Gestapo Mars (20 page)

“Where’s the fight?” I asked.

“Mars,” she said. “I’ve got to get back up front and fly this crate. You guys just sit tight and relax.”

We were both filthy and exhausted. We cracked open the plastic bottles and drank greedily. Some sort of electrolyte-enhanced mix with a slight lemon flavor. Cindy finished her drink and smacked her lips, then leaned her head on my shoulder, unable to keep her eyes open.

“I never thought we’d get out of that swamp,” she murmured. “Thank God it’s all over.”

Over? I took one of her hands in mine, squeezed it comfortingly. No, nothing was over. Not yet. But I didn’t tell her that.

No point ruining it just yet.

T
hey welcomed us aboard the
Pride of Nuremberg
with all courtesy. Nobody asked about Cindy. It seemed enough that she was with me. They gave us each a small stateroom and a change of clothes. We’d have time to rest in the few hours it would take us to reach the fleet rendezvous point.

Again I was reminded of the restorative powers of a hot shower, aches in my neck and shoulders and legs fading as I stood under the hot spray. I was given a jumpsuit similar to the one I’d worn last time I’d been a guest of the Reich navy—black, swastika over one pocket, the words
Pride of Nuremberg
stitched onto one shoulder. I’d just zipped it up and was combing my hair when the door chimed.

“Come in.”

The door slid aside and Cindy entered. She wore one of the ship’s jumpsuits, too, sleeves rolled up. It was slightly baggy on her. Her hands were deep in her pockets, shoulders slightly slumped, her body language screaming
awkward
.

Nothing like the clone and its regal fakery. She was real and shy and had no idea what to do now that we weren’t running for our lives. She’d also taken her hair out of the long braid down her back and had fastened it into twin pigtails. They made her seem girlish and innocent, and I really didn’t know a thing about her, but was glad anyway.

She smelled like soap.

“How are your quarters?” I asked. “Comfortable?”

She shrugged. “I guess. But small—reminds me too much of my cell. And I don’t really know anyone on this ship.”

“You don’t really know me either.”

She laughed. “I’m hungry. What about that?”

“Follow me.”

* * *

The ship’s galley was between shifts and nearly deserted. We sat by ourselves at the end of a long table.

Cindy hunched over a bowl of chili, spooning it into her mouth like she hadn’t eaten in years. She kept glancing up at me, slightly embarrassed that she was eating like an animal but not quite able to stop herself.

I ate a salad and a piece of lean chicken breast. What I really wanted was three slices of deep-dish pizza, but my training insisted that my body stay fit. I wasn’t on vacation. Without a doubt there were more hardships ahead. I would probably have to belt somebody in the face sooner or later. Best to be light on my feet.

Cindy crumbled crackers into her chili, then stirred.

“Where do you think they keep the dinosaurs?”

I blinked at her. “What?”

“Do you think there are holding pens on the lower decks?” she asked. “Something like that?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” I said truthfully. “They probably keep them in stasis until they’re needed. Easier than shoveling a ton of dinosaur crap every day.”

“Oh.” She looked crestfallen. “I hadn’t thought of that!”

“Is something wrong?”

“I was a veterinarian’s assistant back home,” she said. “I was attending the university, hoping to get my grades good enough for vet school.”

A job? Did she think she could get work tending the T-Rexes? But it made me think. With an entire galaxy in upheaval, what did a young veterinarian’s assistant do? What was her place? Multiply this dilemma by billions of displaced people on worlds scattered across the Empire. This was the result of the Dragon Nazi’s revolution.

“God, I must sound so stupid.” She hunched over her chili again, eyes down, shaking her head. “As if taking care of a cat or a parrot is the same as working with dinosaurs.”

Every word she uttered broke my heart just a bit more.

I stood, picked up my plate.

Her head came up quickly. “Where are you going?”

“To get some pizza.”

* * *

The
Pride of Nuremberg
dropped out of translight in the middle of a ragtag fleet. The captain of the frigate allowed Cindy and me to observe from the bridge. Everyone seemed nervous, as if there was some doubt the fleet would actually be there.

A flurry of communications went back and forth between the frigate and the other ships. I ignored the confusion and instead rallied all my powers of observation, studying the fleet through the forward viewport as well as absorbing information from the various computer monitors around me.

