Combat Frame Ƶ XSeed is well underway. To whet your appetite for the final CFXS novel, please enjoy this second preview.
Captain William “Drake” Roberts sat pondering the old-style monitors clustered around the bridge of his medium frigate the Joan Lafitte. The air duct rattle that Pants, the ship’s head tech, hadn’t yet been able to mend, stayed in the mental compartment to which Drake relegated it as his senses impressed the battlefield on his mind.
Not that it was much of a battle. A single UCP escort ship—of a size with his but decades newer—faced Joan Lafitte from sixty klicks higher in Orleans’ orbit. With her two point-defense turrets and four ReXPros, Drake’s frigate stood to come out the worse from a head-on battle with the UCA craft.
Which Drake had known before answering the Governor’s call to arms, and which had informed his decision not to fight head-to-head.
“You’re stalling, Roberts,” Colonel Julio Stone’s smug voice hissed from the comm.
Half an octave too smug, noted Drake. “You’re the one who’s been ordered to leave Orleans’ space, Colonel. And I’d appreciate some professional reciprocity. I’m Captain Roberts.”
“The UCP doesn’t acknowledge officer ranks claimed by rebels or pirates,” said Stone. “And you’re both.”
Defeat shook him. That’s why he won’t launch his CFs. Drake kept his eyes on the live visual and gravitic feeds from the fringes of Orleans’ gravity well. “Maybe you missed it in your retreat from the bunker, but the Governor’s giving me a commission.”
The speaker in Drake’s patched headrest buzzed as Stone snorted. “We don’t recognize Lafitte, either. Not after his weekend warriors turned traitor.”
Every readout on Drake’s planetarium-like bridge still showed only Stone’s thick pickaxe of a ship in stationary orbit above him. But he raised his right hand, index finger up. Sorter, his weapons officer, wouldn’t miss the standby signal from his station to Drake’s four o’clock.
“Those weekend warriors routed your men from the surface.” Throwing the Colonel’s words back in his face along with a reminder of his loss would make him dig in his heels. Which Drake was counting on. “My men will do the same unless you TC/D out of the system immediately.”
Mentioning TC/D would alert a more discerning type. But I’m betting that being told how to do it chafes Stone even more than me telling him what to do.
The Colonel skipped the derisive snort and went straight to laughter. “Do you honestly think a half-trained militia with eight ReXPros and space support from one leaky frigate can take on the UC military?”
There it is! Drake pointed his raised finger forward.
“I’ll make sure they take you alive, Roberts,” Stone rambled on, “so I can personally march you from my stockade to your execution!”
The nav system chirped twice, indicating two TC/D signatures right on top of each other. Bursts of white light from the surrounding screens made Drake squint. Trilling alarms warned of nearby radiation and navigation hazards.
“The hel—” Stone shouted over the comm before static drowned him out.
Another commander might have called for a report, but Drake knew he needn’t tell Sorter.
“Major collision 4,000 klicks dead ahead,” the weapons officer gushed in his guttural twang. “Debris composition matches a Daedalus-class carrier. This is epic!”
The screens reset, showing a cloud of glowing fragments spreading out from the aft half of a massive gunmetal gray hull. Epic? Sure. But it would be more impressive if the opposition was less predictable.
“Comms are back,” said Sorter. “Wanna brag to Julio?”
Drake cast a backward glance through the curtain of prematurely gray hair that fell to his shoulder. “That’s half the fun of winning.” He toggled the call button on his duct tape-wrapped armrest. “Captain Roberts to Colonel Stone: You have just seen the destructive power of our new weapon. Leave the system now, unless you want to taste it.”
Stone’s tinny voice trembled. “Where did a lowlife like you get a weapon like that?”
Drake opted to let his opponent reveal even more of himself. “Where do you think?”
“It’s true, then.” The Colonel audibly deflated. “You’re still connected with that doomsday cult.”
“The Saeculum believes that time is cyclical,” Drake corrected him, “not that it’s ending. Regardless, their technology is more than a match for the UCP’s. You should go and warn your superiors before they get any ideas about infringing Orleans’ sovereignty.”
