Warrior: Book 2 of The Legacy Fleet Trilogy Page 7

  “Very well,” Isaacson said. “And I only accepted because I thought you’d be ousted in the first vote of no-confidence within a year of the election and I’d be fast tracked for the presidency.”

  “Ha! Now we’re getting somewhere.” She grabbed the flask back and swigged. “You bet your fat ass you were fast tracked. Probably more than you know. I knew there were rumblings for the vote, but I also knew I had the votes. The next one, though … who knows?” She stopped the flask and tucked it away. “But it’s in the past. Times change. We woke up in a completely different world, you and I, two months ago.”

  He nodded his approval. “And you’ve done a singularly remarkable job, ma’am.”

  “Not good enough.” She pulled the flask out, despite having just tucked it away, drank again, and coughed. “I appreciate the sentiment. But the truth is that we need to work together to survive. Not just my life. Not just your life. But all our lives.” She looked up at him, and he finally noticed the deep bags under her eyes. In spite of the no-nonsense tough-as-nails commander-in-chief persona she’d cultivated, she looked deadly tired. “They’re coming, Eamon. All these skirmishes are just feints. There’s no reason they can’t just send two hundred carriers to Earth tomorrow and wipe us out of existence.”

  He drummed his fingers on his cheek. Isaacson remembered the message the Swarm had sent Ambassador Volodin during their brief flight on the Winchester during the battle of Earth. You die. Terse, but to the point.

  And yet two months later, they hadn’t come. At least, not in force, and not to Earth.

  Volodin knew something. He knew a lot of somethings, none of which he’d told Isaacson, who decided right then he’d force it out of the ambassador. Beat it out of him if he had to. He was almost sure the other man was under the influence of the Swarm, but those last moments in the Omaha command center had convinced him otherwise. And yet there was still something off about him. Something out of place. Why be so insistent on assassinating Avery, plot a convoluted scheme with Isaacson and President Malakhov to get rid of her, and then, at the first failure, retreat back to Russia with nary a word, and then supposedly make more attempts on her life without telling him?

  It didn’t make sense.

  “Eamon,” she began, “there are Senators. Governors. Congressmen. Many of them hate me, yes, I understand that. It’s politics. But there’s a group of them plotting my death. For whatever deluded reasoning they’ve conjured into their vacant brains, they think I’m a threat. Even before the emergency, they wanted me dead. Is it because of my past? My policies? My vagina? You know some of them can’t stand seeing an uppity woman grab them by the political balls and squeeze unless they do my bidding. They hate it. They hate me, for whatever reason.”

  He nodded. He agreed—in fact, he’d been one of them. For months he’d met secretly with over a dozen of them, plotting the overthrow, scheming ways to get her out of office. Only a handful knew of the plans to kill her, but he knew there must have been others that shared the sentiment.

  “Will you help me? We need to find them. Root them out, before it’s too late. And believe me, Eamon, in a few months—maybe even a few weeks, it could be too late.”

  He closed his eyes and sighed. “I will help, Madam President. I’m friends with several of the factions, and dozens of senators owe me favors. I have a few thoughts about who it could be, but I’d rather keep that to myself for now. Give me some resources. Secret Service. Intelligence service. With my contacts and their … methods, I’m sure we can nail a few of these bastards.”

  She stood up and reached out for his arm with a warm, vulnerable smile. She was so charismatic. Endearing. No wonder she’d won two elections outright, with no runoffs.

  “Thank you, Eamon. I knew I could trust you.”

  He gripped her hand in return. “And I’m honored to have your trust, Madam President.”

  “Oh, Madam President my hairy ass. Call me Barb.”

  She laughed again, and pulled the door open, waving her entourage back in. General Norton walked right up to her, about to speak, before glancing uneasily at Isaacson.

  “Go on, General. Mr. Isaacson has clearance. What is it?”

  The old soldier grumbled. “Madam President, I’ve just received word from the expeditionary force following up on Granger’s most recent lead.”

