Loyalties (HMCS Borealis Book 3) Read online

  Sap pulled his datapad out of his overcoat pocket, and started tapping at it. "What bank was it, Miss Maya? Perhaps we could—"

  "Sarta Eclipse."

  "Oh," said Sap. He put down the datapad. "Never mind."

  Maya seemed to deflate even further. "They were the only ones who would offer me a loan."

  "With the vessel as collateral?" asked Sap.

  She nodded. "Or me, if anything happens to the ship."

  Jerry raised his eyebrows, gesturing at Sap and Eric. "So now you get it, right? We have to help Maya clear this debt. Then we can go out and help people. But we still don't have enough. Not yet."

  Eric shook his head. They'd found nothing of value on Peg Five, and there was no guarantee they'd find anything on the next planet either. In the meantime, the news feeds had become a steady stream of disaster and fear. "Look, either you help people, or you keep scavenging. There isn't enough time for both."

  "Buddy," said Jerry. "You're not listening to me. We just need one more planet." He held up a single finger. "One. We get there after the colonists are gone, but before the Horlan show up. One more big score and we've got it. We'll have enough to pay off Maya's debt. Then we can go save the galaxy, without the bank looking for us. Because Horlan or no Horlan, Sarta Eclipse will get what they're owed."

  Eric was curious about Jerry. "What about you?" he asked. If Jerry was Maya's hired pilot, his eagerness must be partly fuelled by his own desire to get paid.

  "Nah," said Jerry, waving one hand in the air. "No way. Not now. I'm working for room and board. That's more than most people have now."

  "Oh," said Eric. He hadn't expected that. Either Jerry was full of shit, or Eric had underestimated him.

  Sap's quiet voice interrupted Eric's thoughts. "Where will you sell it?"

  Maya blinked, giving her head a subtle shake. "Pardon, Sap? What do you mean? The ship? No way I'm selling Nova Cat."

  "No, Miss Maya. The cargo you have accumulated. Where will you sell it? Everyone is on the run, and that likely includes any potential buyers." Sap held up his datapad. "The station at Joran Phi was always an excellent place, but it was… harvested… this morning."

  Jerry's eyes widened. "What? They've made it that far already?"

  "Apparently so."

  "I knew a guy there. Does it say where everyone went?"

  "Mister Jerry, there are hundreds of ships carrying refugees. There's no way to track them all. The network is crashing repeatedly, under the weight of so many people trying to find out so little information."

  "Look," said Eric. "It doesn't matter. It doesn't change the problem. If you're hoping to sell your cargo to raise money for your debt, you're going to have to have someone to sell it to."

  Maya shrugged. "I don't care. It doesn’t matter. Maybe the military? We could take it to New Halifax, or Nimitz Station, or Portsmouth—"

  "And be arrested for profiteering," said Eric. He glanced over at Sap, who was poking at his datapad. "What do you think, Sap?"

  Sap spoke slowly, distracted by something on his datapad. "I think that a lot of people are frightened and panicking." He nodded toward the datapad in his hands. "Refugee ships are still gathering to form convoys back to Earth. One such gathering was caught by the Horlan, and many ships did not escape. Now, a rumour circulates that the Horlan can detect Tunnel cells." He shook his head. "It is absurd, but people are believing it. They are removing their Tunnel cells and flying blind to rendezvous with each other. One such gathering is planned for tomorrow."

  "Wait," said Eric. "Flying blind to meet in groups? That's the exact opposite of what they should be doing."

  "And yet…" said Sap, raising his eyebrow ridge.

  Jerry shook his head. "Why the hell are they meeting in groups? Why don't the refugee ships just go straight to a safe system?"

  "They are afraid," said Sap. "They don't want to travel alone. They think they will be safer in a group. They think the human navies will come to protect them."

  "No no no," said Eric, shaking his head. This wasn't going to end well. It couldn't. "Tunnel cells or not, if enough people are talking about meeting in one place, the Horlan will hear about it. There's no way the Horlan aren't listening to the public channels."

  "Agreed," said Sap. "They're providing the enemy with a tempting target."

  "And since they've all been dumping their Tunnel cells, there's no way to warn them if the Horlan are nearby."