Sorter whooped from his station. “They’re turning tail and running! Gotta admit, Skipper, I didn’t think you’d pull this one off.”
“Sorry to show you up.”
“Never been happier to be wrong!”
Static from the comm muffled the nav system’s chirp as Stone fled into TC/D.
“William, my lad!” a paternal voice hailed from Drake’s speakers. “I watched your stunning victory from my office. Congratulations, son.”
Drake caught the sly grin amid Sorter’s black stubble out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t resist sharing it. “It’s an honor, Your Excellency. I dedicate my victory to your brilliant and gracious daughter.”
“Cut the false modesty, Captain,” the Governor said with mock severity. “Despite Joan’s insistence, I thought you a turncoat and a brigand. The truth is, I misjudged you.”
Sorter’s weathered face split in a toothy smile. Drake tried not to blush. “It’s my pleasure to vindicate her.”
“I overreacted when I learned of your courtship,” said Lafitte. “Can you forgive a hidebound old man?”
Butterflies filled Drake’s stomach. Now is my only chance. “Making your pardon official would go a long way toward convincing me, Your Excellency. Granting me Joan’s hand would close the distance.”
A pregnant pause fell.
“I’m sorry, lad,” said Lafitte. And worse, he meant it. “You’ve rendered invaluable aid to our cause. But to overturn a treason conviction …”
Drake strove to keep the heartbreak from his voice. “I understand, sir.”
“Perhaps when the political climate stabilizes—”
The nav system chirped, and the early warning alarm shrilled.
“Combat frame inbound from two o’clock,” Sorter warned. “I can’t find it on any registry.”
“Is the UCP launching a counterattack already?” the Governor fretted.
“Leave the situation to me, Your Excellency,” said Drake. “Please stand by.”
“Should I have Pants scramble the ReXPros?” asked Sorter.
The unknown CF approached to within fifty klicks of the Joan Lafitte’s bow and stopped. Its blocky head and shoulders formed a stubby trident. Missile tubes dotted its white and gray core, and it carried a shield traversed by a burgundy cross.
That’s no UCP model.
“Brother Dismas Ignatius Theodorus,” a cold female voice emanated from the comm.
A hint of an Indian accent, despite sounding computer-synthesized. Is she an A.I.? “Not since I was laicized,” said Drake. “But you have me at a disadvantage, Miss …”
“The Saeculum legate to Nouvelle France was abducted and murdered by Marshal Edoard Ziebig of the Coalition Defense Force,” the strange woman droned.
No A.I. is that antisocial. “It sounds like Ziebig is looking at kidnapping, murder, and sacrilege charges. How do his crimes concern me?”
“Your king and your old order require your abilities.”
“No offense intended, but I have a prior engagement.”
Frustration crept into the machine woman’s voice. “You were supposed to answer in the affirmative.”
“Again, sorry to disappoint.”
“I can’t read you.”
“Likewise, which is rare. My compliments.”
The stranger grumbled in a most unmachine-like manner. “You’re not a Calculator.”
“That’s what I thought you were, to be honest.”
“I speak for King Jean-Claude of Nouvelle France. He offers you a royal pardon in exchange for your service.”
“Most generous of His Majesty, but his writ doesn’t extend to the ExSols.”
“It will when you’ve convinced them to join PAX.”
“So the King of Nouvelle France wants me to talk extrasolar colonies into leaving the UCP for an alliance he leads?”
“Correct.”
“And there’s a royal pardon in it for me?”
The tridentine CF hung silent for a moment. Then its colors inverted as it dissolved into a ripple in space.
The nav system chimed again. “She’s gone to TC/D,” said Sorter.
“Follow her signature.”
“And leave the planet we just liberated?”
“Our ruse will make the General Staff think twice before trying to retake it. And Lafitte will have Orleans’ real superweapon ready by then.”
Sorter bent over his sloping partition-enclosed station. “You’re the boss.”
I’ll come back for you, darling, Drake thought with a last look at Orleans’ turquoise orb. Not breaking vows, not fleeing the law or seeking coin; as a free man.
The Joan Lafitte trembled as she entered TC/D.
Get ready for the final book in the hit mech saga. Read Combat Frame XSeed S now!