  That caught her attention. She grabbed his arm. “And?”

  “We found one. A Swarm world.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The first thing he noticed were two blindingly bright lights above him. Was he on the Constitution? No—the color was off. The lights in sickbay were warmer. Inviting. Healing light.

  These were cold. Almost blue. Harsh. One was bigger than the other.

  He tried to move—it was hard. His limbs didn’t want to cooperate. It felt like moving through a pool of crystallized honey, but eventually, he managed to lift his head.

  He was in a room. Small. A few more tables, some unfamiliar medical or technical instruments scattered on workbenches by the wall.

  The strain was too much. He let his head fall back against the table, and just stared at the lights. Hours seemed to pass. Days? But when he lifted his head again he knew there were people in the room. Friendly people? Or enemies? It was all so hazy. The faces indistinct.

  He fell asleep again, and when he awoke, he realized he could move his limbs—they were finally mobile. The pain had gone.

  But he felt someone in the room behind him. He lifted his head to get a better look.

  Chapter Eighteen

  New Dublin, Eyre Sector

  Bridge, ISS Warrior

  Captain Granger bolted upright in his bed, gasping, hands clutching at his chest. The tumors … the cancer … the wilting pain—was it back?

  He breathed deeply. Then whirled around to glimpse the person he knew stood behind him.

  But the room was empty. It was just his bedroom on the Warrior, after all. The nearest people were the two marines standing guard outside his quarters.

  It was a dream. Just a dream.

  But it seemed like more. It felt so … real. So immediate and tangible and….

  He shook his head. Was it possible? Was he remembering his ordeal? His vacation, as gossip on board called it? The dreams were occurring with increasing regularity. Always the same. Always hazy and incomplete and distant, like he was watching a film through blurred glass.

  But they were becoming clearer. They were becoming memory, not dream. Dammit, he had to remember what happened to him. He felt like their lives depended on it.

  “Sir, just a few more q-jumps away from the coordinates,” said Ensign Prucha over the comm.

  He shook his head again to clear it. “I’ll be there in a minute, Ensign. Thank you.”

  There’d been no reason to change out of his uniform when he slept at night—there was never the need. The Swarm incursions happened with such regularity that he found it far more convenient to only change when he showered. And so minutes later he settled into his chair on the bridge as a yeoman brought him his morning coffee. Was it morning? He glanced at the clock and realized he’d only slept two hours.

  The ISS Warrior snapped into existence in an unremarkable area of space, just two and a half lightyears away from Sirius. The star shone brightly on the viewscreen, easily the most luminous object visible. Granger cocked his head toward the sensor station.

  “Anything?”

  Ensign Diamond shook his head. “Nothing yet, sir.”

  Granger stood up and nodded. “Very well. Looks like we wait.”

  “Just like Avery. Always keeping people waiting,” said Proctor.

  Granger eyed her wryly. “You don’t like her, do you?”

  Proctor shrugged. “She’s my commander in chief. Doesn’t matter whether I like her or not.”

  “But you didn’t vote for her.”

  “I … decline to answer.” Proctor tapped her console and changed the subject. “Admiral Zingano should be h
ere momentarily. He was going to make a brief pass through the Proxima System just to review readiness there, but that shouldn’t take him long.”

  “We need all the time we can get to make these repairs.” Granger examined the reports on his command console. “How’s the hull repair coming?”

  “The main hole on the bow has been patched. That blast took out two whole mag rail guns and a laser turret, so we’ll have to completely replace them. We’ve got a dozen of each in storage, but it’ll take crews a week to install them. The rest of the hull damage is lighter, but will still take us about a week.”

  Granger shook his head. “Too long. We need to be on the move. The next engagement could come in a week or it could come tomorrow.”

  “If we get in a fight tomorrow we may not last long, sir. Especially not if it’s thirteen Swarm carriers like today.”

