Korhal: a dead corpse of a planet. Scorched deserts, vast planes of sand fused into radioactive glass by nuclear fire, with a nitrogen-poor atmosphere, barely thick enough to broil its inhabitants with the heat of the weak, ruddy-orange sun.
Presently, this was a crippled corpse. A week had passed since the Dominion propaganda networks had reported that the Augustgrad Capitol Complex had been attacked by John Conrad and an indeterminate number of Protoss warriors. The general Dominion public was amused at Conrad’s evolution before their very eyes. Since his initial escape from the Sons of Korhal fleet at Tarsonis four years ago, his title had been elevated, from “thief” to “traitor” to “terrorist,” and now he had been deemed the greatest villain since Jason Murdock, during the Great War of 2150, on Earth.
However, to the enemies of Arcturus Mengsk and his war torn Dominion, John Conrad was seen as no less than a new Messiah. It was now common knowledge in the underworld that there were no Protoss in the attack on Augustgrad. Conrad had been alone. The entire Korhal System was under lockdown, so no one off world knew exactly how much damage had been done.
But Alia Calhoon had every intention to find out. She commanded a small splinter of the old Confederate Resistance Forces. She had split with Samir Duran after a long dispute over his alliance with the United Earth Directorate. Since then, her pitiful little fleet skittered from planet to planet, desperate to avoid attention.
She was a woman in a man’s world, an Admiral in a Terran militia. She shuddered to think of the things that she had been forced to do to earn her standing. But now, with the stripes on her shoulder, she commanded with an iron fist. She took infinite joy in paying back the male pigs that had held her back, and she paid them back plus change. And she paid them back in spades.
But none of this worked. She just couldn’t comprehend any of it. For three years, the Confederate Resistance Forces huddled in the darkness of deep space, praying for a slip up, a disaster, anything to offer an opportunity.
And now, the fleet was inbound for Korhal itself. She knew that all she needed was one successful strike at the Dominion, and she could have the entire Sector rushing to her side. She would show them all… But only if her crew would cooperate, which was a tall order in and of itself.
“What do you mean you can’t get a visual?” Calhoon barked at her first officer.
Captain Joseph King was the only man she’d met who would stand up to such abuse from a woman. So, despite a notable lack of skill, he held the second-hand position in her fleet. He had been submitted to his worst bombardment yet in the past hours. “I mean we’re too damn far away!” he replied. After a brief moment, he quickly added, “Sir.”
Calhoon whirled on the young man at the sensor console. “You!” she said, “Why the hell can’t you get a visual?”
“Sir, we’re too far away. The planet’s totally shrouded. We’d have to get right on top of it to see through whatever’s in the atmosphere.”
“This is as close as we come. The Dominion still has the orbital defenses.” She leaned over the sensor console, and looked the man there right in the eye. “You have one hour to get me a visual of that planet, or I’ll have your ass hanging on my wall.” King bit his lip to keep from smiling. He tried to count how many asses the admiral had “hanging on her wall.”
The young officer was obviously quite misinformed on the admiral’s disposition on the bridge of her flag ship, the Darkhammer. King couldn’t blame him. The fleet had recruited him only weeks before. But in Calhoon’s realm, mistakes were potentially terminal. Airlocks were better known as gallows. He defiantly informed her, “It can’t be done! It’ll take weeks for that smoke to clear. It’s like the planet’s in nuclear winter.”
Alia’s eyes glowed with hate. She took two long strides around the console, grabbed the officer by the hair, and stood him up. Her victim quickly tacked a half-hearted “Sir” on to his excuse. After all, that seemed to have saved the Captain moments before. Whoever informed him that he could question anything Calhoon said was clearly not his friend. “What was that? Did you just disagree with me?” Calhoon smiled wickedly at him. “What’s your name, insect?”
The officer sputtered something that may have been a name, but the words just didn’t congeal. Calhoon backhanded him in the mouth. “What are these?” she said, twisting the sleeve of her uniform so he could see the stripes. More sputtering. “I have more of these than you do. That means, when I snap my fingers, you jump, salute, and say ‘Yes, Sir!’ Now get off my bridge before I toss you out an airlock!”
The bridge utterly silent when she turned away from her latest victim. All eyes were glued on consoles, and everyone was very busy in trying to look busy. Retaking her position in the center of the bridge, within five steps of striking distance of anyone on the bridge, she asked King, “Is it possible at all to get a look at Korhal without going in?”
