The Long March (The Exiled Fleet Book 2) Read online

  A lens flipped over the bodyguard’s eye from the edge of his helm.

  “Different clothes…faces are filthy, but that’s Wyman and Tolan.”

  A trio of armed guards ran after the spy and the pilot. One drew a pistol and fired into the air. Thorvald stepped between the Commodore and the new danger.

  “Derringer,” Gage waved to the driver with his good arm, “they’re with us.”

  Derringer nodded and turned away, fingertips to an ear. The pursuing guards slowed and stopped, two of them beating nightsticks against their palms.

  Wyman won the footrace and stopped at the base of the ramp. He leaned forward, elbows to knees as he breathed hard.

  “Daegon…in the city…” Wyman said between heaving inhalations.

  “I have no reason to stay in this city and you come with another reason to leave sooner rather than later, Lieutenant,” Gage said. “Get aboard.”

  Wyman nodded furiously and made his way past Gage.

  The Commodore did his best to ignore the rank stench coming off the pilot as he waited for Tolan. The spy wiped sweat off his brow as he stepped onto the ramp, relieved as if he’d just crossed a finish line.

  “Well?” Gage asked.

  “Found out what we could,” Tolan said. “A few complications along the way, but I’m paid for my ends, not my methods.”

  Gage started back up the ramp.

  “We heard there were a number of explosions in the city,” Gage said. “That was you?”

  “Complications.” Tolan waved a dismissive hand in the air. “A little larceny here and there, some major property damage, killed a Daegon infiltrator and a few of his unwitting local muscle. Looks like you had less fun than we did. Did flyboy mention that we should leave? Now?”

  Gage crossed the threshold into the cargo bay and sank into his seat. Thorvald undid the sling holding the Commodore’s arm and unwrapped the bandages as the engines roared to life.

  ****

  Wyman tilted his head back against the bulkhead as the shuttle cleared Sicani’s atmosphere. His skin crawled from the filth that soaked through his boots and clothes. He felt the warmth from growing bruises over his body, but his mind stayed fixed not on his physical discomfort, but on the dancer that died in his arms.

  Wyman leaned forward and looked at Tolan sitting next to him. The spy removed a small mirror from his jacket and held it close to his face. The man’s features adjusted, morphing to the countenance Wyman was used to.

  “I heard you talking to the Commodore,” Wyman said.

  “Mm-hmm,” Tolan hummed.

  “You didn’t mention the dead woman. The innocent bystanders that were hurt. Why?”

  Tolan lowered the mirror and sighed at the pilot.

  “She doesn’t matter.”

  “Doesn’t matter? She’s dead, you bastard. Dead because of us.”

  “Now now, we weren’t the ones that shot her. Weren’t the ones that decided to put the locals in danger by gunning after us. You can find all the reasons you want to make yourself responsible for what happened to her, and it’ll never bring you a moment’s peace. What’s done is done. Get over it and move on to the next mission.”

  “If we hadn’t screwed up, if we’d made it in and out of the Martian’s place without being seen, she’d still be alive. Don’t tell me your conscience is clean.”

  “Listen, my boy, I killed my conscience a long time ago. It was of no use to me. In all my years poking around wild space, I learned the hard way that survival depends on a very highly refined sense of selfishness. Empathy and compassion get intelligence operatives killed. You think my ship, the Joaquim, was meant for a single person? I had a team. They’re all dead because one of us decided to make a choice between the harder right and an easier wrong. You’ve got emotions over one civilian casualty? Get over it. Take responsibility only for your actions. We got what we went down there for. We won.”

  Tolan picked up his mirror and tugged at his eyebrows.

  “It gets easier with time and practice,” the spy said. “Which is a good thing…and a bad thing. Used to have a few faces in my dreams…now they all blend together. At least you’ve got your fighter to go back to. What we just went through is my life.”

  “I’m not sure if I should feel sorry for you or sick that we need people like you.” Wyman looked away.

  “Neither matters to me, Wyman. What does matter is seeing Albion free once more. And what price won’t you pay to see that happen?”

