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Cold Conflict (Deception Fleet Book 2)
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Cold Conflict
Deception Fleet Book Two
Daniel Gibbs
Steve Rzasa
Contents
Starchart - Sagittarius/Orion Arms
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Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
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Acknowledgments
Cold Conflict by Daniel Gibbs
Copyright © 2021 by Daniel Gibbs
* * *
Visit Daniel Gibbs website at
www.danielgibbsauthor.com
* * *
Cover by Jeff Brown Graphics—www.jeffbrowngraphics.com
Additional Illustrations by Joel Steudler—www.joelsteudler.com
* * *
This book is a work of fiction, the characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
* * *
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For permissions please contact [email protected].
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Battlegroup Z
Book 1 - Weapons Free
Book 2 - Hostile Spike
Book 3 - Sol Strike
Book 4 - Bandits Engaged
Book 5 - Iron Hand
Echoes of War
Book 1 - Fight the Good Fight
Book 2 - Strong and Courageous
Book 3 - So Fight I
Book 4 - Gates of Hell
Book 5 - Keep the Faith
Book 6 - Run the Gauntlet
Book 7 - Finish the Fight
Breach of Faith
(With Gary T. Stevens)
Book 1 - Breach of Peace
Book 2 - Breach of Faith
Book 3 - Breach of Duty
Book 4 - Breach of Trust
Deception Fleet
(With Steve Rzasa)
Book 1 - Victory’s Wake
Book 2 - Cold Conflict
Book 3 - Hazards Near
Prologue
Bellwether Logistics and Supply Station
Caeli Star System—the Alvarsson Wedge
Between Coalition and Saurian Space
3 November 2464
* * *
None of the escape routes were clear. Captain Nelson Garza consulted his map display, but doing so for the hundredth time didn’t change the results. Security was too tight between Sector F Ninety-Eight and the nearest shuttle bay. Tactisar had people on every level. No doubt station sensors were scanning faces for him right then, which left the maintenance tunnels.
He kicked the grating free at the end. Cold air washed over him. Garza was in the station’s outer layer, which had minimal life support and was frequented only by technicians and repair drones. An airlock stood five hundred meters to his left.
“Vector One, this is Control. What’s your status? We lost you on the station sensors.”
That made sense. Garza rubbed at his wrist, formerly home to his comms unit he’d ditched in a recycler five minutes ago. The implanted transceiver and transmitter was his final link to his people. “Control, this is One. I’m in Sector F Ninety-Eight, making my way to a maintenance airlock. What’s your ETA?”
“Under ten minutes, One. May take longer. Patrols have thickened up out here. I’ve got a signal informing me all nonessential traffic is being stopped for a routine contraband inspection. Could take a bit to get around.”
A buzzing echoed faintly at the far end of the maintenance tunnel. Garza spun and dropped to a knee, plasma pistol aimed the way he’d come. A pale-blue light blinked.
“Stand by.” Garza lined up the shot and squeezed the trigger three times.
Plasma blasts seared globs of light across his vision. He’d hit his mark. The drone following him disintegrated in a shower of sparks and a puff of smoke, its smoldering remnants littering the access tunnel.
Dammit. Garza sprinted along the curved corridor toward the icon blinking on his map. “Control, this is One. They’ve found me. I need extraction ASAP at Airlock Two Niner Nine Eight Foxtrot, repeat, Two Niner Nine Eight Foxtrot.”
Shouts pursued him. He glanced over his shoulder. Searchlights bobbed from the end of the tunnel, illuminating the equipment lockers on the far wall.
“Roger, One. We’re burning your way now. ETA seven minutes.”
Garza doubted he had that long. He skidded on the metal decking in front of Airlock 2914D. It was sealed. The signage warned him, Access by Authorized Personnel Only.
He fumbled his lockbreaker before slapping it against the control panel.
“This is Tactisar Security Service! Halt where you are.”
Garza let go of the lockbreaker as it beeped and blinked through its decryption. He crossed the corridor, firing the plasma pistol into the distance. It was too dim down there for him to make out anything other than vague shapes, but at least one of the human-sized silhouettes cried out before falling out of sight.
The return fire was fierce. Blasts pelted the bulkheads, leaving deep, blackened scars where their energies had scorched the metal. A foul tang filled the air, which was already sharp with solvents. Garza pressed himself behind a support beam as the shots sizzled by. The moment they slacked, presumably to recharge, he leaned around and shot back.