“No.”
She shrugged. Calhoon was never deeply concerned about facts. In her fleet, a dispute ended up one of two ways: Either Calhoon was the only one right, or she was the only one left.
***
Meanwhile, on Korhal, chaos reigned. Augustgrad was in complete ruin for the fourth time in the past four years. Fire had spread through the city, killing thousands. This was far worse than anything before. After the generator at the Capitol Comlex was destroyed, the continent’s main power plant, the largest fusion reactor in the sector, melted down. No particular connection, the municipal spending funds that would repair the reactor had run dry, what little resources that had been there had financed Mengsk’s little charade at Shakuras.
Smoke was slowly filling the skies of Korhal. Two-thirds of the planet was fully shrouded, and the rest was trapped in a perpetual twilight. A hundred thousand square miles were irradiated when the reactor blew, six hours after Conrad’s escape. Solar backup was useless without sunlight.
The deep irony of it all was that before the Confederacy destroyed Korhal, the location where Augustgrad now stood had been a small atoll, surrounded by over one hundred kilometers of fresh water. Now, with the seas boiled away by the heat of multi-gigaton bombs, there was nothing to use against the flames now consuming the city save a few holes of distilled organic sludge, which seemed to burn better than refined Vespine gas. The Dominion was already abandoning Augustgrad, but there was a new concern.
Weather stations had already recorded a five-degree rise in temperature worldwide. Korhal was slowly spiraling into a runaway greenhouse effect. Anyone who was alive all those years ago, during the holocaust, knew what followed. A brief, but fiery period, followed by months, possibly years, of freezing cold winter.
And there wasn’t a damn thing Arcturus Mengsk could do about it.
He paced his new temporary offices in Pelograd, the provincial capitol of Korhal. His right arm was bandaged and useless, and a small machine trundled behind him, attached like some bizarre parasite with tubes and wires, breathing for his ruined lungs.
He had just received word that the Dominion would have to abandon Korhal, at least for the time being. There was no power to most of the planet, and the megalopolis stretching many kilometers out from Augustgrad was beyond salvage. A million tons of smoke a day poured out of the city, and that number was growing constantly as the fires grew. The planet had no natural heat sink, no oceans, nothing to dampen the devastation of a massive city fire. It would take months for the fires to die and the smoke to settle. The cabinet was pressuring Mengsk strongly to unlock the system, and allow in the ships to facilitate a planetary evacuation.
Mengsk was by no means eager to abandon his homeworld. This planet, burning dirt clod that it was, represented his unswerving power over those around him. He was musing over the plan he had just been given by his science advisor. The news was grim, the options few.
Mengsk finally got his wits about him. “Why is this happening now?” he asked. “Why didn’t we have this when the UED attacked, or Kerrigan for that matter?”
“When the UED attacked, Your Majesty,” the advisor said, trying very hard not to sound too superior, “they did not start fires in the city itself. They wanted people left behind to man their factories. Kerrigan only attacked their bases and hive clusters. The Zerg were never within fifty kilometers of Augustgrad itself.” Mengsk was surprised at how competent this redneck neophyte was at his job.
So… Mengsk thought, It’s all happening again. Korhal was dying. Mengsk was overwhelmed. Never would he show weakness before his subjects. Never! But now, he was struggling to control his emotions. Turning to the window, he gazed at the pink sands around Pelograd, and the dark red sky, wondering if Korhal could ever be rebuilt.
“Is it too late to evacuate?” He asked.
His advisor hesitated. Mengsk already knew the horrible truth. “If we dedicate every ship in the Dominion now, we can evacuate everyone who can be safely relocated.”
“And how many is that?” Mengsk asked.
“Well… Korhal’s population is down to thirty-six million now. But we estimate that at least fifteen million people are either dead, or irradiated to the point that they can’t be transported with everyone else.”
Mengsk suddenly thought what it would be like to have the blood of fifteen million on his hands. The though struck him as odd, considering that Tarsonis and Antiga had a combined population of over eight billion, and he had all of their blood on his hands. What was fifteen million more? And besides, it wasn’t even Mengsk’s fault, it was Conrad’s. Yes… blame Conrad. Damn Johnny. Mengsk was relieved that the Protoss had returned Conrad’s escape pod, and the terrorist’s charred body. It was a pity there wasn’t enough left to execute… for that matter, there wasn’t enough left to identify. A public execution would deflect most of the public blame.
