For the moment, they were holding off the enemy but numbers didn’t lie. This was not good.
“Who’s the nearest possible reinforcement in the area?” I asked in a cold voice.
A series of flashing icons appeared.
“There’s a squadron of merchant cruisers patrolling the inner system about an hour out from the Spindles,” she pointed out.
I grimaced and zoomed into the next nearest group of warships. There was a small group of about twenty injured warships moving back to the inner system in convoy. If I ordered the convoy to break up the fastest of the damaged warships to proceed to the Jump Spindles at best speed, I was still looking at a two-hour delay.
I clenched my fists.
“Pass the order to those merchant cruisers,” I said, because as much as I didn’t want to admit it, the only thing worse than sending those merchant cruisers to help would be not to send them in the first place. Those armed freighters were just as likely to get themselves torn to pieces in the opening salvo as they were to damage the enemy. Worse, after the way I’d pulled them out of the Governor’s line of battle and exposed the corruption that went into their creation, I figured I wasn’t on the top of their favorite person of the year list.
Desperate times called for desperate measures.
“And put out a call to every ship in the wounded warship convoy. I won’t order it but any ship that volunteers to will be eagerly accepted,” I said. I also sent out an immediate order peeling off a squadron of five faster light cruisers and twenty-five destroyers.
“It’s going to take time for those warships to arrive,” observed Officer Kelly.
“I want this thing crushed, Bridget,” I informed my Intelligence Officer, unable to keep the seething anger I was feeling out of my voice.
“We can’t afford to lose those Jump Spindles,” I said.
“Just be advised this has all the hallmarks of a professional operation. They struck without warning and disabled three of our warships by the second salvo,” she warned.
My face tightened.
“Meaning what? We’re going to lose the Spindles?” I demanded.
She splayed her hands in obvious prevarication.
“We’re too far for rapid communications. There’s going to be an inevitable lag that affects our response,” she said.
“I think they’re going to find stealing them from us to be a fair bit harder than they expect. Send out a message telling the Spindles to activate the Beta-4 protocols,” I said harshly.
“Beta-4?” she asked.
“It’s a directive instructing the Spindles to jump to a position closer to the fleet,” I said with a tight smile, “what, did you think I was just going to leave the spindles swinging in the wind out there unprotected? They have instructions to jump out if they come under attack. It’s not foolproof given the time it takes to form a field but…”
“I wish you would have informed me of this sooner,” she said.
“Need to know, Kelly,” I said dismissively.
Still visibly unhappy, she nodded her understanding.
“Still nothing is certain, Sir. If they can’t capture and it looks like the Spindles are going to escape, they may have orders to destroy. It’s what I would do if I were planning an operation,” she said unhappily.
“Who says these aren’t simply a group of pirates seeing an opportunity?” I asked sharply. The last thing I wanted to hear right now was negative feedback… which probably meant it was the stuff I most needed to hear, blast her eyes.
“If that were true, we should have identified at least some of their ships by now. The fact is, we can’t. On top of that, they’re much too uniform for a rogue operation. Even from this range, and that says something,” she paused, “you weren’t the only one taken by surprise, Sir. Even if you thought to set up some hidden defenses, I didn’t foresee ‘anyone’ trying to take out our Jump Spindles in the middle of the worst humanitarian crisis of the past two hundred years. Who would deliberately disable our fastest means of transportation between star systems when bugs are literally on the attack and billions of lives are on the line? On the face it, it’s just insane, Sir,” she said.
“Blast them. We both know who it has to be. The blasted Empire is going to pay for this, Lieutenant. Mark my words, Kelly; they will pay,” I said harshly, already imagining the kind of damage a disguised Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet could do to the Empire when and where they least expected it. There were any number of places like, say, the Gorgon Front, where the arrival of a powerful warfleet opposed to them could easily tip the balance of power, giving the Imperial Navy the sort of black eye it wouldn’t soon forget!
“If we survive this attack with the Spindles intact, we’re going to need to seriously revise our defensive procedures,” she said.
I gave her a flinty look.
Bridget Kelly stiffened, the scar on her face pulling tight.
“You think? Mark my words. We’re not going to lose those Spindles, Officer Kelly. When they think they’re safe and secure, the Empire will rue the day they crossed Jason Montagne and the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet. As a great man once said, they ain’t seen nothing yet,” I said.
“I urge caution, Sir. A poorly-thought-out immediate response could be exactly what the Imperials are looking for,” she said with concern.
I took a moment to enhance my calm, reminding myself that all wasn’t lost. Yet. The enemy might be putting it to the damaged guard ships right now, but they were still in for a nasty surprise the moment they tried to take control of those spindles.
