Cursed Command (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 3) Read online

  Professionally Published Books by Christopher G. Nuttall

  Angel in the Whirlwind

  The Oncoming Storm

  Falcone Strike

  ELSEWHEN PRESS

  The Royal Sorceress

  The Royal Sorceress (Book I)

  The Great Game (Book II)

  Necropolis (Book III)

  Sons of Liberty (Book IV)

  Bookworm

  Bookworm

  Bookworm II: The Very Ugly Duckling

  Bookworm III: The Best Laid Plans

  Bookworm IV: Full Circle

  Inverse Shadows

  Sufficiently Advanced Technology

  Stand Alone

  A Life Less Ordinary

  The Mind’s Eye

  TWILIGHT TIMES BOOKS

  Schooled in Magic

  Schooled in Magic (Book I)

  Lessons in Etiquette (Book II)

  Study in Slaughter (Book III)

  Work Experience (Book IV)

  The School of Hard Knocks (Book V)

  Love’s Labor’s Won (Book VI)

  Trial By Fire (Book VII)

  Wedding Hells (Book VIII)

  Infinite Regress (Book IX)

  Past Tense (Book X)

  The Decline and Fall of the Galactic Empire

  Barbarians at The Gates (Book I)

  The Shadow of Cincinnatus (Book II)

  The Barbarian Bride (Book III)

  HENCHMEN PRESS

  First Strike

  Text copyright © 2017 by Christopher G. Nuttall

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503943971

  ISBN-10: 1503943976

  Cover design by Ray Lundgren

  Cover illustrated by Paul Youll

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  “Mission accomplished?”

  “Yes, sir,” Crewwoman Julia Transom said. She smiled rather coldly. “Captain Abraham is dead.”

  Senior Chief Joel Gibson smiled back. It hadn’t been hard to arrange for Captain Abraham’s death, even though the IG would almost certainly go through the entire series of events with a fine-tooth comb. Captain Abraham wasn’t—hadn’t been—precisely aristocracy, but he’d had connections at a very high level. Yet there had been no choice. Captain Abraham had also been far too effective. Given time, he might have turned Uncanny into a real wreck, and that Joel could not allow.

  He leaned forward, warningly. “And the evidence?”

  “Gone,” Julia assured him. He didn’t miss the flicker of fear, swiftly hidden, in her eyes. “If they manage to recover the black box, it’ll look like a random fluctuation in the shuttle’s drive field. They can take however long they want to sift through the debris. They won’t find anything incriminating.”

  “Good,” Joel said. “And so we are without a commanding officer. Again.”

  Julia nodded hastily. “You’d think they’d grow tired of losing officers to this ship.”

  Joel shrugged. Uncanny had been in active service, technically, for three years. The first of her class, she’d been intended to serve as both a squadron command vessel and an independent command for a fire-eating captain. But she’d had a run of bad luck that had left her relegated to lunar orbit, well away from anywhere important. Spacers believed—or chose to believe—that she was cursed. Given just how many accidents had befallen her crew, they were right to be reluctant to serve on her. Joel and his allies hadn’t been responsible for all of the accidents.

  “They’ll want us heading out to the war, sooner or later,” he said reluctantly. Though the information was classified, he’d long since spliced a hack into the command network. Given how much time the XO spent in the lunar fleshpots, Joel could honestly say that he read his superior’s mail long before Abraham did. “And that gives us our opportunity.”

  He smirked as he turned away from her. He’d honestly never expected to stay in the Navy, not since a judge had given him a choice between taking the oath and serving his planet or going straight to a penal world. Joel had expected to put in his ten years as an ordinary crewman and then leave Tyre for good, but it hadn’t taken him long to see the possibilities inherent in his new position. There was something to be said for being the only effective man in a crew of drunkards, morons, near-criminals, and people the Navy bureaucracy couldn’t be bothered to discharge. There were all sorts of other possibilities for a man with imagination and guts.

  Julia coughed. “Our opportunity?”

  “Why, to take our fate into our own hands, of course,” Joel said.

  Julia’s eyes went wide, but she said nothing. Joel nodded in approval. He trusted Julia about as much as he trusted anyone, which wasn’t very much. Julia would sing like a bird if the IG found proof she’d assassinated her commanding officer. The less she knew the better. He’d considered disposing of her in another accident—and he would have done so if he hadn’t needed her. How such a remarkable talent for hacking computer networks had escaped being put to better use was beyond him, but he had no doubt of her loyalty. She’d done enough to more than prove her credentials to him.

  He turned back to face her. Julia’s red hair, cut close to her scalp, shimmered under the bright lights. Her uniform was a size too tight, showing every last curve of her body. There was a hardness in her face that warned that anyone who tried to take advantage of her was going to regret it, if he survived. Joel had taught her more than enough dirty tricks to give Julia an unfair advantage over those who thought that mere strength and brute force would be enough to bring her down.

