Prison Ship (25 page)

“You know him?”

“Of course. The so-called Killer Cyborg murdered two of my crewmen when one of them made a comment about his former wife. The cyborg snapped both men’s spinal cords in half. I suggest you be wary of what it says to you. It may be your spinal cord next time.”

Steiner sat there, dumbfounded. He could almost hear himself echoing those same words to Suzanne when he first took command of the P.A.V.

“Don’t discount him as easily as I did,” he said. “He’s still the same man you served with. Talk to him. You’ll see—”

“That’s enough, Captain,” Cole scolded. “You didn’t have to face the families of those two innocent men. The Maxwell Tramer I knew would never have done such a thing. As far as I’m concerned, he died in that explosion seven years ago.” Cole stood up from the table. “I will always respect his memory.” Cole saluted him. “I wish you luck in your mission, Captain.”

Steiner returned the gesture, but only out of duty. He stood up and walked out the door. Cromwell and the gunman met him outside in the corridor and led him back to the
Marauder
. Steiner wondered how he would inform his crew that they were to be the sacrificial pawns in a giant chess game to win the galaxy.

“WE’VE been ordered to participate in a military offensive,” Steiner said to his officers after they had assembled around a table in the cafeteria.

Bricket shook his head and grumbled. A frown creased Daniels’s otherwise-serene face. Mason scowled. Curses erupted from Palmer and Sanchez. Tramer stood quietly at the end of the table, showing no emotion whatsoever.

“I don’t like this any more than the rest of you,” Steiner told them all. “The commodore has organized an assault against an enemy base under construction on Macrales that would threaten the future of the United Star Systems. Our mission is to draw off any ships guarding that planet.”

“That’s insane,” Mason shouted. “This bucket doesn’t stand a chance against any vessel in the Separatist fleet.”

Sanchez jumped up from his seat, raising his fist. “We’re prisoners—not martyrs.”

“That’s right,” Palmer joined in. “Tell the commodore to go to—”

Tramer stepped forward, intimidating them both into silence. Sanchez eased himself back into his chair.

No one else dared to argue.

After a few seconds, Steiner continued. “If we don’t participate in this offensive, the
Magellan
and every other vessel here will destroy us.”

Sanchez raised his hand. “What if we pretended to cooperate, then fled at the first opportunity?”

“Or better yet, our engines could suddenly malfunction,” Palmer added.

“No,” Tramer said with such firmness that he seized everyone’s attention. “If anyone attempts to sabotage the mission, he will deal with me personally.”

“The rest of us aren’t as eager to die as you are, Cyborg,” Sanchez replied.

Tramer glared down at the pilot for a long moment.

“The engines will be working at full capacity,” Daniels said, relieving the tension.

Steiner knew he could depend on the head engineer’s support, no matter how dangerous their assignments got.

“Ironhand, you still haven’t told us how we’re going to take on a battlecruiser,” Mason observed.

“They all have their pulse cannons controlled by computers,” Steiner said, aiming his gaze at Bricket. “What are the odds of disabling them?”

The bartender shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re asking. It would take months to break into a secured system.”

“We’ll only have a few minutes of contact before they destroy us.”

Bricket sighed and rubbed his beard. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

Steiner nodded, then turned his attention to the weapons officer. “Mr. Tramer, conduct several practice simulations with the gunners.”

“It will be done,” the weapons officer answered.

Mason raised his hand. “I want to be at the helm during the run. I’ve been outflying Separatist battlecruisers for years. I already know some of their weaknesses.”

“I’ll take any advantage I can get,” Steiner said. “Sanchez, Palmer, remain on standby during the battle.”

The two pilots nodded, grumbling to themselves.

Steiner straightened himself and took a deep breath, hoping to draw encouragement in with it. “Gentlemen, the operation begins at 1800, fifteen minutes from now. Good luck to you all. You’re dismissed.”

One by one the officers left to prepare their stations for what lay ahead. Steiner looked up at the pale countenance of Tramer. Cole’s warning reran within his mind.

“Thank you for your support, Maxwell,” Steiner said.

