Traitor Winds - Kestrel Saga: Vol. 0 (Kestrel Saga - Origins) Read online

  TRAITOR

  WINDS

  Origins: Book I

  A novel by

  Stephen A. Fender

  Edited by

  Lynda Dietz

  Published by

  JRP ©

  Jolly Rogers Productions

  Origins: Traitor Winds

  Copyright © 2014 Stephen Fender

  www.StephenFender.com

  First Edition: March - 2014

  Published through Jolly Rogers Productions (JRP) ©, a subsidiary division of StephenFender.com

  All rights reserved.

  Ordering information: [email protected]

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover art layout and rendering by Stephen Fender ©.

  I want to thank to my family, friends and fans that have supported me in my writing. I’m grateful for all of you, and each of you has a special place in my heart.

  I’d also like to thank my editor, Lynda. She spent countless hours going over this text, and it was time well spent.

  I wish to extend a very special thanks to my wife. Thank you for your kindness, your love, and your support. I love you, Angel.

  All characters, settings, and events depicted in this novel are the sole intellectual property of Stephen Fender. Characters in this novel are not intended, nor should they be inferred by anyone, to represent actual living beings—either now or in the 24th century.

  Prologue

  There was no way in hell his ship—already approaching the quintessential definition of a burning, useless hulk—could withstand another barrage. Captain Rothchild knew it; the other bridge officers knew it; even the mess cooks down in the wardroom knew it. Ten hours earlier, the Captain had been tasked by Sector Command to investigate the possible presence of Kafaran starships in the area. The war against that merciless alien species and their allies, waging now for nearly two years, looked as if it might continue just as long—if not longer. In an attempt to thwart the number of Kafaran ambushes that were constantly plaguing this region of space, Sector Command had been forced to stretch its resources thin to subvert its adversaries. As such, many strike groups that once had the luxury of scores of escorts for protection were now forced to make do without them. It was this situation that the Unified Sector Command heavy cruiser Tripoli currently found herself facing, and that’s precisely when she and her two companions, the destroyers Lancaster and Halifax—had walked brazenly into a trap. Out the wide view port on the Tripoli’s bridge, two additional enemy destroyers appeared from behind a distant moon, and Stephen Rothchild watched as the door to that trap was closed off behind his squadron, effectively sealing their combined fates.

  Now, however, was not the time to panic. Even a captain facing certain death should face it with all the dignity and resolve he had mastered throughout his career. His crew deserved no less, and Captain Rothchild would make sure he delivered in spades.

  A trickle of blood stung his eyes, blood from a cut he’d received ten minutes earlier when he was thrown free of his command chair and down to the bridge’s lower deck. The ship’s navigator, a man of limited medical training, had been moderately successful in stopping the bleeding momentarily, but fresh blood was still dripping from the wound. Rothchild took a soiled scrap of his uniform and dabbed at the gash before turning to the damage control officer at the station just forward and to the right of his chair.

  “Status report?” the Captain asked as he turned to the ship’s executive officer.

  “Not good, sir,” The canine-like Lieutenant Commander Dadoo growled in frustration. “We’ve lost the main drive engines, and the maneuvering thrusters are functioning on batteries at this point.”

  “Weapons status?” Rothchild asked without skipping a beat.

  “Fusion cannons are still online, but only at half power, sir. Point-defensive guns are down. On the bright side, we’ve got torpedo launchers, but only the forward-firing ones. The aft tubes were destroyed in the last salvo from that enemy cruiser.”

  It was his own fault, and Stephen knew it. Why couldn’t he have left well enough alone? He knew that his assignment had been risky, perhaps even foolhardy, before he’d even accepted it. He’d been given multiple chances to back away, to leave the assignment to other, equally capable officers and ships. Each time, he had turned down those chances. But Captain Rothchild knew it wasn’t out of arrogance or pride that he had accepted the task handed to him by the Sector Command admiralty; it was something else completely, and altogether far more simple. It was revenge.

  “Then we’ll have to make each shot count,” Rothchild said with determination. “Sensor control officer?”

  “Yes, sir?” the tall, dark-skinned woman at the sensor podium replied.

  “Lieutenant Quel-Sa, I need you to get me everything you have on that lead ship. I need to know what kind of damage our last salvos did, and if you can detect any weak points in their hull design.”

  Quel-Sa, the tall and lithe Urilian, her purple skin glistening under the glow of the bridges red battle lights, looked just as captivating to Stephen as she had the first time they had met, months ago. Her dark eyes were fastened on his, and all the captain could offer the worried young woman was a confident wink that he hoped would convey the message that everything was under control.

  Blessedly, the gesture seemed to do the trick. Quel-Sa smiled, and for a split second all was right in Stephen’s world. Her head turned on her beautifully elongated neck, causing her long, silvery hair to flutter as she complied with the order, peering into her computer display with determination.

  “The lead Jidoan cruiser has sustained moderate damage to the ventral section of its forward hull. Its secondary weapons are out, but all of the primary weapons are still functioning. Power generation readings are still above eighty percent.”