“Twenty one million…” Mengsk said, absently. Famine, war, terrorism… He was alive when over two billion people called the lush, primordial paradise of Korhal home. “I want you to tell the Cabinet to begin the evacuation. Have them tell General Domes to commandeer every freight or passenger ship he can find. I need some time… to think.”
Mengsk’s advisor bowed, exiting the room.
Mengsk turned back to the window, to watch his Dominion slowly crumble, like the sand dunes.
He was alone. A ruined man on a ruined world in a ruined empire. And he had no one to blame but himself.
***
Automation, voice command, self-aiming smart weapons. Who could ask for more in a ship? Conrad had christened his new ship Macbeth, after that fiery king of Scotland. He wished he had a half a credit for every time the question “Why don’t they build ships like this anymore?” crossed his mind.
Because if he did, he could afford a ship that worked. The answer to his question was vividly illustrated around him. Grating rattled on the floor, panels hung from the ceiling. The entire ship was little more than an airtight coffin. Offhandedly, Conrad had more than once regretted not naming it Duncan.
The outbound from Aiur had been a nightmarish trip. The warp drive shut down every few seconds. It took days to reach the edge of the Koprulu Sector. Where he would go from there, he didn’t know. Rather, he did know. He was going nowhere.
Something horrible was wrong. Klaxons in each corner of the bridge were crackling, just short of blaring to life. The gravity control swung from zero to ten g in gut wrenching jolts.
“Computer, report!” Conrad yelled, for the hundredth time. He was greeted by a garble of static and beeping. One of the boxy little androids manning the bridge consoles had torn loose from its moorings, and was sliding across the deck.
Finally, the ship came to rest. The navigation computer had crashed, aborting the jump. Now, the system was now trying to establish the ship’s location. Conrad listened, holding his breath, for the low hiss of escaping air.
Hearing nothing, he took his seat in the center of the bridge. It seemed the hull was the only thing that hadn’t yet broken. He decided it best to sit where he was, and decide where he was going before he tried to get there. He was not eager to fire up the engines again. His hair was matted with blood, his shirt was torn, and his ship was falling apart. If he survived another jump, Macbeth wouldn’t.
***
“King, in my office,” Calhoon barked. “Tactical briefing.”
When King arrived in the small office off the bridge, Calhoon had already started talking. “…it would stick out like a sore thumb,” she was saying, “I don’t think the gunships will be small enough either. How many Firestorm crafts do we have?”
King’s head spun. He didn’t know what was going on, but then, he knew that Admiral Calhoon preferred it that way. “Four, sir,” he said.
“Throw in all our Valkyries, and round the number up to ten using Wraiths.” Calhoon said, glancing over some meaningless data scrolling on the wall screen. “I don’t know how their ground based defenses are, so we can launch a decoy mission using combat drones to draw attention.”
“May I ask what mission this is, Admiral?”
“If you had gotten here immediately,” Calhoon said, scowling, “You wouldn’t have to ask such stupid questions. We aren’t here to pick a fight. I want ten pilots to do a low run over Augustgrad. I want to see how much damage this Conrad managed to do.”
“Could we use him?” King asked.
“Now what kind of dumbass question is that, Joe?” Calhoon said. “The Devil himself could use Conrad. I plan to use him. I don’t trust the rumors that he’s dead. The Dominion has reported Conrad dead three times.”
“He may be this time. They have a body.”
Calhoon pounded the metal table. “They have nothing! Do you hear me? Nothing! All they have is a media puppet and a shovel full of bullshit and half a dozen planets full of people lining up with spoons to eat whatever Mengsk puts on their plates.” She sighed. King was the only man she could regret yelling at. But she never regretted it that much.“If he’s dead, then we find another weapon. If Conrad is alive, I want him on our side. I don’t know how he did it, but he single handedly wrecked Korhal. That’s all there is to it.”
She rubbed her forehead, then suddenly stood upright. She hated lapses of weakness in front of her crew. “The Dominion fleet is doing something at the city of Menhein, we don’t know what. But that’s half way around the planet from Augustgrad. If you move fast enough, your fighters will go undetected.”
King bit his lip, and said, “What about the ground based defenses? Augustgrad has some pretty big AA guns.” He braced for the storm. Rarely did he dare question Calhoon. He regretted it every time.