  "So," said Jerry, "the Horlan show up, and maybe the navy too."

  Eric saw Maya drawing herself up smaller in the co-pilot's seat. She began to wrap her arms around herself. "Oh god. The refugees will be in the middle."

  "Shit," said Jerry. "People are stupid when they're scared."

  "Can we go there?" asked Maya. She looked from Eric to Sap to Jerry. "Warn them? Lead them away? Something?"

  "It's your ship," said Eric. "You're the captain. What do you want to do?"

  CHAPTER 11

  "Main armament ready," said Chief Black. "Two hundred rounds loaded."

  "Thank you," said Dillon.

  The tap-tap-roll of 'Beat to Quarters' gave its urgent rhythm to the activity on the bridge. Suited crewmembers were strapped in at their consoles, eyes focused on their terminals, their fingers dancing over the controls.

  Dillon aligned the seams of his suit gloves, and double checked to see that his respirator mask was on his hip. "Chief?" he asked, pointing at the display on the bridge windows. "How current is this?"

  "Real time now, sir. We've got the Tunnel feed up."

  "Thank you, Chief." He reached up over his head and grabbed the handset from the comms console, poking one finger at the controls. "Combat centre, this is the bridge, Captain here."

  The voice of the Borealis's second-in-command came through the handset. "Bridge, this is combat centre. Kalla here, sir."

  "Good evening, XO. Status report, please. You closed up and ready?"

  "Aye, sir. Everything good here."

  "Thank you, Kalla. Captain out."

  Placing the handset back in the comms console, Dillon surveyed the display in front of the bridge windows. Thirty-seven civilian ships, all full of refugees, had gathered at Omicron Seventeen to form a convoy headed Earthward. Now, these thirty-seven ships drifted in space, their engines disabled by the weapons of a pouncing Horlan fleet.

  He tapped at the terminal on the arm of his chair. The bridge display changed, zooming in on a squadron of destroyers. These American ships had intervened, driving off the Horlan before they could begin harvesting the refugee ships.

  But the Horlan hadn't gone far. Withdrawing to the edge of the system, they'd been reinforced by dozens of additional Horlan ships. The destroyers didn't have a chance against such a large Horlan force, and had kept a respectful distance, transmitting their sensor data to other human ships.

  Lexington had arrived, followed by Hornet, and the two carriers were already spewing out squadrons of fighters and bombers. With each precious minute, more human ships were arriving. Vikrant with her group, then Glorious, then Invincible.

  With one finger, Dillon scrolled the display sideways. Borealis, along with her sisters in Captain West's Second Cruiser Squadron, would arrive next. They were to arrive far to the front, with the original American destroyers, to provide real-time sensor data. The main fleet was assembling three million kilometres back. From that distance, everything the big ships saw with their own sensors would be ten seconds old. Through Tunnel cells, the fleet could watch through the eyes of Borealis and other ships nearer the enemy.

  "Sir," said Chief Black.

  Dillon looked up. "Chief?"

  "Board shows green, sir. We're as ready as we're going to get."

  "Carry on, Chief," said Dillon. His eyes scanned the bridge, checking each crewmember in turn. All of them visibly tense, their eyes locked on their displays. Vacuum-safe suits done up, respirators ready at their hips, straps holding them securely to their seats. He tapped at one of the buttons o
n the arm of his chair, and felt the straps pulling him in closer, holding him tight to the back rest.

  Swivelling his chair to the right, he turned toward the aft bulkhead of the bridge. Below the mechanical chronometer, Amba sat in a fold-down jumpseat. She held her visor in her lap, her robes pulled tight against her body by the straps that held her secure. Their eyes met, but she said nothing.

  He nodded, then turned back to face the front of the bridge. There was little for the chaplain to do in battle, so she'd seated herself at the back of the bridge. He was happy she was there.

  Dillon turned his attention back to the display; the timer to exit FTL had counted down to zero.

  The stars outside the window, smeared into lines by the ship's FTL movement, sprung back to single points. A faint creak of the flexing hull punctuated the sound of the engines disengaging. On the display in front of Dillon, a white triangle appeared, showing Borealis's position behind the line of American destroyers. Three more ships appeared in a line behind Borealis.

