Endeavour (Atlantia Series Book 4) Page 4

  ‘Contact, bow bearing three–eight five, elevation plus four!’

  Mikhain snapped out of his reverie as he watched the main display on the bridge switch to a dense star field, the optical sensors magnifying the view a thousand–fold in a matter of seconds as they zeroed in on the distant contact.

  ‘Emissions?’ Mikhain asked.

  ‘Negative,’ came the reply from the tactical officer, ‘no broadcast, no mass–drive signature, no signs of life at this range but we’re still too far away.’

  ‘How far?’ Mikhain pressed, angry that Lieutenant Scott had not imparted the essential information immediately but unwilling to scold at this early stage in his fledgling career.

  ‘Two astronomical units,’ Scott replied swiftly, clearly aware of his error, ‘two hours at maximum sub–luminal cruise.’

  Mikhain nodded. An astronomical unit was the distance between their homeworld of Ethera and her parent star, and used as a standard measurement of sub–luminal travel.

  ‘Mikhain, do you have her?’

  Captain Idris Sansin’s voice cut across Arcadia’s bridge chatter.

  ‘Bearing three eight five, elevation plus four,’ Mikhain replied without taking his eyes off the image of the star field. ‘Stand by for visual identification.’

  The optical sensors adjusted and as Mikhain watched the star field sharpened, countless millions of distant stellar objects flickering into sharp focus. For a moment he could detect nothing moving against the glittering background, but then a digital overlay appeared, a diamond–shaped green box hovering over what looked like empty space.

  Mikhain walked closer to the screen, as though the act of a few paces could sufficiently close the tremendous distances between the two ships, and then he saw a tiny star blink out and then reappear as it was eclipsed by something drifting in the absolute blackness.

  ‘Visual,’ Mikhain murmured, ‘awaiting data stream. Activate radar systems, light it up!’

  Arcadia’s sensors came out of stand–by while Atlantia’s remained passive, and it scanned the distant vessel, computers crunching the returning data into something that could be assessed and understood by human eyes. Moments later, alongside the star fields appeared a geometric image of the target, mapped by lasers and converted into a simple vector plot of shape, size and estimated mass.

  ‘It’s her,’ Mikhain confirmed. ‘It’s Endeavour.’

  ‘Very well,’ Idris replied from Atlantia. ‘All craft lay in an intercept course, Raythons at the tip of the spear.’

  ‘Aye, cap’n,’ Mikhain replied, more out of habit than anything else as he turned to his helmsman, an experienced pilot with a metallic prosthetic arm named Stefan Morle who had recently joined the Arcadia’s crew as a volunteer. ‘Helm, come left onto three eight five, elevation plus four.’

  ‘Left three eight five, elevation plus four,’ Stefan confirmed.

  Mikhain watched as Atlantia mimicked Arcadia’s turn, and the two frigates headed toward the distant contact as their Raythons raced away ahead of them.

  ‘XO on the deck!’

  Mikhain turned as his Executive Officer strode onto the bridge. A tall, muscular man with a broad jaw and blond hair that framed bitterly cold eyes, Djimon joined Mikhain and observed the new contact with interest.

  ‘A little late, XO, wouldn’t you agree?’ Mikhain growled beneath his breath as the giant man moved to stand alongside him.

  ‘I was feeling sleepy,’ Djimon murmured back without concern. ‘What is that on the screen?’

  Mikhain restrained his anger at Djimon’s flippant disregard for authority as he replied.

  ‘That is the Endeavour, something you would know already if you bothered to report on duty on time.’

  Djimon shrugged as he stared at the screens. Mikhain turned to Lieutenant Scott. ‘You have the bridge. XO, with me!’

  Mikhain stormed down off the command platform, the giant blond man following with a casual gait. Mikhain made his way off the bridge and down the corridor outside to his quarters, the door sliding open as he approached. He walked inside and moved behind his desk as Djimon followed him in and the door hissed shut behind him.

  ‘So how long do you think that you can keep this charade up?’ Mikhain snapped.

  ‘Are you talking about me captain, or yourself?’