But this time, he wouldn’t. “I’ll have the remote pilots flying combat drones a thousand meters below you,” Calhoon said, “If they take too much fire, have your pilots pull up.”
King was skeptical, but he never dared pursue a dispute with Calhoon. He had seen dozens of men blasted out of airlocks for such a sin. Calhoon fell into a chair, and waved King off. At the door, King turned, and looked at the admiral, who was staring blankly at a bulkhead. “Admiral?” No response. “Admiral?” he said again, louder.
Calhoon turned with a start. “What is it now?” she growled.
“It’s just… well…” King sputtered, “You seem… distant lately. Is there something I should know about Korhal?”
“No,” she said, quickly. “I’ve been tired lately. I get too keyed up about things like this.”
King left, and Calhoon stared at the viewscreen dominating the end of the table. The truth was, something was bothering her. A distress call had been received from Dominar Michael Kane, a mostly unheard of man, the second most powerful in the Dominion, some said the most powerful. With or without the Emperor’s permission, Dominar Kane had asked the Confederate Resistance to assist in evacuating Korhal, in exchange for amnesty.
She smelled a rat. Mengsk had offered the governor’s seat of her homeworld, Braxis as reward for killing or capturing Alia Calhoon, with the added incentive of appointing a Senator if Joe King dies with her. She had to know that Korhal was crippled before taking her hard won fleet anywhere near the place.
***
“God damn it!” Conrad yelled. He punched the steel-plated door with all his strength, splitting the skin over his knuckles.
The sliding clamshell doors at the back of the bridge of the Macbeth refused to close fully. The ship’s reactor was destabilized. If the bridge could be isolated, then life support could be cut in the rest of the ship. Temperature control and atmospheric regulation took twenty-five percent of the total output of a standard Titan-Alpha reactor. The bridge accounted for only one half of one percent of the air mass of a battle cruiser. Conrad didn’t like math, but even he knew that he could get a lot of power by cutting life support to over ninety-nine percent of a ship.
But, of course, that meant he had to seal the bridge. And Macbeth was not a cooperative ship. The heavy doors were stuck several centimeters apart.
“Well, on to Plan B,” Conrad thought out loud. He looked across the engineer’s pit at the main bridge, and the dead, insectile machines set at each console, as if looking for approval, or perhaps a Plan B. On the main screen was a twenty year old image of Tarsonis. The bridge lights were out, and the central computer was completely dead.
A beep. A feeble red light flashed on the rear communications console. A general frequency distress call. Conrad pushed the flashing button to display the message. The bridge lights died briefly as power was diverted. On the small screen, a scrambled, broken up image of Arcturus Mengsk materialized. Conrad was amazed how emaciated the Emperor looked. He was skin drawn over bone. When he spoke, his voice was a vestige of the power he formerly commanded. “My fellow Terrans. I have little time to speak to you. It is with a heavy heart that I inform you that after the Protoss attack on our capitol city of Augustgrad, and a subsequent nuclear accident, the Terran Dominion is being forced to abandon Korhal. I am sending this message to everyone. I beg that all ship owners within the sound of my voice drop what you are doing, and come to Korhal, to evacuate the survivors. This is the Dominion’s darkest hour, and all who help will be greatly rewarded.”
Conrad cut him off. How he could have done so much damage was beyond him. It was probably Mengsk’s fault. Just pushing the blame off on everybody’s favorite scapegoat: John Conrad.
Conrad stepped around the pit, and stood before the image of Tarsonis. He could see the outlines of the city New Gettysburg, on the southern continent, with its geosynchronous space platform. Antietam was just to the north. He imagined the cities gone, and the brown and green wastes stained purple by the Zerg creep. It was almost as if he could watch the years pass before his eyes. Something thundered in the ship, shaking the bridge. Just another failure… nothing special.
***
Calhoon was roused from her reverie when the wall comm began to beep. She rose, and pressed the button on it. “What?”
It was King. “There’s a Dominion fleet approaching us.”
Calhoon cocked an eyebrow. “Find out who the commander is,” she said. She took a final glance at the starscape outside the slit-windows, and stepped out onto the bridge. “Well? Who is it?” she asked, as if the crew had had plenty of time to find out.
King pulled at his collar. “Um… It’s Dominar Kane. He want’s to speak with you, Admiral.”
Calhoon felt her shoulders tense. The trap is set, she thought sadly.