  The Chief's voice came from off to Dillon's right. "American ships ahead of us, sir: Truxtun in the lead, then Bainbridge, then Halsey, then us. Astern of us are Bonaventure, then Regina and Nootka. The American group is making fifteen hundred kilometres per second."

  "Match their speed, Chief. Fall into line astern of Halsey."

  "Aye aye, sir. Pakinova, get us astern of Halsey, and match her speed. No tailgating."

  Pakinova didn't look up from her console. "In formation behind Halsey, match her speed, aye Chief."

  "Captain, Halsey's squadron reports they are headed toward the Horlan. They've marked a point where they will turn to port, and cut across the front of the Horlan formation. Bonaventure has ordered our squadron to head to the same point, then turn to starboard, cutting in front of the Horlan in the opposite direction."

  "Got it," said Dillon. He glanced back at the display. The line of triangles — the American destroyers followed by Borealis and the other three Canadian cruisers — approached the cloud of dots that marked the Horlan fleet. Far behind Borealis, larger human ships continued to arrive, forming into a wall of symbols on the screen. There were squadrons of battleships and cruisers, with the carriers behind, and formations of fighters swarming around them.

  He checked the Horlan again. Unlike the human ships, they weren't arranged in neat rows and columns. But even in their haphazard-looking group, they were organised. There was some purpose to their arrangement.

  Dillon tapped at his terminal, and the display zoomed in on the Horlan ships. They were black as night, offering only occasional glints of starlight reflected off metal. By watching them for a while, their vague shapes became easier to make out: long, graceful forms, with undulating curves. Each one was smooth, organic and unique. Their undersides were like clusters of tree branches: dangling, segmented arms that stretched out below them. Some of the arms were limp, while others twitched, unfolding downward; at their full extension, they were longer than the ship itself.

  He examined the numeric readout at the side of the display. The Horlan ships were unmoving, holding their position in space. He assumed they were watching the human fleet. Perhaps the Horlan were assessing them; measuring the threat, considering their chances.

  Dillon took a deep breath and held it before blowing it out between his lips. Each moment brought them closer to the Horlan fleet. The Horlan ships had an unnerving grace, and Dillon found it hard to look away. His heart hammered in his chest as some of the enemy ships moved their arms at once. The unfolded arms moved smoothly, their grace punctuated by brief spasms as the joints twitched. They reached outward, arms open as if to embrace.

  "Sensors?" he asked. "How's it look?"

  The sensors technician cleared his throat. "Sir, we have ninety-seven enemy contacts. Good views on all of them, sir. Our data is being added to the stream."

  "Good. Thank you. How long until they see us?"

  "They should see us already, sir."

  "Thank you, sensors. Let me know if they get up to anything."

  The Chief broke in. "Captain, the lead American ship, Truxtun, has reached the mark, and is making her turn."

  Dillon's eyes went back to the screen. At the front of the line of ships, the lead American destroyer had turned to its left, beginning a parallel run across the forward edge of the Horlan formation. Behind Truxtun, the second American destroyer approached the turning mark.

  "Sir," said the sensors tech. "Three Horlan ships are scanning the Truxtun."

  "Thank you." Dillon wished to hell he had his coffee. Something to drink, or at least something to hold in his hand, to stop his fidgeting. "Are the Horlan moving?"

  "Negative, sir. They're still in place."

  "Understood, carry on."

  "Next destroyer making its turn," said the Chief. "Bainbridge, turning now."

  The sensors tech spoke up. "Change, sir. The three Horlan ships that were scanning the Truxtun have switched, and are now scanning the Bainbridge."

  "Everyone gets a turn, I guess," said Dillon. He scrolled his display to look back at the assembling human fleet. A wall of battleships had formed — three high by four wide — facing toward the Horlan from outside weapon range. Half a dozen massive carriers were behind them, and hundreds of fighters orbited the fleet, like angry wasps ready to swarm.

  "Halsey is turning," said the Chief. "We're next, sir."

  "Understood. Carry on," said Dillon, scrolling the screen back to follow the Borealis' movements.

  "Change, sir. Horlan scans have changed to Halsey."

  "Thank you, sensors. Horlan fleet still not moving?"

