, I mean, I had to kind of…you know…distance myself…after she got in such trouble.”

Rafe looked up and pinned Hal’s wavering glance with his own steady gaze. “You had to cover your cowardly ass, you mean? You had to lick the right boots, kiss the right cheeks until your nose was brown to your earlobes? Because the woman you claimed to love—oh, yes, I know about that—had her confidence abused by a politically motivated slimeball, you had to abuse her yourself, insulting her motives, defacing her Academy ring? Just to make sure everyone knew how pure and innocent you were?” With every phrase, the silence around them spread, so that Rafe didn’t need to raise his voice. He could see the shock, and then disgust, on the faces of those eavesdropping.

Hal was white now, shaking with what Rafe hoped was rage enough to inspire an aggressive move. Just one. Just one little twitch, to give an excuse for the fist that itched to smash Hal’s nose, the arm that wanted to flash out in that blow, the eyes that wanted to see that spurt of blood.

“I—I didn’t know,” Hal said, his voice shaking. “I didn’t expect—I mean—it was just—”

It was the white of fear, not rage, the tremor of near panic, not impending attack. Rafe felt the first shading of pity, and resisted it. He didn’t want to pity this coward; he wanted to rip Hal to shreds for what he had done to Ky.

He looked Hal up and down, hoping his expression held all the contempt he felt. “You,” he said, “did not deserve her friendship. You are not fit for anyone’s friendship. You are not fit to hold a commission…you lack the fundamental qualities—courage, integrity, decency, loyalty—that friendship demands.”

Now Hal flushed again, slightly, and glanced around, as if for support…but the faces staring at him were all closed. Some, Rafe assumed, were just like Hal himself, willing to condemn anyone condemned by the powerful—and he himself, as the known head of ISC, was more powerful than most. Others might actually agree, might actually grasp that Hal had done something wrong. Rafe didn’t really care.

“There you are!” Behind Hal, the crowd parted now, shuffling quickly away from the one person Rafe did not want to have witness what he was about. Ky, grinning widely, swept toward him, flanked by two of her aides. Hal turned brick red, and started to step aside, but it was too late. She was abreast of him now, looking at Rafe. “Rafe, you know the Premier wanted to meet you—why didn’t you stay in the main ballroom? You’ll have to come back inside—”