  “Keep a sharp eye on the XO’s personal channel,” Joel ordered. “If the Admiralty wants to send in another CO, they’ll notify him first.”

  “Unless they know what he’s doing with his time,” Julia reminded him.

  Joel rolled his eyes. The XO wasn’t very smart—there was only so far that aristocratic ranks and titles could take a
person—but he’d shown a certain low cunning in assembling his protective shroud. Unless the Admiralty decided to make a surprise inspection, they shouldn’t have any idea that the XO was enjoying himself rather than doing his duty. If they did . . . Joel found it hard to care. The XO would take the blame for everything and the plotters would pass unnoticed.

  Unless they break up the crew, he thought.

  He shook his head. Uncanny had served as the Royal Navy’s dumping ground for the past two years. Even her couple of combat operations in the war hadn’t changed that, particularly not after the . . . incident . . . at Donne’s Reach. Breaking up the crew would force the Admiralty to distribute over a thousand unwanted crewmembers all over the Navy while facing stiff resistance from everyone else. No captain in his right mind wanted a crewman or an officer who had served on Uncanny. The ship wasn’t known as Unlucky for nothing.

  Julia cleared her throat. “Sir?”

  “Keep an eye on his channel,” Joel ordered again. “Alert me if anything changes.”

  Julia nodded, then turned and hurried out of the compartment. Joel watched her go, thinking dark thoughts. They were committed now, no matter how much he might wish to believe otherwise. Whatever he’d said to her, he knew that the IG would not take the death of a commanding officer lightly. And if they started digging through Uncanny, they’d uncover far too many oddities to look away . . .

  But by then, we should be ready to move, he told himself firmly. They won’t have time to stop us before it’s too late.

  CHAPTER ONE

  HMS Uncanny looked . . . faded.

  Captain William McElney wasn’t sure just what had prompted that observation, but he couldn’t escape his first impression of his new command. HMS Uncanny was a blunt white arrowhead, like HMS Lightning, yet there was something about her that bothered him. Her hull was painted the same pure white as the remainder of the fleet, but it was obvious that no one had bothered to—that no one had needed to—repaint the hull. The network of sensor blisters dotted over her exterior looked new, too new. Her point defense weapons, which should have tracked his shuttle as it approached her hull, were still, utterly immobile.

  “She doesn’t seem to know we’re here, sir,” the pilot said.

  William sucked in his breath sharply, feeling a yawning chasm opening in his chest. A command, his first command . . . he’d served the Royal Navy faithfully for years, hoping for a command of his own. And yet, the more he looked at the heavy cruiser, the more he wondered if he’d been wise to want a command. On paper, Uncanny was a dream; in practice, the First Space Lord had made it clear that the heavy cruiser was trouble.

  “Send a standard greeting, then request permission to dock,” William ordered finally.

  He cursed under his breath. The Theocracy had shown itself more than willing to use suicide missions to target the Commonwealth, even before the tide of the war had started to turn against them. A shuttle crammed with antimatter, exploding within an unsuspecting starship’s shuttlebay, would be more than enough to vaporize the entire cruiser. Even a standard nuke would be enough to do real damage if it detonated inside the hull. These days, no one was allowed to dock without an elaborate security screening to make sure they were who they claimed to be. Even civilians were included despite endless protests. He couldn’t help wondering if the Theocracy had deliberately set out to ensure that the precautions caused more economic damage than their attacks.

  Careless, he thought grimly. And dangerous in these times.

  “No response,” the pilot said.

  “Send it again,” William said. He didn’t want to try to force a docking, certainly not on the day he boarded his first command. But if there was no choice, he’d have to try. “And then find us a docking hatch.”

  “Aye, sir,” the pilot said.

  William nodded, then glanced down at the shuttle’s tactical display. Uncanny should have been running a low-level sensor scan at all times, but she clearly wasn’t doing anything of the sort. The vessel was technically within regulations, given how close they were to the network of fortresses guarding Tyre, yet the lack of forethought was careless. Really careless. If the ship had had to bring up her sensors in a hurry, it would have taken far longer than it should have . . .

  . . . And he’d seen enough combat to know that bare minutes could mean the difference between life and death.

  “Your commanding officer has written a glowing recommendation, Sir William,” the First Space Lord had said. “And so has Rose MacDonald. I’m afraid the combination of recommendations has quite upset the bureaucracy.”

  William had kept his face impassive. He’d been promoted to captain; he’d been promised a command . . . yet he’d forced himself to keep his expectations low. He was too senior to command a gunboat, he thought, and too junior to be offered a cruiser or carrier command. He’d expected a destroyer, perhaps a frigate. Yet, with so many conflicting recommendations, he wasn’t sure what he’d get. There were hundreds of officers with better connections and only a handful of commands.