The weapons officer nodded.

SAM wrenched the control bar of the flight simulator back, but the computer-generated
Stormquest
failed to clear the ridge that materialized out of a cloud bank. It disintegrated against the mountainside.

Not again,
he scolded himself.

He hesitated before restarting the simulation. A greasy film covered the instruments from an hour of being handled by his sweaty hands. Fatigue demanded him to stop, but he refused to give in to it. Ever since his first solo flight in the
Stormquest
, he had worked harder than ever to improve his piloting skills in the hope he could fly her again.

He glanced about the empty computer room and wondered why Bricket had been called away so suddenly. Several of the terminals chirped softly as if calling out for their master.

Just then, Bricket hobbled into the room, muttering about something being impossible to accomplish. Overwhelmed with curiosity and anxious to be free of the simulator for a while, Sam climbed out of his seat.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You might as well know,” Bricket said. “We’ve been ordered on some suicide mission. Our only hope of survival is if I can break into an enemy warship’s computer network in a couple of minutes.”

“Is that possible?”

The bartender kicked the side of one of the consoles. “Fat chance. Military systems have too many security gates. I’ll never break—” He stopped when he noticed Mason standing in the doorway. “Can you believe that, Rick? The military gives us a death sentence for doing so well?”

Mason didn’t reply. He extracted a folded slip of paper from one of his pockets.

“What’s wrong, Rick?” Sam asked.

Mason fidgeted. “I don’t have time to explain.” He handed the note to Bricket. “This may help you.” He wheeled around and walked away.

“Rick?” Sam called after him, but the pilot was already gone. Sam looked at the bartender in bewilderment. “What does it say?”

Bricket opened the paper and turned it right side up. His forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “No, it can’t be.”

“What?” Sam demanded.

Bricket didn’t answer. He rushed to the main computer terminal.

STEINER shifted in his chair at the security station, keeping his gaze on the monitors. After his announcement of their mission, he had expected some protests, even rioting, but the convicts were preparing for battle, strapping themselves into each of the gunnery ports. Coming off the high of their mission at Hurot IV, some of them felt pride at their success, despite the odds. It might be they really had no idea how badly outmatched they were.

Steiner looked back into the interior of the command center. Sanchez and Palmer glared back from their standby positions next to the helm while Simmons listened to the communication channels at his station. The sparkle of excitement he had seen in them after the raid yesterday had vanished, replaced by bitterness and resentment. No doubt, they fully understood the situation before them. Steiner suspected they would mutiny if they had the means.

He glanced out the starboard viewport at the
Freedom
, positioned several kilometers away. Both of them had arrived just minutes ago at their assigned starting point along the border and were waiting for the order to begin the mission.

Steiner couldn’t help but remember the
Valiant
’s fatal run. Maybe this was how McKillip had felt. Helpless.

Mason climbed up the stairway to the command center.

“You’re late,” Steiner told him. “You almost lost your chance to pilot this mission.”

“I’m sorry,” Mason replied. “I had something very important to—”

“Captain, the
Magellan
is signaling us to initiate our run,” Simmons interrupted.

Steiner didn’t reply for a moment. He thought of how Mary might be beckoning him to join her now. That prospect used to comfort him, but not now. He wanted to live. He wanted to accomplish more as captain of the
Marauder
.

“Sir?” Simmons asked.

Steiner met Mason’s gaze. “If you’re ready,” he whispered, motioning to the helm. “Take us into starspeed on the prearranged coordinates.”

The pilot nodded, then maneuvered to his station.

Steiner took one last look at the monitors and saw Tramer heading toward the command center. Satisfied, he stood up and made his way to the command chair.

The stars crept by in the side viewports, gaining speed until they blurred into thin streaks of light. The
Freedom
trailed closely behind in the rear port. Steiner suspected all of its guns were aimed at them in case they tried to deviate from their course.

The destroyer disappeared from sight when Mason phased the
Marauder
into starspeed. Steiner’s stomach already felt so tight that he didn’t even feel the effects of the dimensional shift. They barreled through the utter blackness with only the navigational sensors to direct Mason along a safe path.