  She was right, dammit. They’d have to lay low for a bit, or at least choose their engagements more carefully. Nearly three weeks of almost daily skirmishes had taken their toll. In fact, they were due at Churchill Station in the Britannia Sector to pick up replacement fighters and pilots. The losses were harrowing: thirty-five more pilots gone, including their birds, along with some support staff that had been standing in the wrong place when that enemy bogey slammed into the fighter bay.

  “We’ll try to keep a low profile the next few days. Besides, I think I have an idea about what we’ll be doing, and it hopefully won’t involve flying into the middle of large formations of Swarm ships.”

  She nodded, and before she could question further, Ensign Diamond called out. “Sir, the Victory just q-jumped in.”

  Ensign Prucha added, “Admiral Zingano on the horn, sir.”

  “Patch him through.”

  The admiral’s voice blared over the speakers. “Long time no see, Tim. Avery should be along any minute now. Had a few last minute meetings on Earth. You heard about the latest attempt on her life?”

  Granger leaned forward. “No, I hadn’t. Who’s trying to kill her? Swarm? Do they have agents on Earth?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to get to the bottom of. And that incident with the Dolmasi at New Dublin—well that just confirmed what we suspected. That the Swarm are able to manipulate and control. How the bastards do it as a damn puddle beats me, but Avery’s not leaving things to chance. She’s left the capital and is running things from a series of secret command centers.”

  “Is it the Russians? Could they be controlled somehow?”

  It was a dangerous question in a way. It reminded everyone that he, too, had been in some sort of mysterious contact with the Russians, during his disappearance. And if the Swarm could control, and if the Russians were under their influence, then he had to tread carefully—what if he were under their influence? It was unthinkable, but it was something to consider.

  “Don’t know, Tim. We’ve made diplomatic progress recently with Malakhov to get more support with the war effort. At first they tried to pull the neutrality shit, but we reminded them of what happened last time they tried to sit out a war.”

  Granger shook his head. “I can’t believe we’re thinking about trusting them.”

  “Look around you, Tim. We’re in a bad place. We can use all the help we can get.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, but I don’t have to like it.”

  The arrival of Interstellar One and the two escort missile frigates interrupted them. The three ships blinked into place, the stately, sleek presidential ship hovering in between two equally sleek, but deadly-looking military vessels, packed to the teeth with weaponry. Granger knew they were basically mini-Constitutions, almost solid blocks of tungsten, but about one hundred times smaller and with a crew of fifty. The hulls were so thick and the mag rails so numerous that there was only room for that many. One captain and forty-nine gunners. The president took her safety seriously.

  “Incoming transmission from the president’s ship, sir. Conference call to both us and Victory. Visual.”

  “Patch it through.” Granger turned to the viewscreen and smiled at the two people who appeared. Fleet Admiral Zingano, and President Avery.

  Except she looked odd. A little more haggard. A little different. Had she changed her hair? No, that wasn’t it.

  “Admiral, Captain,” she nodded. “Shall we meet aboard the Victory?”

  Admiral Zingano grunted. “Not quite finished building the ship yet, Madam President. We’ve got a hull and weapons and that’s about it. We’ll come to you.”

  “Very well, Admiral. See you soon.” Her half of the screen blanked out.

  Zingano gestured up at the screen. “She looks tired, don’t she?”

  Granger raised an eyebrow at Zingano. “Tired? More like a different person. She needs to get out into the sunlight more.”

  “So do we all. You’d look like an albino, Tim, if it weren’t for your scruff. Don’t you shave anymore?”

  Granger grumbled. “Been a busy week. Killing cumrats takes precedent over my grooming.”

  The admiral chuckled. “Well, when this is all over I’ll have time to court martial you.” He thumbed to his side. “Come on. Let’s get over there.”

  The image blinked out, replaced by a view of Interstellar One and its escorts.

  And then the escort ship to the left of President Avery’s vessel exploded.

  Chapter Nineteen

  New Dublin, Eyre Sector

  Bridge, ISS Warrior

  An actual, live, honest-to-god Swarm world. At least, that was what General Norton had claimed last night. The scout ships had found the impossible. An entire planet, imaged at a distance from the edge of its solar system. No resolution, of course, but spectrographic analysis indicated the definite presence of Swarm matter. Isaacson shuddered—at least that hypothesis was confirmed. The Swarm was in fact, liquid.