On the front viewscreen, a tall, impeccably tailored man in full dress uniform appeared. “Greetings, Admiral Calhoon,” he said, his handlebar moustache bouncing with his words.
Calhoon spoke cautiously. “Dominar Kane,” She said. After a tense moment of silence, each waiting for the other to speak, she finally said, “Why?” So much for caution.
“You know why,” Kane said. “Ask your crew. How many of them have heard of me?” There was no need to ask. Within the dominion, Michael Kane was pretty much unheard of. “I want what is rightfully mine. I don’t care who I have to ally with to get it, but I want to take credit for my accomplishments from now on.”
Calhoon could see that King was quite impressed with the show, but Calhoon knew better. This man was as much a snake as Mengsk. He could just as easily get famous blowing the Darkhammer out of space as allying with its admiral.
Kane smiled knowingly at her. “If it makes you feel better, there are several Alpha Squad ships about to arrive. Do I need to prove my rebel spirit to you?” Before Calhoon had to answer, the screen blanked, and showed a group of five Dominion ships. The fleet slowly turned and moved away.
“Follow them.” Calhoon ordered.
***
The officer on duty approached Kane after his exchange with Admiral Calhoon. “Sir? Why don’t the Confederates trust you? I would think they would welcome such a powerful ally as the Dominar,” he said.
Kane stroked his moustache. “No. Alia Calhoon is no idiot. She’s seen traitors come and go like the rains,” he said, “She knows better than to blindly trust anyone. If God himself came here and said, ‘I want to fight with you,’ Calhoon would say, ‘Prove it.’” In blatant opposition to the Fundamental Laws that had governed Humanity since the days of the UPL, Kane was deeply religious, clinging to his family’s long devotion to Catholicism.
“I want an ETA on General Domes’s ship. Bring the fleet to full combat readiness, and extend an invitation to Calhoon to join us in battle,” he told the officer. Which officer… he couldn’t tell. They all looked alike to him, no more than a targeting laser dragging a target around behind.
“Sixty seconds, sir.”
Kane sat in his command chair. This was his finest hour! Today, he would have the limelight, not Mengsk.
“Sound general quarters. Charge both Yamato cannons. Start launching the fighters. As soon as they appear, I want the fleet to engage the Norad at point blank. Domes never have more than two support ships, we’ll take care of them” He frowned, then smiled quietly to himself. Norad V it was now, unless he had lost count. Soon there would have to be a Norad VI. Why don’t they stop naming them that?
***
Conrad groaned, and swore. Now, the very system that gave him life was taking it. The life support systems were breaking down, draining more and more power in the process. Conrad had torn several panels from the floor of the engineering pit. He knew that he could shut off anything in the ship from here…But he didn’t know which cable fed what.
Before him were perhaps twenty thick power cables, each with a heavy switchbox attached, each with a paper label. Each label was marked, “DO NOT REMOVE LABEL,” in huge red letters. There was no reference to what the cable did, however.
“Well… here goes something,” he said, reaching for the first cable in the line. He closed his eyes, and hoped for the best.
His hand touched the cutoff switch. Sparks flared around him, and he was thrown clear across the pit. He struck his head against something, and felt immediately the warm gush of blood down his shoulders. Stars danced before his eyes; his oculars had shorted out briefly.
Regaining his senses, he looked at his right hand. The palm and fingers were burnt, and the wounds where he had split his knuckles on the door had been cauterized. Oddly, there was no pain. This bothered him. He’d had enough experience with nerve trauma to know that if something looked like it should hurt, and didn’t, it would require surgery. He crawled back to the open panel.
“I wonder how many more of those there are,” he said, reaching for the second cable. This time, he stopped short. The switch box of this cable was touching the one that had just electrocuted him. He crossed his fingers, and reached to the third switch. He pulled it. He closed his eyes. Nothing seemed to happen. At least, he wasn’t dead.
He held his breath, and he heard it. Or, rather, he didn’t hear it. Normally, a space ship is full of noise. The dominant sound is the low groan of air in ducts, fans, and heaters regulating the environment in the ship. Now, the Macbeth was silent, save the deep throb of the generators.
Now, he didn’t have much time. He had enough air to last him years, but it would only be a few hours before the cosmos sucked the heat from the ship. He hurried up the twisted ladder out of the engineering pit, and crossed the bridge to the navigation computer. A large, spidery robot blocked access. If the computer were working, he could tell the robot what to do. As it was, he just kicked it, breaking the bolts holding it to the deck. He brought up the vector to Korhal, aiming for the fifth planet in the system, a gas giant, which was next out from Korhal’s orbit. He typed the command to transfer the vector to the helm. An error beeped. “Invalid Network Connection” flashed on the monitor.