  The Jidoans—relative newcomers to the war. They had signed a nonaggression pact with the Kafarans several years earlier, but only began producing warships for them within the last twelve months. Rothchild was amazed at how well the Jidoans were trained in space combat tactics. “Meaning they still have plenty of fight left in them,” Stephen said with a sideways glace toward the forward view port.

  “Affirmative, Captain. The destroyer on our port is venting drive plasma from a ruptured fuel cell. Her maneuvering power has been effectively cut in half. Power readings are below fifty percent.”

  Stephen smirked. “I think we can count her out of the battle for right now. It’ll take the remainder of her power to keep life supporting systems and her maneuvering thrusters up and functioning.”

  “That would be consistent with its pattern of operations,” Quel-sa agreed.

  “And what about the third ship?”

  “The destroyer on our starboard side is largely undamaged, sir. There is a small hull breach along its ventral side, but nothing that’s going to hamper its fighting capabilities. Power generation output is ninety-three percent and rising slowly.”

  “They’re effecting repairs, getting ready for the next round of attacks,” Rothchild said with a nod of acknowledgement. And of course, there were the two new enemy arrivals that had appeared from behind the long-dead moon roughly fifteen thousand miles from the Tripoli’s current position. Stephen now had all the information he needed to formulate what was about to happen, and he allowed for a brief moment of silence to fall on his bridge as he watched the large, angular Jidoan cruiser slip into visual range. The ship was ending a wide arc turn, and coming about to face the Tripoli head-on.

  “What’s the st
atus of our forces?”

  “The Lancaster is dead in space. All weapon systems are down. Power generation output is below fifteen percent. Life support systems are running at extremely low levels, and only to twenty percent of the vessel. All three computer cores are down, sir. The Halifax is marginally better; primary and secondary batteries are still functioning, but only at thirty percent efficiency. Overall power output is sixty percent and falling steadily.”

  In other words, she’s a sitting duck.

  Captain Rothchild watched as the Jidoan cruiser began to fill the entire view port. This was the best chance he was going to have at salvaging the situation, and he knew his time to act had come. The enemy ship was now on the outer edge of the Tripoli’s long-range weapons, and Stephen intended to make the most of what little time they had left. However, with a suddenness that surprised everyone on the Tripoli’s bridge, the enemy cruiser accelerated to full power and slipped unmolested over the Sector Command cruiser before Rothchild could give the order to fire. Expecting to feel the hull of his ship to buck under the strain of enemy weapons fire, he was stunned when nothing happened. The enemy cruiser had passed within five hundred yards of the Tripoli without so much as spitting at the Sector Command vessel.

  Rothchild pivoted his chair toward Quel-Sa’s sensor station, intent on asker her what had just happened, when she likewise turned to him to make an announcement.

  “Captain, there’s another ship entering the quadrant.”

  It was too much to hope for a miracle, but Rothchild made the query anyway. “One of ours?”

  Quel-Sa’s dark eyes narrowed as she studied her display. “No, sir. That is, I don’t think so, sir.”

  Stephen had never known Quel-Sa to give such enigmatic answers. The fact that she seemed unsure was more than enough to enhance his curiosity. “Explain.”

  “The design of the hull seems to be a conglomeration of UCS and Jidoan technologies.” Talia Quel-Sa then turned to face her captain with a look of apprehension. “We don’t have anything like that in the fleet, sir. At least, not that I’m aware of.”

  With a heavy sigh, Stephen turned to regard the view of empty space stretched out before the Tripoli. There was only one answer to the riddle, and he instantly knew exactly who that ship belonged to and who was captaining her. He felt a sense of satisfaction at having achieved the goal originally set forth to him by Sector Command several months earlier. The reports about him being on Jido were spot-on, and now Rothchild had confirmed it, but he also knew that he probably wouldn’t live through the day to report it to anyone in the Unified government.

  “Krador,” Stephen whispered, turning his chair back toward the view port and giving the small, twinkling stars his full attention. So he’s finally decided to show his face.

  The human Ensign sitting at the communications console, Hazel Forbes, turned to face her captain, her normally angelic face now soiled with grime and sweat. “Should I attempt to raise the vessel, sir?”

  Would he even answer? After all, no one in the Unified government had heard from Krador in months. Then again, this was exactly the type of situation that Krador would favor; he’s outmaneuvered our squadron at every turn, and it would be just like him to want to gloat over his victory.

  As he contemplated it, the vessel began to slip into the Tripoli’s field of view. “Go ahead, Ensign. Try to raise that…thing,” Rothchild said as he waved toward the new enemy arrival.

  The ship was enormous, easily five hundred feet longer than the Jidoan cruiser beside it. Situated aft—along both the dorsal and ventral sides—were large, dual-barreled turrets. Surrounding them were smaller, but no less deadly, batteries of double- and triple-barreled weapons of various sizes and ranges. It was impossible to tell where the vessel’s bridge was located, as there was hardly a flicker of light along its smooth, wedge-like shape. There were no view ports, no running lights, and no discernible docking points. There weren’t any hull markings either, nor was there a transponder beacon that would have typically called out the ship’s identification signals electronically. With the Tripoli and the enemy ship now facing one another, Rothchild couldn’t see the stern of the long vessel, but knew there must have been an enormous drive module propelling the thing. This was no cruiser; this was a battleship.

