“Our fighters,” Daniel voiced first. “They are talking about our fighters. Trying to buy time.”
Ruskoff wasn’t playing. “Find that frequency and order them back into orbit, and prepare to be boarded for inspection. Or get them on our channels. Partial comms failure, my ass.”
“They are ignoring our calls,” a tech reported seconds later, “or cannot receive them.”
“If they can reach Lianyungang, they can hear us.” Ruskoff glanced over at Daniel. “Major. Is all this keeping with what you expected?”
Play by play, so similar to the night of the Massacre. The Night of Screams. “Only the beginning,” Daniel said, just as the Tracking Station reported that the DropShip was now off the ocean and over Beilù’s coastal range. Elevation, four kilometers. Time to Chang-an, fifteen minutes.
Tsung still looked unconvinced. “This is one of the vessels on the list of those lent to MedCross activities on Gan Singh.”
Ruskoff backed up his new aide. “Then it should be on Gan Singh, not sneaking into the Liao system from a nonstandard jump point under communications blackout. The Astral Prize is a merchant-converted Fortress. Six thousand tons, and originally capable of transporting a mixed-arms battalion. I will not allow that vessel to overfly Chang-an or LianChang.”
“God help you if you’re wrong,” Tsung argued back.
The Governor’s Aide almost did not get to finish his statement, though, as several workstations erupted in a buzz of excited conversation. “Legate. Aerospace fighters report taking fire from the DropShip. Astral Prize has opened up with weapons.”
“Legate Ruskoff! Liao Defense Wing requesting permission to go weapons-free.”
“Legate. Legate!” Lieutenant Nguyen, now taking over the workstation that kept LianChang in touch with local DropPort Authority. “DropShip Astral Prize reports that it has opened fire on Confederation fighter craft. They are pleading for help… on civilian channels.”
“We just… Zāo gāo! We just lost two fighters. Two down, that’s two down.”
So fast? Even if the merchant-converted DropShip had remounted many of its old weapons, Daniel would have expected a longer fight out of the Transits. But aerospace control answered that in the next breath.
“One may have clipped the second, sir. Midair collision. Other four are outside of the Fortress’s reach now, but circling back around.”
“Position unchanged. DropShip, twelve minutes—one, two—from Chang-an.”
Legate Ruskoff glanced at Tsung and then Kincaid. So did Daniel. He read a similar conviction on both faces. The Legate nodded. “Weapons-free,” he ordered calmly. “Force down that DropShip. And get me comms on that civilian channel and our fighters’ channel both.”
It took only a few seconds for a tech to route the different frequencies into a common broadcast, with the aerospace pilot chatter bleeding through first in a wash of static.
“Bravo-one, I have good tone. Firing.”
“DropShip continues to track us with lasers. Some are firing blindly as if—”
“Lifeboat! Lifeboat! One lifeboat away, dropping fast at four o’clock low.”
The Astral Prize’s broadcast was much fainter, but full of desperation. “Lianyungang, please respond. We are taking heavy fire, power systems failing, guidance… we are ordering passengers and crew to abandon this vessel. Please respond. We are suffering under heavy attack…” The message repeated itself in a variety of different ways. DropPort Authority tried several times to interrupt their pleading, but the Astral Prize could not—or would not—acknowledge.
And then, suddenly, a burst of white static and silence. Daniel counted six heartbeats pounding at the wall of his chest.
“DropShip is tumbling,” one of the fighter pilots finally broke back in. Her voice was soft, almost casual. “DropShip is out of control, heading down. Breaking off attack runs.” No one inside the PDC spoke, everyone straining to hear the next report. “DropShip has impacted. Minimal fire. Survivors possible… but not probable. Two lifeboats on course toward Chang-an, we are riding guard.”
Ruskoff nodded at the tech, and cut a hand over his throat. Comms were silenced and an adrenaline slump washed over the entire room. Daniel tried to imagine what a Fortress–class vessel looked like, broken and scattered over however many kilometers. How many crew? How many military? Better this way than striking at Chang-an.
“Get our security squads on site,” the Legate ordered. “Lieutenant Nguyen, bring me news once we have on-site verification that no military forces managed to deploy. Mr. Tsung. Lady Kincaid.” He gathered Michaelson in with a nod, and the four of them left the room as a team, a sense of solidarity between military and government that lasted four paces into the brightly lit and empty corridor.
“Governor Lu Pohl expects me to call in with a report,” Tsung said then. “I will use your adjutant’s office.”
“I should inform the Lord Governor as well,” Kincaid agreed.
Ruskoff shrugged. “Join us when you can.” He led Daniel farther along the tiled hall, into his private retreat at the PDC. A well-appointed office, cold and indifferent with lack of use, but Daniel knew that would change as the Confederation pushed harder for Liao.
The Legate did not ask and forgot Daniel’s aversion to drinking, pouring them brandies at a small cupboard bar kept to the left of his desk. He set one on the desk corner, next to a visitor’s chair. He cradled his own in a large hand, swirled it around, and then sipped at the smoky liquid. “They truly thought they could run that play again. They think we do not learn from our mistakes?”
Daniel sat stiffly in the offered chair. He didn’t so much as sniff the elegant liquor. The thought of the cabal’s laughter still haunted him. To the Betrayer of Liao…
“Some of us do not learn,” he spoke without meaning to, thinking of his own mistakes.
“Speaking from personal experience?” Ruskoff asked, settling back into his high-back executive chair with a creak of leather and a sigh of pleasure as the brandy burned down his throat. “Well, I hope that I do. The only thing worse than suffering the consequences of the same mistake twice… is when others suffer in your place.”
Startled, Daniel nearly elbowed the brandy glass off the corner of Ruskoff’s desk. “Officers are often put in that position,” he said, speaking through a tight throat and a tongue suddenly grown thick. “Now it sounds like you are speaking from personal experience.”
“I don’t think you were on planet,” Ruskoff glanced around his empty desk, as if he’d just mislaid Ritter Michaelson’s service record. “I was Senior Colonel for Beilù, and you must have been with the Tenth Hastati four… no, five years ago.” Daniel said nothing. “That was when the Conservatory had its first uprising.”
“Second.”
Ruskoff blinked. “Sorry, Major?”
Daniel pushed the brandy snifter away from him. “My apologies, Legate. I did not mean to interrupt. I only recently learned that 3128 was the Conservatory’s second student uprising.” And he told Ruskoff the same story Evan Kurst had relayed to him. Daniel wasn’t sure why he did, but it seemed that the Legate would benefit from knowing. It also prevented him from lying again, as he had been here for the student troubles in 3128. Or, at least, Ezekiel Crow had.
“Is that true?”
“I looked it up. Wasn’t easy,” Daniel admitted, “but the event is documented if you know where to look.”
“We haven’t done well here on Liao. Not as well as Devlin Stone would hope.” Viktor Ruskoff finished his brandy, set the glass on his desk. “I’ve been wondering if it’s too late to fix things. Wondering if I’m going to end up like Kang Lo Den.”