The fleet was eighty-seven ships strong. Not bad at first blush, but the reports that flooded in told the whole story. Twenty-two of the ships were legitimate fighting vessels—frigates and destroyers and one light cruiser. They’d been on deep patrol and had remained unscathed by the Coriandon encroachment. The rest of the spacecraft were a mishmash. Police ships from local systems, home and reserve vessels. Ancient freighters retrofitted with translight drives and missile batteries. These accounted for at least a dozen of the vessels. Anything that could fly and shoot had been commandeered to the cause.

One spacecraft above all was simultaneously most surprising and most inspiring. The battle hulk looked like it had been through hell, and I should know. I’d been there when most of it had happened. It looked patched and mended using mismatched metal from a dozen different ships. A tremendous stretch of hull from some other ship—a large troop transport, by the look of it—had literally been welded along the starboard side to cover some massive damage.

Against all odds, Admiral Ashcroft had saved his ship to fight another day. As if summoned, his face appeared on the big forward monitor. Somebody had done a quick cyborg job on the left side of his face, left eye a glowing red light, cheek and ear replaced by gleaming metal. If we lived through this, doctors could supervise a flesh replacement.

“Captain, I understand you have Carter Sloan with you,” Ashcroft said.

I stepped up and offered the admiral a two-finger salute. “Right here, Admiral. If you don’t mind my saying it, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Ashcroft’s grin was lopsided because half his face was metal. “Never expected to see you again either, Sloan. I guess we’re both harder to kill than the fates expected. I’ve arranged to have you transferred to my ship, if that’s okay with you.”

“I’m traveling with someone,” I said. “Okay to bring her?”

“We can accommodate anyone you bring. Sadly, we’ve lost a lot of crew,” the admiral told me. “So space isn’t a problem. I’m sending a shuttle now.”

* * *

The landing bay of the battle hulk still looked like hell, thanks to my hot start in Meredith Capulet’s luxury yacht—scorch marks on the deck and bulkheads—but repair crews had made it functional again.

They’d taken on a lot of refugees. A rummage sale variety of smaller ships littered the bay, and there was barely enough room for our small shuttle to park. The doors sealed, oxygen pumps filling the hangar with atmosphere, and Cindy and I were down the gangplank ten seconds later.

Ashcroft was there to meet us. In person, I saw that the cyborg job wasn’t limited to his face. His left arm was made from the same shiny metal that was on his face.

“I was lending a hand down a maintenance conduit when a missile slammed right into us,” Ashcroft explained. “They pulled me out and patched me up. I told the doc to slap on whatever spare parts were handy, so I could get back to work.”

“Hats off to your doctor
and
to your repair crews,” I said. “I felt sure I’d seen the last of this ship.”

“Repairs have been constant,” Ashcroft said. “Lucky for us we managed to get some extra help. I believe you know this gentleman.” The admiral gestured, and I looked behind me.

“Max!”

He wore the same black jumpsuit as the rest of us, a toolbox in one hand. We shook hands, slapped each other on the back.

“This is amazing. How did you end up here?”

“The fleet picked us up just outside the system,” Max said. “I’ve been lending a hand.” He turned to Ashcroft. “Admiral, last time I saw this man he was taking on an entire mob of scavengers to cover our escape. The fact he’s here is nothing short of a miracle.”

“I think Mr. Sloan must be in the miracle business,” Ashcroft said.

“And the family?” I asked. “Everyone’s safe?”

“We all made it,” Max said. “Thanks to you.”

“That’s fantastic,” I said. “And what about… I mean did
everyone
make it? Did—”

“I’m right here, you sonuvabitch.”

I turned when I heard her voice, and smiled.

Meredith threw herself into my arms and we both hugged so tightly that it seemed impossible we’d ever let go. She turned her thigh to rub against the bulge in my pants. After a long time, I felt everyone else’s eyes on us and disentangled myself. I noticed that one side of her head had been shaved, a metal disc the size of a small coin above her ear.

I frowned at it. “What’s that?”

“Long story,” she said. “I’ll tell you later.”

Cindy hung at the edge of the conversation, hands clasped shyly behind her back.