  ‘I promoted you!’ Mikhain almost shouted, then forced himself to keep his voice down in case anybody outside his quarters overheard. ‘That was our deal! The least you could do is take the role of the second–most senior officer aboard the entire ship seriously!’

  Djimon grinned.

  ‘I take my role very seriously,’ he insisted. ‘But I don’t intend to dance a little ditty to your power games, Mikhain. We both know how you got here and it’s not pretty, is it? Any time I like, I can send the evidence I possess across to Captain Sansin and have you removed from your post and subject to Maroon Protocol. Perhaps it really is you who should be taking your role seriously, don’t you think?’

  Mikhain gritted his teeth, his jaw aching as he leaned his balled fists on the deck and glared at the former Marine before him.

  ‘There’s only so much I’ll take, Djimon,’ he snarled. ‘Fulfil your duties aboard this ship and there will be no problem. Keep undermining my authority, keep ignoring the importance of the Executive Officer’s position, keep making me think that you’ll turn traitor at any moment and it won’t be me doing the worrying for much longer.’

  Djimon’s smile, devoid of warmth or humour, did not slip as he took a pace closer to the captain’s desk.

  ‘Is that a threat, Mikhain?’

  ‘It’s captain, to you.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Djimon replied. ‘This is a power trip for you, a moment of glory, and you have it only because I allowed it to happen. How quickly you forget how you came to be here at all.’

  Mikhain’s promotion to captain of Arcadia had come at the expense of several lives, not all of them human. Djimon, a former Marine sergeant of General Bra’hiv’s Alpha Company, had fought a long and bitter battle with Corporal Qayin of Bravo Company, Qayin a former convict who had been recruited to serve as a soldier. The giant, dark–skinned criminal with the glowing bioluminescent tattoos lacing his face had been the epitome of danger until his betrayal by Mikhain. Mikhain had joined forces with the beleaguered Djimon, and together they had conspired against both Captain Sansin and his supporters, narrowly escaping the entire charade with their reputations intact. Little had Mikhain known that Djimon had recorded their conversations, neatly laying the trap that Mikhain had fallen into. His every move and every act was now watched by Djimon, who had gained his remarkable promotion through nothing less than blackmail.

  ‘So do you,’ Mikhain snarled back. ‘Doesn’t it ever occur to you that should you push me too far I could just reveal everything to Captain Sansin myself? Clear the air, so to speak? If I go down, Djimon, you inevitably come with me.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Djimon sneered back. ‘But then again I was only following orders, was I not? It was you who forced me to obtain pass–codes, to lie and to steal in order to fuel your greedy run for power aboard Atlantia. I was only a lowly Corporal, not the Executive Officer aboard the frigate.’ Djimon smiled again. ‘Besides, it’s not down to Captain Sansin alone anymore. We have a Board of Councillors now to speak for the civilians. Their views and votes will count too.’

  ‘This is a military matter!’ Mikhain snapped. ‘A court martial will decide our fates!’

  ‘Yes it will and the blows will fall harder on you than me, but let’s agree that such a terrible fate will not occur. As long as we all keep calm, as long as you stay off my back and keep basking in your glory as Arcadia’s commander, everybody will be happy, agreed?’

  Djimon did not wait for a reply from Mikhain. Instead, in a flagrant disregard for protocol he turned his back to the captain and strolled casually away with one hand in his pocket for the cabin door.

  As he reached it, Mikhain spoke
once more.

  ‘The role of Executive Officer is that of captain in reserve,’ he said to the former Marine’s broad, muscular back. ‘So far, Djimon, you have displayed before the command crew and myself a stark inability to perform your duties. They do not yet trust you, I cannot rely on you and I know damned well that Captain Sansin thinks you a poor choice for the role. If you do not step up your game it won’t be me removing you from your post that you’ll have to worry about. That same Council will do it for me, regardless of how I plead.’

  Djimon did not look back at Mikhain. The cabin door opened and the XO strolled out and vanished.

  Mikhain expelled a blast of air from his lungs as he sank down into his seat. Before him on the desk, countersunk into the metal, a long list of requests from across the entire vessel glowed on a display screen, a new one added every few seconds or so.