  Wyman raised a finger, his mind searching for a retort…but no answer came to him.

  ****

  Gage sat on his bed, naked from the waist up. A metal tray with medical instruments and a wad of bloody bandages sat next to him. He looked away from Dr. Naomi Seaver as she ran a sterilizer wand over a thin scar on Gage’s shoulder.

  “We should be doing this in my med bay,” she picked up a scanner and ran it down his arm. “Any loss of feeling? Tingling?”

  “It’s fine,” Gage raised his arm and winced.

  “It may not be ‘fine’ if the grafts in your deltoid just broke,” Seaver clicked her tongue and thumbed a different setting on her scanner. “I would have no doubt as to your treatment if we were doing this in med bay. Where I have all my best equipment. Not just a field kit.”

  “I do appreciate you doing this,” Gage kept his eyes turned away as she picked up an endoscope and pressed the point against the top of his shoulder.

  “And why are we doing this in here, Commodore?” she clicked a button on the scope and there was a slight hiss as pain killers went through Gage’s skin.

  “I don’t want the crew to think I was badly injured on Sicani,” he said. “They see me wheeled into med bay and word will spread like wild fire. And sailors have a tendency to exaggerate.”

  “You could have walked out of med bay fit as a fiddle in less than ten minutes. Is this hassle really worth a hiccup in your reputation?”

  “Yes. I may not be an admiral but I’m still the commander of this fleet. Our sailors must know I am strong, in charge, alert. I am the keel of the 11th Fleet and—nnh! There’s that pinch you mentioned.”

  Dr. Seaver lifted the endoscope away and set it into a kidney-shaped tray next to Gage.

  “Better now?” she asked.

  Gage slowly lifted his arm and nodded.

  “The flight deck crew saw you get off the shuttle with your bloody uniform and your arm in a sling,” she said. “No one would think you weak for seeking proper treatment. You’re only human.”

  “I am the commodore,” he said.

  “All well and good,” she picked up the tray and stepped away from Gage’s bed. “Commodore…did you learn anything of Albion while you were down there? Any news?”

  “Nothing more than we already know. I’m sorry.” Gage slipped on an undershirt then picked up a new uniform top. An incoming call chimed on a data slate propped up next to the bed.

  “Let me know if the shoulder gives you any bother,” she left the room.

  Gage swiped a hand across the slate and a full body hologram of Captain Michael Barlow of the Retribution, projected into the room.

  “Great Scott,” Barlow looked over Gage, “I heard you’d been stabbed!”

  “It was more of a slice,” Gage gingerly put his uniform on.

  “I thought you were going down there to cut a deal with the pirates, not get into a bar room brawl like a sailor on shore leave. Tell me there was a woman involved, at least,” Barlow said.

  Gage gave him a quick rundown of the events on Sicani.

  “And you think Loussan—the pirate who’s had a vendetta against you for years and who you just humiliated in front of his peers—is going to keep his word and get us to Indus space?” Barlow ran a hand down his face.

  “The deal was with the pirates as a whole. You’ve dealt with them long enough to know oaths made in public are a serious matter. Their standards may be low and ill-defined for most things, but those they have they enforce m
ercilessly,” Gage said.

  “Here—on our private channel—I’ll tell you you’re a bloody idiot. When you present this to the fleet I’ll pretend it’s brilliant then turn to,” Barlow picked up a data slate and began tapping at the screen.

  “You think I’m in for some push back from the other captains?” Gage asked.

  “I can’t say I’m brimming with better ideas,” Barlow slapped the slate against his thigh. “You know no one’s ever charted the Kigali Nebula before, right?”

  “No one in the core worlds.”

  “So we just trust the Harlequins…and yes, some of the other captains may object a bit more politely than I have,” Barlow said.

  “‘Some’ and ‘may’, you don’t seem that confident.”

  Barlow sighed. “The cruiser captains have become very polite in their dealings with me. They know you and I are friends and don’t seem interested in letting anything untoward slip to me. The destroyer and frigate chaps are behind you. That the divide falls along where the captains went to school, and the amount of noble blood in their veins, doesn’t surprise me.”