His lockbreaker let out a final, affirmative beep. Garza snuck a peek. The hatch panel pulsed green. The airlock sprang open. He waited for the next lull in fire then sprinted the gap back the way he’d come.
Plasma blasts scorched his jacket. One grazed the top of his right shoulder. Garza gritted his teeth against the agonizing burn, but he was inside, out of their range. He ripped his lockbreaker free and slammed home the mechanism. The hatch sealed behind him.
Focus. He ransacked the lockers lining both sides of the airlock chamber. Medical supplies. Jackpot. Garza ripped open a painkiller and pressed it against the wound. The pain dulled into a throbbing ache. He shuddered a sigh.
The dull whump of plasma blasts against the closed hatch jogged him back to the task at hand. He stripped out of his jacket. Suits hung in the largest locker. He yanked one free of its hooks. Come on, come on. Crimina
ls weren’t chasing him. Tactisar had all the access codes to get into everywhere on the station. If he could suit up and get into vacuum, Control could pick him up—
The hatch trundled open. Garza lifted his pistol but found himself facing four others, two of which were automatic blaster versions. He lifted his finger free of the trigger. No chance he could take them all down, not before being burned into the deck himself. It was better to hold off, wait for the opportune moment.
“Drop it,” said the lead security officer, a burly, dark-skinned man with brilliant-yellow hair and a mustache. Lightning bolts were shaved from his temples to the nape of his neck. He wore the standard-issue Tactisar vest, dark blue with silver stripes on the ribcage. A bronze octagonal badge was clipped above the left breast pocket—no name tag. None of the officers had one, just their badge number. Their clothing didn’t match either. It didn’t matter. Detective Ramsey Moss kept tabs on all his guys and gals, and he didn’t much care for Bellwether Station’s general populace knowing the names behind the force keeping them in line.
“I’m putting it on the deck.” Garza bent slowly, his eyes never leaving the man. He kept his left hand raised as his right completed the action.
The moment the pistol clicked against the metal floor, two officers swarmed him. They wrenched his arms behind him. Garza waited until he felt cold restraints curling around his wrists. He bashed his skull against the nearest officer’s nose. The man’s partner tried to jerk away, startled, but Garza clung to him and wrested the partner’s pistol free of his belt.
One of the other officers fired. The blasts hit the torso of Garza’s hostage, who let out a gargled scream before sagging against Garza.
“That’s not going to work for you, Nels,” the lead officer said. “I can fill his boots inside an hour. Want to try taking Paltz hostage too? I can put up two vacancy notices.”
Garza kept the body between himself and the others. He sidled toward the locker. “I’m getting my helmet and leaving, Ramsey.”
“Got a ride waiting? You’re going to miss it.”
“I don’t think so.” Boots clanked on the deck. More officers coming? Garza reached for the helmet.
Plasma blasts exploded behind Ramsey and his remaining man, turning the dim corridor into a fireworks display of riotous light. Ramsey pushed his man aside and fired into the corridor. He lunged for the deck, rolling onto his back.
Garza dropped the body shielding him and pulled the helmet onto his head. Terrible heat burned through his chest, knocking him clear back to the outer hatch. The helmet bounced free around his head, ringing his skull. His vision blurred and went red. Blood flowed from a cut above his eyes.
Ramsey sneered at him. He reached up and slapped the control panel.
“Emergency override accepted,” the panel intoned. “Compartment to seal and vent.”
No. Garza struggled upright. If he could seal—
The inner hatch shut off the sounds of battle. Ramsey’s officer, the one whose nose Garza had broken, scrambled for the hatch. He threw himself against the impenetrable barrier, clawing, screaming.
All the lights went red, and the outer hatch whipped open. The explosive blast of air flung Garza into space. The helmet spun off into the starry darkness. Garza missed it by centimeters.
His vision, already blurred from the blood and the blow, turned everything a crimson shade. Garza knew he was dead. In seconds, he would lapse into unconsciousness and die soon after—nothing could stop it. Regrets flickered through his mind in rapid succession—failing his mission, letting down his brother, never returning to Cuidadestrella.
“Vector One, this is Control! Where are you? One, come in—”
The signal fizzled out. His implanted transmitter wasn’t meant to take space’s hard radiation even intermittently. He tried not to think of what it was doing to his cells—not that it would matter soon.
Lord God, forgive me my sins and welcome me into your everlasting arms…
All he could do was fight against his seizing limbs to wipe blood from his eyes, clearing his sight, for a final look at the looming curve of Bellwether Station with Caeli’s blue giant star blazing atop it. Everything shone under the sharpest light he’d ever seen. The light built upon itself until he couldn’t see anything else. Hermano… cofrade… Even the burning in his lungs went away, and it was all peaceful.