  “More coffee,” he said absent-mindedly.

  Conner jumped up and poured out another cup, and Isaacson paged through the stack of security reports his new contacts at the secret service had given him. Reams of paper detailing illegal activities among the staffs of several key senators, a few of which he knew very well from his many meetings with them planning Avery’s demise.

  His own chief of staff, Hal Levin, sat across from him. Isaacson tossed him a piece of paper. “Look at that. Senator Quimby. The Service caught him embezzling campaign funds.”

  “So?” Levin asked lazily, glancing over the paper. “Everyone does that.”

  “Yes, but look at where the money came from. Avery’s own fundraising operation donated a sizable chunk toward his reelection. She thought she could sway him over on the Eagleton Commission decision. In return he not only voted against it, but spent her money on a new mansion in Hungary. Idiot.”

  Levin scanned the paper while absentmindedly holding his mug out to Conner, who refilled it. “Quimby looks like he’s hit some hard times. Most of his businesses were folding even prior to the war, and now to add insult to injury they’ve drafted every single one of his kids. All five of them.”

  Isaacson snorted. “His fault for having kids.” He sipped his coffee. Too hot. No sugar. Dammit, Conner. “Plus, everyone’s kids have been drafted.”

  “Yes, but he’s a senator. He could’ve pulled strings.”

  “True,” Isaacson said, spooning sugar into the coffee slowly, looking over the next document. “But they’ve been clamping down on that. It’s total war, Lev. No one’s exempt.” He stirred. “Where’d they get drafted to?”

  Levin scanned the page. “One’s in IT production, three in IDF….”

  “And the fourth?”

  Levin turned the paper over, scanning. “Doesn’t say.”

  “What do you mean it doesn’t say?” He snatched the paper from Levin and found the paragraph. Sure enough, it was very clear where four of the five children of Senator Quimby had been drafted to. But the fifth, the oldest, Quimby’s daughter that had just graduated … nothing.

  “Maybe she hadn’t been assigned
yet when they pulled the file?” Levin browsed through another stack of papers. “Tell me again what it is we’re looking for?”

  “I told you,” Isaacson began with a sigh. “Someone’s trying to kill Avery. Someone on the inside. She wants me to help track the assholes down.”

  “But doesn’t everyone hate the bitch? I mean, come on, Eamon, it could be just about anyone,” Levin said with a wry grin. Isaacson debated telling his chief about his involvement with Volodin and the Senate faction that wanted Avery out, but in spite of how much he trusted the man, that was one bit of information that needed to remain unspoken. Especially with Conner hovering.

  He swiped the stack of papers aside in frustration. What the hell was he doing? He had to produce a few culprits for Avery, otherwise she’d suspect him. Which one to finger? Quimby? Senator Smith? Senator Patel? House Speaker LaPierre? Hell, he should just expose all of them and then start from scratch.

  But in the background, underneath it all, Isaacson knew where to look: there was Volodin. What the hell was the man up to?

  Damn. Dammit. “Conner,” he said, looking up. “We’re leaving. Pack my bags. Get yourself ready.”

  The kid nodded. “When?”

  “Now.”

  Levin clucked his tongue. “Prison break? And just where do you think you’re going without Avery’s permission? She wants you in this bunker twenty-four seven. You’re only to be let out for the occasional troop inspection.”

  “No, she just wants my location to remain unknown. The easiest way to do that is, of course, to stay here. But I can go wherever the hell I want.”

  “And where do you think you’re going, Eamon?”

  Isaacson stood up and pointed to the stack of papers, then motioned at his aide sitting over by the wall so that she’d put them away in the classified cabinet. She sprang to her feet.

  “Moscow,” he said, halfway out the door.

  Chapter Twenty

  New Dublin, Eyre Sector

  Bridge, ISS Warrior