“Bullshit,” he said softly as he committed the vector to memory. The connections between the consoles had to go through the main computer. He crossed to the helm, and manually input the vector. He knelt in front of the console, where the controlling android had broken lose during the last jump coming from Aiur, bracing his knees in a dented panel. He engaged the warp drive, and closed his eyes as the universe swirled into chaos around him.
***
“General Domes?” Calhoon said. Her eyes danced with glee at the thought of taking down the Big Dog himself. Now that Duke was dead, his successor Domes was the king of the roost, and the only man to be truly feared by the underground. With him gone, Dominar Kane was the only brain behind Mengsk, and today he would either be on her side, or he would be dead.
She turned away from Kane’s image on the viewscreen. “Call battle stations. Condition red. Captain King, I want you to call the fighters to combat readiness. Have the sim pilots launch all the combat drones they can control at one time.”
She turned back to Kane. “What about the evacuation?” she asked.
Kane nodded. “You didn’t think I’d be so vain I’d destroy a rescue fleet do you? I control the Dominion Commerce Commission. I have already arranged for every commercial and private trade ship in the sector to come to our aid, as well as the defense fleet of Umoja and the Kel-Morian shipping fleet. I have also arranged for Umoja to provide space for the refugees.” He seemed to have everything planned out perfectly. How could he do all this under Mengsk’s nose? Calhoon asked herself.
Her thoughts were cut short when King tapped her on the shoulder. “Admiral, transmission for you,” he said, “It’s General Domes.”
The main screen had split, Kane was still visible on the left, and the right half was filled with the pale and frail face of General Domes. It was well known that Domes had been born on a Confederate gunship. He was born into the service, and hadn’t set foot on a planet or in direct sunlight in his life.
He was sneering at Calhoon and Kane, who was sneering back, his gaze seeming to focus off to one side. “Well, well, your Excellency. I assume this is your prisoner?” Somehow, his face became even meaner. “If it isn’t, you’re going to have some explaining to do to the High Court.”
Kane turned from the screen, and said something that didn’t pick up on the comm. His image vanished from the screen.
“Get rid of him,” Calhoon said, indicating Domes’s face on the screen, “And get me a line to the fleet.” She waited for several seconds for the channel, and then said, “All ships, engage the Norad. There’ll be a special bonus for the crew of the ship that fires the killing shot!” She turned to King and added, “Don’t worry, Kane has plenty of firepower. He’ll finish them off before we do.”
***
“Take out the flanking gunships with the Yamato,” Kane said, as his ship shook under his feet. “And get those Wraiths after the enemy fighters, damnit!”
On the foreward screen, the guns on the two flank ships swiveled towards his ship, and the image vanished in a red flash. “Tactical display’s out!” the sensor officer reported.
Kane swore. The engineer finally said, “Yamatos are charged.”
Kane smiled. Now, Calhoon, you will see! he thought. “Fire!”
***
“Why aren’t we firing?” Calhoon was yelling. The Darkhammer’s bridge was dark, and rapidly filling with a thick haze. Another direct hit from the Dominion gunship caused the tactical display to blur. The image slowly began to slide left and up. Nobody had to report for her to know that the maneuvering thrusters were gone, and the ship was starting to rotate.
“In case you haven’t noticed, the power’s out!” King said for the fifth time. It was rare that he allowed himself to show anger towards his superior, but he felt the situation allowed it. He could always beg off this time.
“Send the cargo hauler port! Try to draw their fire,” Calhoon ordered.
On the screen, a telltale red glow began to form at the bow of Kane’s ship… But there was something odd, she couldn’t quite tell what it was, but it didn’t look normal. A massive beam lanced through space from the cruiser, totally obliterating the Dominion gunship that had crippled the Darkhammer.
King saw it too. “Holy shit,” he said. As soon s the first dissipated, a second beam glanced across the other gunship, sending its remains spinning into the starboard weapon nacelle on the Norad.
There had been rumors for two years that the Dominion had built a ship with dual Yamato cannons, but there was no evidence that such a ship truly existed. And now it was hers. Hers!