Ramsey Moss kicked the bulkhead as the medic sutured his wound. “Shit! Doc, you’d better go easy if you don’t want to serve out the rest of your stint on the hot rock nearest to the sun. I hear the mining supervisors lost their last medic when her heat shield failed.”
“Shut up, Ram, and take your stitcher.” The medic shut off the device. He peered at the sleek patch of scarred skin. “Two doses, one in the morning and one in the evening. I’ll send you the prescription. Avoid getting shot.”
Once the medic left, Ramsey kicked the bulkhead again. “What’s the count?”
“Four dead. Hester, Sanchez, Venable, Folse.” Desmond Cho wiped grime from his face. “You spaced Nels, so we can pin the deaths on him.”
“ID on the shooter?”
“The drones are out hunting, but nothing yet. It seems like he had a partner.”
Ramsey snorted. “We sure didn’t pick you for your brains, Cho. Of course he had a partner. Our job’s to flush that rat out the next nearest airlock, too, unless we all want to follow Nels into the cold dark when the boss finds out. How about the trace?”
Cho shook his head.
“Son of a bitch.” Ramsey ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t get paid nearly enough for the headaches he’d had to manage the past month, not by half. “All right, signal our patrol ships—I want the body recovered. If he’s got an active transmitter, we might be able to dump data from it.”
“If it’s not fried,” Cho muttered, but he was already jogging down the corridor toward the two officers cordoning that point.
Ramsey scowled. Okay. Don’t freak out. The boss knew the cleanup was going to be difficult. But whatever Nels had been, he hadn’t been just another data thief snooping around Nosamo’s corporate files. None Ramsey had matched up with during his decade on Bellwether had fought like that.
His commlink pulsed.
Great. Just what he needed, the boss checking in.
But the signal wasn’t from the corporate enclave at the top of Bellwether’s dome. It wasn’t even one of the preset carriers the boss used when he communicated with Ramsey about the more unsavory aspects of station security. It was from Ramsey’s new benefactor.
A chill crept through him that had nothing to do with the low temperatures in the maintenance corridors. Ramsey made sure his people were out of earshot before he accepted the signal and murmured, “Detective Moss. Go ahead.”
“Perhaps, when I next warn you to treat a target with caution, Detective, you’ll listen.”
The smooth tones of his benefactor filtered through his earpiece. Ramsey held the anger and fear out of his voice as best he could. “Yeah, I think you could have been more specific.”
“Disdain for my intelligence gathering? It’s hardly like you to abstain from gratitude. You don’t need a scar to match the new one on your side, do you?”
“How did you—” Ramsey grimaced. The drones. One of the units bobbed in the air a few meters in the other direction, scanning for samples left by Nels’s would-be rescuer. “Nice. You’re watching me now, is that it?”
“Given how many times this Nels eluded your capture, I felt it necessary to step up my involvement. Your patrol ships will be too late anyway. Nels’s compatriots have already retrieved his body, but my people have been marking his transmissions. Don’t fear. We’ve dealt with similar situations.”
“I feel way better.” Ramsey wasn’t sure how much more bluster he could manufacture, but it was better than groveling before the man. He wasn’t even there in person. “We need to meet up. This is getting out of hand. If my boss finds out—”
“Calm y
ourself. He won’t. As for meeting, that’s out of the question. We’ll continue the arrangement with my representative making face-to-face contact.”
Wonderful. That guy. Ramsey rolled his eyes, not caring if the drone picked up the facial expression and beamed it back to his watching benefactor. “Fine. But if he doesn’t come with those code resequencers, our plan’s not going to get anyone rich. I’m not okay with that.”
“Funnily enough, Detective, neither am I, though my concerns extend beyond material wealth.” A chuckle shook the relay. “I do appreciate your flushing out our prey. His death will prove to our advantage.”
“Yeah? Counting on him having friends who’re going complicate things for my security force?” Ramsey spotted one of his men giving him a hand signal—the shooter was long gone. They’d lost the trail. Time for the drones to pick it up.
“If his friends do not come searching for him, I would be surprised, which rarely happens,” Ramsey’s benefactor said. “I want them seeking revenge, because when their emotions are running high, they will make mistakes, and when they make mistakes—let’s say perhaps I’ll join you in a toast when the Terrans realize just how badly they have underestimated their opponent.”
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