  “Captain,” the Ensign called from the communications station. “I’m receiving an answer to our hail.”

  “Bandwidth?”

  “Audio and visual, sir. Shall I put it up on the main monitor?”

  Stephen nodded, then turned in his chair to face the large screen just above the wide forward view port.

  As he did, the communications screen came to life with a burst of static and white noise. After several seconds, the image and sound melded together to form a coherent picture. There, seated in a curved platinum chair, was the traitor, Krador. On his face was a maniacal smile that sent chills into everyone on the bridge of the Tripoli. He looked younger than Rothchild remembered, and Stephen wondered if Maros Krador had received some form of medical manipulation in his time on Jido. Krador was wearing the dark blue uniform of a Jidoan fleet officer, tailored to meet the smaller and less robust human form. On either side of Krador’s collar were large, silver medallions, probably clasps to hold up the silver-tipped cape that was a traditional accoutrement of the Jidoan fleet command structure.

  “Ah, Stephen,” Krador said with a wide grin. “It’s good to see you, old friend. I trust my colleagues didn’t damage your ship too severely.”

  “We’re not friends, Krador.”

  Krador’s ice cold eyes beamed back at Rothchild as the enemy captain made a “tsk” sound. “And we were so close. How soon you’ve forgotten all that once was.”

  Rothchild leveled his eyes at the screen. “And never will be again, if I have anything to say about it.”

  Krador held his arms out in a grand fashion, as if willing Rothchild to enter into an embrace. “Oh, but you are so very wrong, Captain. There is still time for them to be the same, my friend. In fact, it can be so much more if your mind is open to the possibilities.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “There are is a universe of possibilities out there, Stephen. Untapped dimensions of understanding. All you have to do…is join us.”

  Had he heard him correctly? Stephen chuckled, but it was born of nervousness. “What?”

  “You heard me, Captain. Join us.” Krador’s arms extended even further until they were fully outstretched. “Join me.”

  The tone of Krador’s voice sent a chill up Stephen’s spine. “You’re mad.”

  Krador’s arms folded across his chest, and the character of his voice changed to one of menace. “Be careful, Captain. I may take offense to your tone.”

  “You’re a traitor to Sector Command, Maros. You’re a traitor to the Unified Collaboration of Systems and everything we stand for.”

  “Sector Command? The Unified Collaboration,” Krador all but spat in disgust. “They are nothing but a group of feeble-minded and weak-willed individuals not ready to become our equals.”

  “An equal…to you?”

  Krador’s face contorted into a demonic smile. “An equal to my supreme greatness.”

  “You’ll never be able to convince me to join forces with you, Maros. I’ve sworn to defend the UCS and all our worlds and their inhabitants from beings exactly like you.”

  “Then you ‘protect’ them from achieving greatness!” Krador snapped. “You sequester them into achieving a fraction of their potential!” He stopped for a moment, long enough to collect his thoughts and emotions. In doing so, his tone returned to one of benevolence. “That is the weakness of Sector Command. A weakness of lack of vision, and of purpose.”

  “And what is your purpose, Krador? The destruction of innocent lives? The subjugation of whole worlds?”

  “I said watch your tone, Stephen. I take our past acquaintance very seriously, but I will tolerate no further outburst beyond this point.”

&nb
sp; Captain Rothchild shook his head in defeat. “Just do what you came to do and get on with it.”

  “Oh, but I am doing it, Captain.”

  “And what is that, exactly?”

  “Why, I’m trying to save your life, my friend,” Krador said with all the insincere pity he could muster. “You see, my Jidoan comrades are more than happy to blow you and your quaint vessel out of the stars. The only thing that has stopped them in accomplishing that very task is a word from me. And all it would take would be one more word, and you would be no more.”

  “Then do it. I’m tired of this. Or are you prepared to surrender yourself, and your forces, and remand yourself into Sector Command custody?”

  Krador closed his eyes in contemplation. “Perhaps I have not made myself clear, Captain.”

  Rothchild watched as Krador turned to an unseen aid and nodded his head slowly.

  “Captain,” Quel-Sa called out from the sensor console. “Reading a massive buildup in the enemy vessel’s weapons system.”

  “What?”

  “It looks like they are preparing to—”

  Beyond the view port, Captain Rothchild watched as the massive upper turret of Krador’s warship pivoted quickly before unleashing a single, hellish salvo. The bolts of energy were like balls of green flame as they sped toward their target: the destroyer Halifax. The Sector Command destroyer, unprepared for the barrage, was unable to maneuver in time to make a difference. The first of the two bolts of supercharged particles smashed against the Halifax’s bow, buckling a hundred-foot-wide section of her hull plating. The next bolt hit a split second after the first, impacting squarely with the raised superstructure that housed the bridge and combat information centers. Metal was instantly turned into slag as the destructive power of Krador’s blast ripped a gaping, mortal mound in the already-stricken destroyer.