  Gage straightened his uniform and rolled his injured shoulder back and forth.

  “The welfare of this fleet and Prince Aiden are my responsibility, not pats on the back from the good old boy network,” Gage said.

  “You’re the commodore and the regent. Those bunch of prima donnas don’t have the admiralty to back them…that’s actually a dreadful thing to say in light of our circumstances. Sorry.”

  “One problem at a time. I doubt any of the captains will break their ships out of formation and petition to join the pirate clans. Not yet, at least.”

  “Thought you said the pirates had standards? An Albion ship flying with the Totenkopfs? I know our world’s under occupation by an enemy we’ve never heard of until recently, but let’s stay realistic.”

  Gage chuckled and a rare smile crossed his lips.

  “Your birthday’s a few weeks off,” Barlow raised an eyebrow. “I’ve got a little something special in my locker for you. A spirit you’re rather fond of. Meant to break it out after the business on Siam, but here we are.”

  “A few weeks…I barely know what’ll happen in the next few hours.”

  “The bottle will keep. Let’s get the fleet someplace safe so we can enjoy it properly, yes?” Barlow asked.

  “Fair enough. Time to plan the next phase.”

  “It will be brilliant. I’ve no doubt.” Barlow reached to one side and his hologram flickered away.

  Chapter 9

  The King’s forest outside of Ludlow was once a place of fond memories for Seaver. Hikes along manicured trails. Fires and stargazing with his parents. The occasional glimpse of raccoons and the native shlandeera lizards with their chameleon scales that flashed the full spectrum of the rainbow whenever they attacked their prey.

  Now, running through the forest in the dead of night, the reality of his situation was far removed from his childhood memories. A glow from the burning city mixed with pale light from the full moons. The smell of death and smoke assaulted him with every breath, and Seaver wasn’t sure if the foul air clung to him or if it flowed from the city.

  He stopped next to a tree, panting. The dull ache from scrapes and bruises grew more intense as he rested. He looked over his shoulder, every rustle of trees or branches bending to the wind brought the fear of pursuit. He went on, following the constellations toward the southwest.

  Eventually, he would come to the highway marking the outer boundary of the forest preserve. A highway leading to Corinth where the Albion Army had a training facility for their reserves. If he could make it there, he could still keep fighting.

  Seaver slowed and looked up at the stars. A cloud obscured the Cross of Saint George constellation, which pointed east. He considered stopping, as guessing his direction would lead to zigzagging through the forest and would only serve to exhaust him even further and slow his travel through the forest.

  “Come on,” he muttered.

  His toe clipped a rock and he stumbled forward. With his eyes off the sky, he saw the sudden cut off of a ravine right in front of him. He fell onto the ledge and the loose dirt gave way. He grabbed at thin roots jutting from the soil and tumbled down the slope a few yards until he came to a stop in a creek with a splash.

  Seaver sputtered in the cold water and pulled himself out. Cold seeped into his uniform and boots. Not only was he wounded, hungry, and terrified…and now he was wet.

  He sat on the muddy bank for a moment and ran his fingers through his hair. Water ran down the back of his neck and into his collar. He buried his face in his hands and felt his resolve start to crack.

  The call of a blue jay snapped him out of his near-moment of self-pity. He reached for his lost rifle and looked across the creek at a soldier in camouflage, aiming a battle rifle at Seaver’s chest.

  “Who won the last blitz ball championship?” the soldier asked.

  “Leeds over Utica, 30 to 19,” Seaver said.

  The soldier lowered his rifle.

  “What unit you with? Where from?”

  “Ludlow militia. City’s overrun. I…I…” He looked back up the slope to where he’d come from, unsure how to explain it all.

  “Come on.” The soldier motioned for him to follow. “Got a hideout with a couple other stragglers. Guess the Daegon aren’t on your heels, not like you made it hard for anyone to find you.”

  “There are others?” Seaver sloshed through the creek, no longer caring how wet his socks became.

  “I’m O’Reilly. Best stay quiet from here out.”

  “Seaver.” He followed the soldier, an older man that moved with a practiced grace through the forest.

