Chapter 113: Friendly Fire

  Otto ducked.

  The son of a bitch ducked, when there was no way, no way he could have known –

  The return blow caught Jack in the stomach and sent him sprawling backwards. He rolled to his feet and into a boxing stance, but Otto didn't pursue.

  “Really, Jack?” Otto shook his head. “Because I let you compete in a prison cell, you actually thought you could take me when my ass was on the line?”

  Jack coughed. Otto's punch had hit harder than he'd thought. If it wasn't for the flight suit...

  Well, Jack was wearing his flight suit. So was the oligarch, and obviously, even when he was prancing across the bridge making a fool of his little brother, Otto was paying attention to its military-grade sensors.

  Which Jack, on foot, didn't know how to do.

  Shit.

  “I'm getting sick and tired,” Otto said, “of everybody's moralizing.”

  “Could hurt Ellie.” Jack coughed. “Gonna hurt Clo.”

  “And the Feds are going to kill me,” Otto snapped. “Me and every officer in this fleet. As you, Jack, know damned well. They started this. They set this up to try and sting what they thought was the real threat. That smug little bitch Ferrill let me pull this plan off, in the middle of this city you're so concerned about, because she preached to herself it would be all to the Principle-damned good!”

  Jack could give a shit, and Otto knew it.

  But, Jack realized, he wasn't the audience anymore. He was just a prop – somebody else for Otto to break down to prove he was in control.

  Prove it to the fleet, prove it to his enemies, prove it, mostly, to himself.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  But he couldn't, because he'd never been farther from in control in his life.

  He was...

  Holy crap.

  Otto Abeir Algreil was scared out of his mind.

  Otto couldn't be sure of beating the senate, even now. If he managed, he'd burn almost all his bridges. Even the men who followed him now were going to be puking themselves when they realized the carnage they'd caused. Rudy and Jack would never forgive him. Alarie was too relieved to be treated like a human being to think about what he'd made her order, but would that stick? What about the Algreil and Marchess officers who'd signed up for a fleet engagement in open space – clean, between sailors and captains, marines and mechaneers, like wars were supposed to be? Would they forgive Otto for making them do something they had to hate?

  Otto couldn't surrender. If he did, he would die along with all of his officers. The Oligarchical system he'd spent his entire life fighting for would collapse, probably before the Feds flipped the switch and fried him. Everything he'd built, everything he'd fought for, and most of the people he'd raised up along the way? Wiped away along with him.

  Otto couldn't run. This was his last chance, his gambit to save the oligarchy and give it what he'd always thought it deserved. With invincible Etemenos between him and the Senate, he could never be anything more than a fugitive, a rebel fighting a long and losing war until the material advantage of his enemies wore his forces down to nothing.

  The only way he could get anything like a win was to keep going, consequences be damned, himself be damned.

  Jack still didn't give a shit.

  “I know why you're doing this,” he said. “But I can't let you hurt my family.”

  Otto snorted. “Let me?”

  “I probably can't stop you. But I can sure as hell distract you.”

  “You just love being arrested for treason, don't you, Jack?” Otto nodded to a pair of armored security officers at the door to the bridge. Jack could hear them clomping toward him. “Between our feint to get in here and getting snagged by the nobs in the Civil War, you're shooting for three out of three on factions.”

  “I can't,” Jack said, “let you hurt them.”

  “You can't do anything about it, either.”

  Jack pulled his sidearm. He hadn't had occasion to fire one in a long time, but the pistol he'd gotten along with his suit felt familiar in his hand, comfortable.

  Sorry, old buddy, he thought.

  Hopefully it won't kill you.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The gun clicked.

  “The hell...?”

  A pair of armored figures plowed into Jack from the side. He smashed to to the deck. His suit tried to distribute the impact but he knew something had broken, probably in him. He rolled and threw a punch before he realized what he was doing. His fist cracked against the faceplate of the miniature-mecha armor of a Marchess Wardens marine. Pain shot down Jack's arm.

  Then it was wrenched to the deck and held there, pinned by sheer weight. To say nothing of power-armored strength.

  “I thought you might have a problem with what we’d have to do, old buddy,” Otto said, “so I told Alarie's people not to load your gun. Can't have friendly fire at a time like this, now can we?”