  “You’re being given a heavy cruiser,” the First Space Lord had added, pausing just long enough for his words to sink in. “You’re being given Uncanny.”

  “Thank you, sir,” William had stammered. He had expected a sting in the tail and hadn’t been disappointed. He had no reason to be given a heavy cruiser, not when he’d just been made a captain, save for the simple fact that no one wanted to serve on Uncanny. The ship had a notorious reputation. “Unlucky?”

  “That’s what they call it,” the First Space Lord said grimly.

  He’d said a great deal more, William remembered. Uncanny had lost two previous commanding officers to accidents, but that was only the tip of the iceberg. The ship had been deployed to a cloaked fleet lying in wait for a Theocratic vanguard, only to have her cloaking system go offline at the worst possible moment. If that hadn’t been bad enough, there had been a whole string of incidents culminating in the starship launching a missile barrage towards a friendly ship. The events had all been seen as glitches, but they had cost Uncanny’s commanding officer his career.

  And matters weren’t helped by the missiles being unarmed, William had thought when he’d reviewed the file. If she’d been shooting at an enemy ship, she’d have inflicted no damage at all.

  “We need to get Uncanny into service as quickly as possible,” the First Space Lord had concluded. “And if you succeed in sorting out the mess, you’ll remain as her commanding officer permanently.”

  It wasn’t much of a bribe, William thought. There was no shortage of captains willing to compete for a post on Lightning—the heavy cruiser was famous—but Uncanny? He’d be surprised if there was any competition for her command chair. And yet, he had to admit, his appointment was a hell of a challenge. A heavy cruiser command was nothing to sneer at, even if she did have a reputation for being unlucky. He’d be on the path to flag rank . . .

  Assuming I survive, he told himself. He hadn’t felt comfortable airing his concerns in front of his superior officer. Those accidents may not have been accidents at all . . . “Captain,” the pilot said. His voice shocked William out of his memories. “We have received permission to dock at Hatch One.”

  William felt his eyes narrow as the shuttle altered course and sped towards the hatch. Hatch One was located near the bridge—it was the closest shuttle hatch to the bridge—but it wasn’t where a new captain would board his command for the first time. Normally, a captain would be met by his XO in the shuttlebay, allowing him time to meet his senior officers before formally assuming command. And the XO was supposed to be on the vessel . . . he’d checked, just before he departed Tyre. Commander Stewart Greenhill was currently in command of HMS Uncanny.

  “Dock us,” he ordered, wondering just what sort of hellhole he was about to enter. “And remain docked until I give you leave to depart.”

  “Aye, Captain,” the pilot said.

  The hatch looked normal enough, William noted, yet he c
ouldn’t help tensing as the shuttle mated with Uncanny. Captain Abraham had died in a shuttle accident—the IG had found nothing suspicious in two weeks of careful investigation—but Captain Jove had died in a freak airlock accident. A component had decayed, according to the engineers; the airlock had registered a safe atmosphere when it had actually been open to vacuum. William had been in the Navy long enough to know that accidents happened, but he’d also learned that accidents could be made to happen. Losing two commanding officers to accidents was more than a little suspicious.

  He covertly tested his shipsuit and mask, hidden in his shoulder pockets, as the hatch hissed open. Everything looked normal, but the inner hatch took just long enough to open for him to start feeling nervous. The hatch should have opened at once, unless the sensors registered vacuum or biological contamination. William took a long breath as he stepped into his cruiser and had to fight to keep from recoiling in horror. Uncanny stank like a pirate ship after a successful mission of looting, raping, and burning.

  Fuck, he thought.

  He felt a sudden surge of anger as he looked up and down the corridor. No one had come to greet him, neither the XO nor his senior officers. What were they playing at? Even a very busy XO should have come to meet his CO for the first time, if only to explain any problems that caught the captain’s eye. And to explain why his ship smelled worse than an unwashed outdoor toilet. It wasn’t as if replacing the air filters required a goddamned shipyard! He took another breath and tasted faint hints of ionization in the air, warning him that dozens, perhaps hundreds, of components had not been replaced for far too long. Every trained spacer knew that that smell meant trouble.

  A hatch hissed open in the distance. William braced himself, unsure what to expect as someone hurried down the corridor towards him. He rested his hands on his hips—it was hard to resist the temptation to draw his sidearm—as the welcome party came into view. A very small welcome party. It was a young woman wearing a steward’s uniform; she was young enough to be his daughter, yet with a hardness in her eyes that shocked him. Whatever military bearing she’d had before leaving Piker’s Peak was long gone. Her salute, when she finally gave it, was so sloppy, her instructors would have cried themselves senseless.