“Everyone, this is Cindy,” I said. “She’s been to hell and back like the rest of us. I guess we’re all survivors.” Never mind who she was. That wasn’t something I planned to mention until I figured out if I wanted to mention it at all.

Cindy and Meredith exchanged appraising looks, Cindy timidly from the corners of her eyes, Meredith like she was picking out something to cook and eat.

“I hate to break up this happy reunion,” Ashcroft said, “but I’m hoping you can help me, Sloan. Can I get some of your time?”

“Of course.”

“I’d better get back to work, too,” Max said. “Catch up with you later.”

Meredith put a hand on my arm, and made sure Cindy saw her doing it.

“I’ll come to your quarters later and… catch you up on current events.”

“Good. See you soon.”

“Follow me, Sloan, and I’ll put you in the picture.” Ashcroft headed for the elevator across the hangar bay. Cindy stuck close to me, a thin nervous shadow.

We followed the admiral to the briefing room just off the bridge and stood around a circular holo-table. He punched up the display he wanted and a color 3-D image of our sector of the galaxy blipped to life in front of us.

“Obviously this is Mars.” Ashcroft indicated the red planet on the display. “Reports indicate that the Coriandon are moving slowly and methodically through the system, taking out Reich outposts. They don’t want anyone behind them when they make their assault, and the Reich doesn’t have enough ships in the system to stop them. All they can do is pull back, wait for the attack, and defend the home world the best they can.”

I scanned the readout display, which conveyed the particulars of the invading fleet. “That’s not necessarily an overwhelming number of enemy ships,” I said. “There’s a good chance Mars can hold out.”

“Normally I’d agree,” Ashcroft said, “but intelligence reports two more Coriandon fleets massing at wormholes here… and here.” He indicated the points on the display. “Mars can’t withstand that kind of firepower.”

“No.” I sighed. “They can’t.”

“I’ve been collecting ships ever since we parted ways,” Ashcroft said. “We’ve been fortunate in one respect. The Coriandon don’t know about us. So we’ve got some surprise muscle on our side—but it’s not enough. Not against two additional fleets. So here’s the plan I have so far. The second wormhole is the closest.” He indicated the display again. “We take our fleet, dash through this wormhole, and close it behind us. With the wormhole sealed shut, that denies the Coriandon an entire fleet. Against the other two, we might have a chance to defend Mars. Maybe.”

“That’s a big maybe,” I said.

“The biggest.”

“The real trick is how to seal the wormhole behind us,” I said. “They don’t exactly come with on-and-off switches.”

The admiral leaned over the table and thumbed an intercom button.

“Send in Ensign Poppins please.”

A woman entered the briefing room a second later. She was easily as young as Cindy, but that’s where the resemblance ended. Bright red hair cut short like a boy’s, slicked back and smooth. Skin a glaring white. Eyes the color of polar ice. Wide lips, pink. She wore a crisp uniform, brass buttons polished. Ensign insignia on her shoulders. Her perfect posture was as severe as the rest of her. She stood ramrod straight in front of the admiral, clicked her heels, and snapped off a salute.

“At ease, Ensign,” the admiral said. “Tell Agent Sloan your idea for closing the wormhole.”

“I was engineering track at the academy back on Mars.” Each word flew out of her as precise as a scalpel cut. “I took a theoretical physics class and the professor postulated that a sufficiently large enough antimatter explosion could collapse a wormhole. It’s never been tried, but the math is on his side.”

“Define ‘sufficiently large enough’,” I said.

“Overloading a starship engine that runs on antimatter should do it,” she said.

I looked at Ashcroft. “Do our ships run on antimatter?”

“No,” Ashcroft said, “but the Coriandon ships do.”

“I don’t suppose you happen to have captured a Coriandon ship recently.”

“We were hoping you’d capture one for us.”

“This is a terrible idea,” I said.

“Yes,” Ashcroft agreed, “but it’s the best terrible idea we’ve got.”

A
s battle armor went it was pretty lightweight, meant to give me a chance against small-arms fire but still allow for maximum maneuverability. Utility belt with sidearm and extra magazines, grenades, and beamer. Exploding tips for the ammo, since they worked best against the gelatinous aliens. Sadly there was a limited supply.

We’d also each been given a laser cutlass, which had proved effective against the Coriandons at close range.