  The pride and excitement he had briefly experienced upon the bridge withered away until only the endless labour of command remained to drag down heavily upon his shoulders.

  ***

  VI

  Deep space.

  It had never been somewhere he had been keen to go before, having spent most of his life stalking Ethera’s mean streets hawking the kind of chemicals that made the horrors of life seem like a memory, at least for a while. For those that abused them enough, a memory was indeed all that life became.

  Qayin smiled in the darkness at his own bleak humour.

  The cockpit of the gunship was not large, just four seats – two at the controls and two behind. The colourful array of instruments and lights glowed in the peaceful darkness, his face seeming to reflect them like a mirror as the bioluminescent tattoos that coiled upon his cheeks glowed and pulsed in silent rhythm to his heart.

  Beyond the cockpit through the viewing panel was a vast panorama of stars, and to his left the more powerful glow of a Red Dwarf star, one of several in the local systems, named Avalere. Qayin knew the system to be uncharted, and also to be a regular haunt for the kind of people who liked to avoid Colonial interference. The carefully kept logs of the original owner of the gunship, the deceased pirate king Salim Phaeon, had directed Qayin to this corner of the cosmos primarily because he needed supplies for his ship and somewhere to lay low while he figured out his next move. Stashed in the hold were several drums of tainted Devlamine, a powerful drug worth good money on any market–all Qayin needed to do was filter and refine the supply, and then he would possess the kind of currency that was accepted no matter where one travelled. So far, he had only refined a few small containers of the drug as evidence to potential business partners of its quality.

  Qayin wondered briefly why he had never thought of becoming a spacer before. The solitude suited him well, most people representing little more to Qayin than mildly annoying distractions in his pursuit of wealth and security, of power and control. He guessed he had daddy issues, which wasn’t surprising because his daddy had been a violent, drunk loser who had routinely beaten Qayin for years. Qayin had fled his meagre home as a teenager, leaving his mother behind at the hands of his cruel father for five long years as he forged himself a life on the streets. Then he had returned, years older, a foot taller and nearly twice as heavy, his body a sculpture of solid muscle, his densely braided hair tinted metallic blue and gold and the tattoos on his face glowing with malevolent beauty. The Mark of Qayin.

  His father had not recognised the towering man who had strode through his door, although he had clearly recognised the danger radiating from Qayin like a force field. Qayin’s mother, broken and weak, had recognised her son in a heartbeat and, to Qayin’s shock and dismay, thrown herself in front of his father before he could reach out and crush the man’s throat with one giant hand.

  There had been a reckoning, before Qayin had left. He had made it clear, quite clear, the pain his father would endure if his mother were to be found anything but healthy and happy. Coward that his father truly was, he had quivered and blubbed and agreed as Qayin’s mother had sat in shame and listened. Qayin had offered his mother protection, money, anything that she required, before leaving and never going back.

  Ten years later, the apocalypse had struck. Qayin had no idea if his parents were alive or not, or even if they were still alive beforehand. He hoped not. Life had been a struggle for his mother and apparently an irritation for his father. Qayin reflected that they both could have used a decent dose of Devlamine from time to time, the Devil’s Drink, Qayin’s drug of choice when dealing on Ethera’s streets.

  Qayin sighed and leaned back in the pilot’s seat. Life was for most people, by and large, just one misery after another punctuated by moments of joy that were all too brief and often ruined by the next disaster. He had witnessed in his years nothing but the sight of people suffering; lack of money, hated jobs, unrequited love, lost love, illness, failed hopes and dreams and countless other afflictions, as well as the sight of Captain Idris Sansin and his hopeless band of followers hoping to fight the Word and bring back all that misery once more.

  Qayin preferred the simple life. Worry about nothing. Care about nobody. Look after one’s self and enjoy that simple life while it lasted because, as the old saying went, everybody’s a long time dead and no matter what you did in life, nobody gives a damn anyway once you’re gone. Qayin leaned back, his fingers interlocked between his blue and gold hair, and closed his eyes as he enjoyed the silence and the solitude enveloping him in its warm embrace.