Can we survive the same trip back, blinded?
Steiner asked himself as he strapped himself into his seat.

Tramer’s heavy footsteps announced his arrival in the command center. He stood at his post in front of the weapons console. “Thirty seconds to the planet Macrales.” His synthesized voice rang out through the utter silence.

Steiner could feel the room closing in around him. The desire to be free of his confines grew. He released his safety harness. It wouldn’t help him anyway. They would be destroyed too quickly for it to be of any use. He slipped to the edge of the chair in expectation. “Are there any vessels in orbit?” he asked.

“Two Separatist battlecruisers and a dreadnaught,” Tramer answered.

A dreadnaught,
Steiner thought. A warship more powerful than the other two combined. Once during his tour aboard the
Valiant
, he had seen one defeat two U.S.S. destroyers by itself.

“Both battlecruisers are initiating pursuit,” Tramer said.

“Mr. Mason, angle our trajectory back toward U.S.S. space.”

Before the words had completely left Steiner’s mouth, the pilot guided the
Marauder
into a wide arc and retreated.

The chase was on.

“One of the defending vessels is pursuing us while the other is engaging the
Freedom
,” Tramer announced.

Steiner hoped Cole’s attack force succeeded in fighting off the dreadnaught and destroying the base. He didn’t want his death to be wasted, not like McKillip’s.

“I’ve just lost navigational sensors.”

The hairs on Steiner’s arms stood on end. For a moment, he had thought he heard Suzanne’s voice instead of Mason’s. Should they continue, blinded? Certainly not. History would repeat itself. Steiner refused to die in a retreat. “Reduce speed,” he said, then activated the shipwide intercom. “All stations, prepare for combat.”

STEINER’S announcement over the speakers in the computer room sent shivers down Sam’s back. “How’s it coming?” he asked.

“Give me a second to finish the link,” Bricket replied, clenching his cigar between his teeth. “Besides, this will probably fail anyway.”

On the screen, the enemy vessel’s computer prompt appeared.

“Here goes nothing.” Bricket typed in the long series of numbers and characters written on the paper Mason had given him.

The screen darkened.

Bricket sighed, creating a small cloud of smoke. “It cut us off just as I—”

Before the bartender could finish, an emblem resembling a silhouette of Emperor Staece wielding a sword appeared. A menu of command functions was listed below the picture.

Bricket gasped. His cigar dropped against the console with a splash of glowing ashes. “I don’t believe it. We’re in.”

“What do we do now?” Sam asked.

The bartender snickered. “Use their vices against them.”

CAPTAIN Ronald Peters smiled to himself when he saw the fleeing spacecraft turn to defend itself. His battlecruiser,
Conqueror
, was monstrous in comparison. The U.S.S. must really be desperate to be utilizing ships as pitiful as these.

“Sir, the enemy vessel is charging up its weapons,” Lieutenant Niles said.

“Do the same to ours,” Peters replied. “Program into our computer: Attack Response Three.”

This battle would be short.

Blasts of orange-red energy beat against the
Conqueror
’s defensive energy shields without any effect.

“Is that the best you can do?” Peters coaxed the vessel on the viewscreen. “Lieutenant, initiate our response.”

He turned back for one last look at his opponent. One hit from a megacannon should break it in two. He waited expectantly, but nothing happened.

“What is the delay, Niles?”

“You had better see this for yourself, sir,” the young officer muttered in disbelief.

Peters stared at the readout. On the screen, a barely dressed female danced about.

“What is this?” he shouted. “Access the weapons.”

The lieutenant pressed several keypads, but the woman continued, uninhibited.

“The computer won’t accept any commands. It is receiving an outside signal that is locking us out.”

“Outside signal?” Peters exclaimed. “From wher—?” He looked up at the U.S.S. vessel broadsiding them with a fierce blanket of energy bolts. “Send an attack virus into the connection,” he demanded.

Immediately, Niles typed out the commands to do so. “How were they able to break into our network, sir?”