***
The gates of Hell had opened. The broken klaxons on the bridge were s quaking and sputtering. Steel plates and debris sailed through the air. Conrad suddenly felt as if an immense weight had been removed from him. The gravity planers were out.
Conrad opened his eyes as a beep signaled the Macbeth was reentering normal space. He clutched a metal bar protruding from the ceiling of the bridge, and brought himself to a halt. Something had torn loose on the outer hull, and hung across the camera, obscuring part of the viewscreen.
He braced his feet on the ceiling, and launched himself into the engineering pit. Fighting a wave of nausea, he scrambled his way to the set of cutoff switches again, narrowly escaping another jolt from the broken switch. Right next to these switches, on the floor, were the emergency power inputs to each of the ship’s systems.
Unfortunately, the panel covering the inputs was twisted, and jammed in place. Conrad couldn’t get enough leverage to open it without gravity. Locking his feet in the floor grating, he carefully rolled his sleeve away from his burnt hand to reveal the heavy wristband there. He touched his chest, and confirmed that the amulet was undamaged, and focused a small burst of psionic energy into the band, igniting the half-meter long warp blade. He slashed at the plate several times. It glowed red, but refused to break.
In desperation, Conrad gripped the edge of the panel, and pulled. Slowly, it bent where it had been heated. Here, the cables were marked. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? Conrad thought, looking at the small scraps of paper that could have saved him a lot of pain, Well, too late now.
He located the cables for the gravity planers, and slid the handle to the “emergency” position. All around him, debris clattered to the decks. He too fell the short distance to the floor, catching his chin on the bent panel and biting his tongue. He tasted blood.
Yet again, the crackle-hiss of the broken klaxons screeched in his ears. Quickly, Conrad climbed from the engineering pit. In the narrow slit of visible space on the forward screen, a Wraith, bearing Dominion markings, was spinning out of control, seemingly straight at the camera. Behind it, a Dominion Firestorm and another Wraith, this one bearing modified Confederate markings, were splitting in opposite directions. Conrad started to ask himself why a Dominion ship and a Confederate one would be flying together, but was interrupted. The damaged Wraith seemed to pass just inches under the camera. A split second later, the entire ship shook from the collision.
Conrad heard something under the crackling sirens. He ran to the back corner of the bridge, and gripped one of the sirens, which was already broken partway off of the wall. Straining, he pulled the boxy device from the wall. There was still the other alarm sputtering, but that sound Conrad though he heard was fully audible now.
It was the whistle of air escaping into space.
***
Kane’s face on the screen looked utterly baffled. As soon as this new ship had come hurtling into the system, Domes had turned his ship around, and was in full retreat. “The database lists the ships ID number as matching the CRS Discovery II.”
Calhoon cocked an eyebrow. “You mean one of the unmanned explorer ships?”
Kane looked away from the screen, reading from the file on the ship, “Yes. But the Discovery II was reported lost in space twenty-three years ago. It must be a pirate ship. They use fake ID’s all the time.” Kane said, not sounding very convinced.
Too her left, the comm officer turned in his seat. “Sir! The ship is sending out a distress call. There’s somebody on board.”
Calhoon nodded, and waved her hand. The image of a bloodied young man wearing a battered Sons of Korhal uniform appeared on the right half of the screen, petrified with fear, and clutching a broken piece of metal like a crutch. “Well, seeing as you all have been nice enough to breach my hull, you might be nice enough to get me the hell out of here?” he wheezed.
Calhoon looked at the image, rapt. King came to her side, and touched her shoulder, bringing her back to her senses. King was saying something, but Calhoon stepped away from him, towards the screen. “John Conrad?” she asked.
“I don’t see what the hell difference that makes, unless you want the reward.” Conrad said, his lip curled in anger. “But seeing as you were slugging it out with the Dominion flagship, I doubt they’d let you have it. Now… when can I expect you to get me out of here? I’ve seen people dying from vacuum exposure, and I really don’t want to join them!”
Calhoon turned from the screen, and told King, “Get a boarding ship over there now! And save that ship, too, we need every gun we can get.”
King scurried off on his assigned task, taking half the bridge crew with him for some reason or another.
Turning back to Conrad’s image, Calhoon said, in an uncharacteristically soft voice she asked, “Can I trust you enough to bring you into my army?” She laughed, and continued, “You have a history of turning on you commanders.”
“Can I trust you?” Conrad replied, “My commanders have a history of stabbing me in the back.”