  A soft beeping sound intruded upon his serene mood and he opened one eye with a flare of irritation as he sought the source of the sound. Qayin was not an experienced captain, and while he could navigate a spacecraft from A to B and had a rudimentary knowledge of how to remain undetected, he wasn’t exactly a fighter pilot. He scanned the control panel and saw a flashing red light:

  PROXIMITY WARNING

  Qayin bolted upright in his seat as with one deft flick of a switch he deactivated the autopilot that had been guiding him into the uncharted system and sought the source of the collision warning. A small display screen showed the view from the rear of the gunship, but Qayin could see no sign of any vessels following him. He flicked a switch, changing the display to one that would indicate where the threat was coming from.

  The screen flickered.

  A deafening crash shuddered through the vessel and Qayin was slammed sideways in his seat as something smashed into the port hull. The silence of the cockpit was shattered by the blast of alarm claxons shrieking for his attention as Qayin desperately began scrambling over the controls in an attempt to contain whatever damage had been done to the hull.

  His first thought was that the shields had failed, but he saw them at one hundred per cent and holding firm. Then he saw the alert displays showing the ruptured hull plating and the loss of atmosphere.

  ‘No!’

  Qayin grabbed the controls as he threw the ship’s throttles open and hurled the gunship into a tight defensive turn. With a dexterity born of absolute necessity, Qayin remotely shut off the bulkheads to the damaged section of the hull from the cockpit as he simultaneously selected the ship’s plasma weapons. Qayin, cautious as ever, had emerged from super–luminal into the Avalere system with his plasma magazines fully charged, just in case anybody made the foolish mistake of attacking him.

  The gunship arced through its turn, Qayin peering out of the cockpit and searching for any sign of whatever had collided with him. He saw a trail of sparkling debris sweep through his field of vision as the ship turned back toward the point of impact, the remnants of the damage caused to his gunship.

  ‘Son of a…’

  Qayin’s curse was cut off as another impact shook the gunship and fresh alarms blared in his ears as the hull was again ruptured, this time from directly below.

  Qayin roared in rage as he hauled the throttles into reverse power and pushed forward on the control column. The gunship nosed down as Qayin sought to aim his weapons at whatever had struck his gunship, and almost immediately he saw the sh
ape of a snub–nosed, battered looking craft aiming directly at him, debris surrounding it from where it had rammed his ship.

  ‘Time to give you the good news!’ Qayin shouted as he locked his weapons onto the enemy ship and wasted no time in squeezing the trigger.

  A bright stream of plasma rounds blasted away from the heavily armed gunship and impacted the enemy craft’s bow in a brilliant halo of destruction. Qayin cheered in delight as the multiple rounds smashed through the smaller vessel and it exploded as its fusion core was ruptured.

  The brilliant fireball blazed with fearsome power before Qayin and he shielded his eyes until it faded. The clatter of debris from the vaporised ship rattled past Qayin’s vessel, an expanding ball of superheated gas glowing briefly in the light from the distant dwarf star until it was chilled by the bitter vacuum of space. Within a few moments, all that remained of the vessel was an expanding constellation of debris and ice crystals drifting in the endless void.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Qayin uttered.

  He turned his attention to the gunship’s battered hull and began closing bulkheads to the affected areas, mostly in the aft holds. Fortunately, the fusion cores and engines were mounted quite high at the stern and had escaped the worst of the second impact. Qayin closed the bulkheads one by one and re–routed the power away from the affected areas to avoid electrical fires, before he decided to play it safe and dispense fire–retardant foam into the holds just in case.

  The blaring alarms fell silent one by one until the cockpit was quiet once more. Qayin checked his radar screens for any further sign of impending attack, and saw nothing but the empty void all the way out toward Avalere and the small moons orbiting the lonely star.

  He reset course for Avalere III, the moon that according to Salim’s logs held a small, un–licenced spaceport where he could land. Qayin cursed–he had gone from being in profit to having to think about how much it was going to cost him to repair the damage to a large gunship’s hull. He realised that he did not really have the first clue whether there would be anybody on the moon who could perform the work, or even the nearest star system where there might be facilities to do so. With Ethera and the core systems completely overwhelmed by the Word, he realised that there was nowhere else to go.