Out of the Black (Odyssey One, Book 4) (66 page)

“That’s a Priminae shuttle,” he said, bringing up his combat HUD and noting that several familiar IFFs were showing in his range now. “They’re friendly.”

“Damn. As fast as that sucker moves, I’m sure as hell glad of that.”

Eric ignored the pilot, opening the tactical comm channel instead. “Lieutenant, what brings you into my airspace?”

“New orders, Skipper,” Bermont said, something in his voice ringing oddly to Eric. “Need you to transfer over here.”

“I’m on mission, son,” Eric said. “Things to kill, places to destroy.”

“Sir, I think you really want to transfer over here.”

It was the tone, not the words, that caused Eric to make a decision. Something was up, and the only place he was going to figure out what was on that Priminae bird.

“Fine,” he said finally. “Aerial transfer?”

“Can do,” Bermont said a moment later. “We’ll come alongside.”

“Roger that,” Eric said, then changed over to the pilot’s channel. “Hold her steady. I’m changing horses.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

OVERSEEING WHAT HAD to be the single biggest evacuation in the planet’s history was probably the most sickening job President Conner had ever had to do, and sadly that was saying something. There were no protocols for this, no list of people to save and people to leave behind. Ironically, it might be easier if the Priminae weren’t out there. He could pick people based on skills and genetic diversity and tell himself it was for the good of humanity.

It wouldn’t be much, but it would be a balm to a tortured soul.

Instead, Conner found himself choosing vengeance over everything else, and focusing on giving Admiral Gracen the best tech people he had, those who would know how to take everything they found and turn it into a weapon to use against the murderers of the human race.

Tachyon specialists, anti-matter and quantum physicists, and the people who knew the most about devising new and unholy ways of killing as many things as possible in the shortest time possible. He had a lot of those to pick from, and this was possibly the first time that he’d ever been truly happy about that fact.

He wasn’t being entirely altruistic, if you could call assembling what he personally
hoped
would become the greatest lineup of potential mass killers in the history of the planet altruistic. He’d slipped his wife and daughter on the list. They were already being hustled to an evac point, along with their security agents and
their
families. He expected that would keep them both quiet and loyal to their charges, or he hoped it would.

He grabbed a bottle of antacids, downing a half dozen and crunching on the chalky tablets as he went back to work. He figured that his stomach would either burn out or stop working entirely from either the stress or the influx of acid neutralizers. But in a few days he wouldn’t need to eat anymore anyway, so screw it.

Why did I want this crappy job in the first place?

He knew the answer to that, actually. But right now wasn’t the time to bear on the deficiencies of a system that got him elected to an office that he, in all candid honesty, probably never should have been allowed anywhere near. He had the job, he had important things to do, and they were going to get done before it was too late.

They had to.

For once in his life, he was going to do try to do the right thing, even though he’d be damned to hell if he knew what that was. Everything else could just go swing.

Eric Stanton Weston stomped onto the bridge of the
Odysseus,
his rage blotting out any sense of wonder he might have felt upon seeing the wraparound vista that surrounded the command and control of the impressive ship. He was focused on
the center console and the admiral sitting there, and his mind was nearly seeing
red
after what he’d been told.

He was still in armor, though he’d stowed his rifle and his helmet somewhere behind him. Probably with Bermont, he supposed. He vaguely remembered the lieutenant trying to calm him down, or at least slow him down. Neither had worked, though it had taken some time to get a straight answer out of the Canadian trooper as to where he could find the bridge.

His arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed, of course. A man in powered armor stomping through the corridors of a ship was hardly stealthy, even if he’d wanted to be.

The admiral turned to see the ruckus seconds after he arrived. He noted in the back of his mind that she was one of the few who weren’t surprised to see him alive. Many of the others had stared like he was the second coming. It would have been creepy if he had been thinking straight.

“Captain,” Gracen said, rising to her feet. “It’s good to see you alive.”

“Admiral,” Eric reciprocated through clenched teeth. “Request permission to have a word . . .”

She gazed at him, her expression haughty and cool. It was a look that she was known for, actually, the ability to make you feel like a bug barely worth the attention it took to flick you away.

“My ready room,” she said finally, nodding to the right and behind him.

Eric grimaced, but nodded and followed her off the bridge.

Steph stared, silently whistling at the back of his departed CO. Former CO? He wasn’t sure which, didn’t really care. He hadn’t seen Raziel that pissed since . . . well, ever. Even in
the heat of the war there was nothing that came to mind that matched the captain’s current mood, though he supposed that shouldn’t be a surprise.

Even the Block never threatened to blow up the whole damned planet
.

Milla looked stricken at her station, and he could understand why. He had watched her face dissolve from the almost joy of seeing one of her heroes reappear alive to shock and fear as she caught the outer edge of his fury. Steph caught her eye and smiled sadly, shaking his head. He’d try to explain it to her later, if she really needed it. She’d probably work it out for herself, though. There wasn’t a lot to figure out.

The captain’s anger came from an obvious source.

In the privacy of the ready room, Eric just glared as the admiral walked around the desk and took a seat.