  "No, Captain. Still not moving, sir."

  The Chief poked at her console, and a countdown timer appeared on the display. "Turning mark in four seconds," she said.

  "Understood, Chief. Pakinova?"

  The crewmember at the helm didn't look up. "Turning, sir, in two… one… now."

  The view outside the windows slid sideways as the Borealis made her turn.

  "Everyone smile," said Dillon through clenched teeth. "They're going to take our picture."

  As if on cue, the sensors tech spoke up. "We're being scanned, sir." The front display drew three new lines: scanning beams from three Horlan ships to the Borealis.

  "Steady as she goes, Pakinova," said Dillon. "Sensors, you getting a good look at them?"

  "Aye sir. Nothing special." The tech frowned. "Wait."

  On the screen, an additional line appeared, showing that a fourth Horlan ship had begun to scan the Borealis.

  "Sir, I think—"

  A cluster of lines appeared on the screen, connecting dozens of additional Horlan ships to the Borealis.

  "—Sir! Eighty… no… all of them! All Horlan ships have lit us up. They're all scanning us, sir. Only us."

  Dillon's eyes were wide as he stared at the display. Just them? Why just them? Even with the human fleet here, there was no way the Borealis could survive the entire Horlan armada. What the hell did the Horlan see?

  Next to the sensors station, the communications tech popped her head up from her console. "Sir! Squadron commander on tactical channel five."

  Dillon's mouth had gone dry, and he had clear his throat before he could speak. "Channel five, got it." He reached above his head, fingers fumbling for the handset. He couldn't take his eyes off the screen, with its flurry of lines that converged on the Borealis. Clutching at the handset, he pulled it toward him. "This is Borealis, Dillon here."

  "Dillon?", said the woman on the other end. "West here."

  "Sir," said Dillon.

  West was a twenty-year veteran, and had seen her share of combat. Yet despite her experience in stressful situations, she – like everyone else – began by stating the obvious. "Commander, they have an unhealthy interest in the Borealis."

  "Yes sir," said Dillon. He licked his lips. "Agreed, sir."

  "They see something, Dillon. Something about Borealis. Something they see on her that they don't see a
nywhere else."

  Dillon turned his head, his eyes looking toward the back of the bridge. Amba was sitting in the jumpseat, her blue eyes watching him. "Sir, I, uh—"

  West's voice was in his ear. "You have a Palani on board, Dillon. Is that it?"

  Dillon shook his head, trying to lower his voice. "I don't know." The words came out with a crack in them. "No. Not her. It can't be her."

  The voice on the other end of the line had become sharper. "Dillon. Think. I need you to be objective. If she's—"

  "No," said Dillon. "No." There was something else. Something he hadn't thought of. It couldn't be Amba they were after. A squadron of ships for one person? It didn't make sense. "The jump drive," he blurted. "It could be the jump drive, sir." He couldn't think of anything else. "That has to be it."

  "Huh," came West's voice. "Maybe. One Palani isn't a threat to them. But a ship with a powerful jump drive… Maybe, Dillon. Maybe."

  Dillon glanced around the bridge, seeing the tense faces of the crew. In his ear, he heard West grunt. "It's one or the other, Dillon. We need—"

  The sensors tech cried out, "Sir! Horlan ships are on the move. All of them, sir."

  West's voice came through the headset before Dillon could say anything. "We see it."

  Dillon tilted the headset away from his face. "Sensors, where are they going?"

  "This way, sir," said the sensors tech. New lines appeared on the screen, extending from the moving dots of the Horlan fleet. All the lines began to converge on the Borealis. "All of them are turning toward us."

  West's voice was in Dillon's ear again. "Is Borealis ready to jump, Commander?"

  "No, sir. Capacitors not charged."

  "Shit," said West. "Very well, then. Make maximum sublight speed, head to the rear. Get them to follow you back to the battlefleet. Understood?"

  "Aye aye sir," said Dillon.

  "Good." West's voice lost its edge for a moment. "Good luck. West out."

  Dillon reached up to put the handset back in its holder. He was leaning forward in his seat, one elbow on the arm of the chair.

  Amba's voice startled him; she was standing at his side. "Captain, if it's me they want—"