Breach of Containment. Elizabeth Bonesteel

the beacon, as you are.”

      Shit. “The colonists must have a local jammer,” he said. The alternative—that the crew could not respond—was unthinkable. “Your cargo ships don’t carry weapons, do they?”

      “No, Captain.” Gorelik’s voice was grim. “They do not.”

      Greg was changing course even as he commed Jessica. “Commander, get in touch with Oarig and tell him if he’s got anything to do with shooting at fucking civilian freight ships trying to bring his own people fucking food, this is no longer going to be a neutral negotiation.”

      Jessica got the point quickly. “Is it Elena?”

      “Of course it’s Elena. And apparently some green kid who followed her down.”

      Jessica swore concisely. “On it, sir.”

      Admiral Herrod appeared at his elbow. “Problem, Captain?”

      “We need to divert, sir,” Greg said. “Someone shot down a cargo carrier. They’ve put up a distress beacon, but Budapest can’t contact them.”

      He waited for Herrod to lodge a protest, or at the very least grant permission; but it seemed Herrod had grown accustomed to his retirement. “What’s our strategy?”

      “Our strategy,” Greg said, loudly enough for the others to hear, “is to clear the comm signal, get to the civilian vessel, and avoid deadly force as much as we can. Which means we threaten the hell out of them and get them to stand down long enough for us to get our people out. Darrow, Bristol?”

      “Sir,” they said simultaneously.

      “You perceive a credible threat that you can’t disarm, you defend, understood?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      He kept Sparrow on a clean vector and watched for the shuttle’s telemetry: it seemed to have some power, and he held out hope Elena was all right. After several minutes, the wreck appeared on the horizon, and as they grew closer, he saw enough to feel relief. The shuttle, intact but flat on its back, was surrounded by massive cargo bins: the food the colony so sorely needed. Without weapons—why the fuck do freighters drop in war zones without weapons?—she had defended her ship with the only leverage she had: the cargo they were trying to steal.

      “Sparrow, what’s in the area?”

      “Four hundred and sixty-two people,” Sparrow said calmly.

      “Moving?”

      “Yes.”

      “In the same direction?”

      “No.”

      “Put them up on tactical.”

      They were clumped in two groups, relatively even in number, and they were moving toward each other. Typical Yakutsk: domes so interested in choking each other off that they missed all of their common ground. He would have left them to their futile devices, but Elena’s downed shuttle was right in between them.

      He swore again, and tried comms. “This is Sparrow calling the shuttle off of Budapest.” Pick the fuck up.

      “The other shuttle is not receiving comms,” Sparrow told him.

      “Can they send?”

      “No.”

      “Are we close enough to break a comms jam?”

      “No.”

      “How long until we reach her?”

      “One minute seventeen seconds.”

      Eternity. Shit. “Are any of those people targeting the shuttle?”

      “Insufficient information to determine target.”

      “Is the shuttle in the line of fire?”

      “Yes.”

      “How likely are they to light up?”

      “Direct impact at a range of less than two hundred meters will result in ninety-four percent likelihood of an incendiary event.”

      Damn, damn, damn. What he wouldn’t give to just open up on both groups of colonists. He recognized it as frustration, but he found himself long over the impulse to rescue people who would shoot at those sent to help.

      “What are they firing?” he asked the shuttle. It was remotely possible they were using something old, something that might be vulnerable to a generated EMP or even a radio jam.

      “Plasma P7 rifles,” Sparrow said.

      “How many?”

      “Five hundred and forty units. Two hundred and twelve with the group south of the shuttle, the rest with the group north of the shuttle.”

      More guns than people. Never a good equation. “Sparrow, keep an eye on Budapest’s shuttle. If any of those rifles locks on her, fire on the shooter. Understood?”

      “Understood.”

      If Sparrow shot a colonist, it would be an act of war. It might also come far too late to save Elena and Arin Goldjani.

      But Greg would sleep better.

      Behind him, all nine of his passengers were pulling on env suits. Herrod returned again, and said, “I can pilot, Captain.”

      Greg met Herrod’s eyes through the clear fabric hood of his suit. Serious, military, entirely straightforward. He nodded, and stood. Herrod slipped into his seat.

      “The comms jam is broken,” Sparrow said as they approached.

      Greg tied into the colonists’ comms. “Drop your weapons!” he shouted. “This is Captain Greg Foster of the CCSS Galileo. That shuttle you’re targeting contains people in need of medical help. According to the Armed Conflict Act of 2976—”

      One of the colonists pointed his P7 upward and took a shot at Sparrow.

      They were high enough that the shot did nothing but scar the shuttle’s hull, but the message was clear. Before Greg could shout an order, Herrod was keying in a command, and Sparrow laid down a line of shots ten meters before each group of colonists. Greg saw them stop, saw some of them throw up their arms before their faces, saw a few turn and run. You guys are the brains of the outfit, he thought at the fleeing people. Herrod dropped Sparrow to the ground in front of the others.

      “Stand the fuck down, all of you,” Greg shouted over the comm, “or we’ll shoot straight next time!”

      They did not, he observed, drop their guns, but they stopped advancing and avoided pointing anything at his ship. He stood, grabbing one of the large shoulder cannons from the back of the ship, and slung it next to his ear. “Sparrow, keep us covered,” he told the shuttle, and opened the door.

      The colonists watched him, wary, as his platoon filed out of the door, Greg among them. “Anybody fires,” he told them, “the ship will take you out.”

      “That’s illegal,” someone called resentfully.

      “Your next of kin is welcome to sue.” The platoon, weapons raised, gave him cover as he backed around Sparrow’s nose until he was completely sheltered by the shuttle’s hull.

      He turned to the others. “Keep them back,” he said, then slung the cannon over his shoulder and ran toward the wreck of Budapest’s shuttle. “Elena?”

      “I’m here,” she commed back. “We need to get Arin out of here.”

       We need to get both of you out of here, you damn fool.

      He covered the last ten meters to the shuttle’s open doorway, and squeezed in between the upended shipping containers.

      And