  After a few minutes, O’Reilly pointed to the base of a tree-covered hill. Seaver made out a camouflage tarp covering a doorway.

  “Food. Water.” O’Reilly cradled his rifle across the front of his chest, then took a small data slate out of a pocket. He typed in a command and Seaver heard the snap of bolts unlocking. “I’m going to keep an eye out for more like you. Go make yourself comfortable; I’ll get you to Corinth tomorrow after sunset.”

  “How many others?”

  The soldier slipped back into the woods.

  “Okay, then.” Seaver moved the tarp aside and stepped into an arched doorway made of plastic. On a recessed door was a faded emblem for the King’s Conservation Corps. It opened before Seaver could knock and a hand beckoned him inside.

  He squeezed around the opening and found a round room lit by light green glow sticks. He heard breathing and the rustle of boots against a hardwood floor. The door shut behind him and a light flipped on.

  Three men and a woman shared the room with him, all in uniforms the same disheveled state as Seaver. One man wore civilian clothes.

  “Hey.” The female soldier, a private named Powell by her rank insignia, tossed him a bottle of water.

  “Where are we?” Seaver took a greedy sip from the bottle.

  “Ranger way station,” she said. “That O’Reilly fellow found us all in the woods and dropped us off. Think he’s a ranger or something that was on duty when everything hit the fan. Where you from?”

  Seaver cracked open his uniform and let fresh air wash over his chest. He sat in a beat-up plastic chair and began unstrapping his boots.

  “Ludlow…” He laid out the last failed ambush and his flight through the woods.

  “You were lucky to get away from that golem,” another soldier named Inez said. He wore an infantryman’s field uniform, but was missing the strap on armor plates, with private stripes on his sleeves. “Two of them killed my entire company outside New Exeter.”

  “Walkers got my squad in Ludlow,” Powell said.

  “O’Reilly said he’d get us to Corinth. What’s going on over there?” Seaver asked.

  “Smith knows.” Inez motioned at the civilian. “Tell him.”

  The civilian, who’d sat against the wall staring at his own
shoes without saying a word until that moment, looked at Inez and rolled his eyes.

  “Not again,” Smith said.

  “Come on, man, share the good news. New guy here’s had a hell of a time,” Inez said.

  Smith sighed.

  “Some of our leadership made it out of New Exeter,” Smith said. “Few generals and admirals, couple intelligence guys. They’re in Corinth, organizing resistance cells across the planet. Don’t know why, but the Daegon aren’t burning out every city like they did with New Exeter and Brighton.”

  “Just get to the good part,” Inez said.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything. It may not be true.” Smith looked away.

  “What?” Seaver pulled a foot out of his boot and the air against his bare skin felt incredible.

  “The Daegon are on every frequency, every broadcast, and wire channel,” Smith said. “Giving new orders, demanding obedience…and they’re showing pics of the royal family. All dead. All but one of them. Prince Aidan.”

  “The prince is just a kid,” Seaver said. “They wouldn’t…”

  “They got Prince Jarred and his whole family.” Smith shuddered in disgust.

  “But Prince Aidan might be alive?” Seaver rubbed warmth back into his foot.

  “I don’t believe it,” Powell said. “The Daegon are all over New Exeter and nothing got out of there during the attack.”

  “Not true,” the last occupant spoke up. He’d sat against a small desk, his knees pulled to his chest and head down since Seaver arrived. The man wore a torn navy uniform, one side of his head and an eye were covered in fresh bandages. “I worked traffic control at the space port. A ship made it out of a hangar hidden in the cliffs.”

  “Not supposed to talk about those,” Smith said firmly.

  “Piss off, not like the Daegon don’t know about them by now,” the sailor, named Allen, said. “I sent two fighters to protect the ship. All three made it into orbit. I bet that’s how Prince Aidan got away.”

  “Makes sense, right?” Inez asked. “Those bastards aren’t showing his body. Ship gets away from the palace.”

  “You get people’s hopes up and you know how bad it’ll be if you’re wrong?” Powell asked.