Duty, Honor, Planet

speaker. “The ship’s weapons system is officially dead.”

“Good job, Ari,” Jason sighed, feeling a weight coming off his shoulders. “Great timing, but Jesus Christ, how about a little warning next time?”

“It was the only thing I could think of,” Shamir admitted. “I knew they were trying to drive us to the bridge, and I knew there had to be a trap.”

“Yeah, me too,” Jason said, closing his eyes. “But we had to come.” He looked the Lieutenant in the eye. “And now we have to go. Radio Gunny Lambert and tell him to meet us at the courier. The fleet should be blowing this thing to vapors in less than an hour and I don’t want to be here.”

“Aye, sir,” the Lieutenant nodded, activating his helmet comlink as Jason turned back to the rest of the troops.

“Get your shit together, people,” he ordered. “We’re moving out and we’re moving now.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

“What do you think of yourself? What do you think of the world?… These are the questions with which all must deal as it seems good to them. They are riddles of the Sphinx, and in some way or other we must deal with them… In all important transactions of life we have to take a leap in the dark… If we decide to leave the riddles unanswered, that is a choice; if we waver in our answer, that, too is a choice: but whatever choice we make, we make it at our peril. If a man chooses to turn his back altogether on God and the future, no one can prevent him; no one can show beyond a reasonable doubt that he is mistaken. If a man thinks otherwise and acts as he thinks, I do not see that anyone can prove that he is mistaken. Each must act as he thinks best; and if he is wrong, so much the worse for him. We stand on a mountain pass in the midst of whirling snow and blinding mist, through which we get glimpses now and then of paths, which may be deceptive. If we stand still, we shall be frozen to death. If we take the wrong road, we shall be dashed to pieces. We do not certainly know whether there is any right one. What must we do? ‘Be strong and of good courage.’ Act for the best, and take what comes… If death ends all, we cannot meet death better.”

—Fitz-James Stephens

“Helm, what’s our position?” Captain Patel asked for the fifth time in the last ten minutes.

The helmsman sighed quietly and answered, “Ten thousand klicks and closing, sir. Twenty minutes at present deceleration.”

“And the Bradley?”

“Still in formation, sir.”

“Support fighters ready to launch, sir,” the executive officer reported, anticipating the Captain’s next question.

“What about McKay?” Patel wanted to know. “Has the courier left the Protectorate ship?”

“Nothing yet, sir,” the tech at the sensor board assured him. “And no traffic between the enemy ships.”

“Sir,” the weapons officer asked tentatively, “what do we do if we don’t hear from them?”

“We’ll have to attack anyway, Perez,” Patel told him, letting out a deep breath, his expression sad. “They knew what they were getting into.”

“But what about the Russians, sir?” the younger man wondered. “They said if we attacked, they’d bomb one of our cities. If Captain McKay failed…” He let it trail off, the question still in his eyes.

“Son,” Patel began, but his words caught in his throat. If they had to allow the deaths of thousands or millions to insure the freedom of billions… But who gave them the right to make that decision? What gave them the right to play God? “Son,” he finally said, “ we’ll just have to hope for the best.”

“Yes, sir,” Perez said. He didn’t sound convinced.

But then, Patel reflected, neither am I.

* * *

McKay shook his head violently, trying to stay sharp. It was all he could do to maintain his hold on Ari Shamir’s harness, letting the younger man tow him with his maneuver jets. His leg throbbed with every heartbeat, though at least the blood had stopped soaking the field bandage the medic had forced onto him. The pain was all that had kept him alert as they had navigated their way back through the ship. Luckily, they’d encountered little resistance—a few scattered groups of biomechs and the odd human crew had been dispatched summarily by the Marines riding point.

Their biggest enemy was time. The Bradley and the Patton were scheduled to attack in minutes, and there was no way to contact them—the Eysselink drive warped all electromagnetic signals just as it warped spacetime, and the only way to contact a ship with its drive field activated was through the use of another drive field. Which the Protectorate ships didn’t have. Their only option was to get to the courier and get out of the free-fire zone before it was too late.

Finally, just when Jason was beginning to think they’d somehow gotten lost, the narrow corridor opened up into the broad expanse of the pressurized half of the ship’s docking bay. Waiting for them there, framed against the clear-plastic wall that separated them from the hard vacuum without, was Gunny Lambert and the other half of the platoon.

“Glad you fellas made it,” Lambert drawled, a scowl visible through his faceplate. “But I’m afraid we’re all dressed up with no place to go.” He jerked a thumb at the vacuum behind them, and the conspicuous emptiness therein. “The ship is gone.”

* * *

“Well, this is fucking hopeless,” Lieutenant Kristopolis sighed. “Pardon me, sir,” he apologized to the President, who hung behind Shannon Stark’s shoulder, watching the RSC officer attempt to take control of the orbital weapons control system.

“Not a problem, Lieutenant,” Jameson assured him. He seemed a bit more presidential now, not as harried and haunted as he’d been less than an hour before, though in his torn, soiled clothes he still looked more like a refugee than anything else. “What’s wrong?”

“Is it the controls, Kristy?” Shannon asked, leaning heavily against the console, the beating she’d taken during the attack beginning to take its toll on her.

“Controls work fine,” he told her, absently rubbing his hand across his face, smearing a persistent streak of carbon on his forehead. “It’s the antennae—they got totally blasted in the fight.” He frowned. “I told them to try not to damage them unless things looked hopeless, but…” A pained look passed across his face as he thought again of how many of his people had died just an hour ago.

“Can we fix it?” Jameson asked.

“There are plenty of spares in storage,” Kristopolis explained, “but it would take at least four or five hours just to put the new dishes up, let alone calibrating them.” He shook his head. “I can start some of my people on it if you think it’ll do any good.”

“No point,” Shannon decided. “It’s out of our hands now.”

Almost unconsciously, she glanced upwards. Somewhere up there was either their salvation or their destruction… and Jason.

* * *

Jason stared at the empty space where the courier had been, shaking his head. How the hell could anyone have got past the security seal they’d installed on the ship’s airlock? Surely those frightened sheep they’d left in the bay wouldn’t have had time to physically cut through the hull.

“What about the boarding pod?” Shamir asked. “It’s only one level up.”

“Useless,” Lambert grunted. “It’s fused to the hull, same as ours.”

“So what now?” Jock asked, still grasping Vinnie’s limp form by the back of his harness. “Are there any other ships? Maybe maintenance pods?”

“Escape pods,” McKay declared suddenly, remembering the emergency escape vehicle he’d seen on the