“Have no fear. I don’t intend to go off half-cocked as they say, and I have learned through painful personal experience over the years that revenge is a dish best served cold. Well it’s very cold in cold space, Lieutenant. Very cold,” I repeated.
Over the course of the next several minutes, the Spindle attackers wore down the guardship in the sort of running battle that pulled both forces farther away from the Spindles every minute.
On the one hand, that was good. On the other, I was waiting for the shoe to drop.
Then an explosion rocked the first Spindle and I bolted out of my chair.
***
“ROS!” roared the Tractoan Sergeant, vibro-blade crashing into his enemy’s boarding axe.
His weapons were smoothly shunted to the side by the imperial jack who came back around, mono-locsium axe raised over his head for a skull-crushing blow.
The Sergeant’s left hand came thrusting forward at chest level and the imperial jack stiffened.
“Hold the point!” he shouted, shoving the imperial aside and pulling back the vibro-dagger in his left hand in one smooth motion.
Beside him, the rest of his squad struggled hand-to-hand with a squad of imperial marines, while a second squad of enemy marines worked to set up a firing position farther down the length of the Spindle.
One of his squad was sent spinning off the hull.
“Don’t let them get through,” ordered the Sergeant, spinning under a head-level axe sweep and grasping the hand of his shoulder-slung flash shotgun.
There was a blast, and a jack that had been about to put his axe through the face plate of the spinning Tractoan private went limp.
“Get down here and fight, Alexander!” snapped Sergeant Philip, grabbing hold of his private by the arm and slamming the other man helmet first into the jack who’d just tried to decapitate the Sergeant.
“Cut me loose!” shouted Alexander, grappling with the enemy jack.
“There’s your fighting chance. Now fight! We just have to hold until the dastards in the control center can jump us closer to the main fleet,” thundered Philip, throwing himself to the side to help yet another beleaguered lancer facing off against two marine jacks.
“Hold, damn your eyes, or I’ll cut them out myself and be done with you,” screamed the Sergeant, holding down the trigger of his flash-shotgun and laying around him with it as fas
t as he could repeatedly jack in new rounds.
Above them, the Spindle began to thrum as a jump field began to form.
“Another couple minutes and we’re free. Hold! Hold!” he cried, magnetizing his boots as far as they would go to lock himself down to the hull and then laying about with his flash-shotgun for all he was worth.
For the next several seconds that felt like a lifetime, it was all the Sergeant could do to hold off the jacks and keep his lancers alive. Then around the same time, the second squad of enemy marines finished setting up their crew-served weapon and the jump field collapsed in a flash of blue light.
A sudden surge of gravity smashed everyone on the surface of the spindle flat down to the hull.
This was different and it didn’t bode well, the Sergeant thought muzzily.
An emergency transmission came over the com-link and cut through the haze.
“War-Leader to the front! I repeat, War-Leader to the front! The enemy marines are back up and running what looks like blasting-cord from their stealth shuttle to the center point of the Spine,” said the voice of the spotter from his hide in the side of the Spindle.
“What just happened?” asked the Sergeant with a sinking sensation as he looked at the header for the transmission from the spotter. It was set to automatically contact the senior surviving lancer on the Spindle.
“Spindle Two sent an emergency burst transmission breaking radio silence, saying the enemy were emplacing a scuttling charge on the surface of their Spindle and they were going to stop seconds before the jump field collapsed,” said the Spotter in a relieved voice.
His relief was matched by the sinking sensation in Sergeant Philip’s stomach as the weight of responsibility for the platoon-sized warband landed firmly on his shoulders.
“You’ve got to stop them from placing that charge,” the Sergeant said abruptly.
The man on the other end of the line hesitated.
“There’s one squad in power armor and another of what look like technical support. I saw a second squad and more tech support moving to the bottom half of the Spindle. If I take action, they’ll be on me before I can say MEN and I’ll be taken out, Sir. Then you’ll lose your spotter permanently,” said the Lancer.
“If they detonate that charge, we’re all dead men. Figure something out, Private,” the Sergeant growled, ducking down the nape of the hull as the enemy’s crew-served weapon opened fire.
The lancer didn’t respond immediately.
“We all have problems, Private!” shouted the Sergeant, sticking his blaster pistol up over his head and randomly firing.
“Shoot the line. Smash the controls. Kill everyone in sight. You have the training. You have heart. You can do this. More if you don’t; when I get down there I’ll kill you myself!” instructed the Sergeant.
“On it, Sir. Last charge of the hoplites and all that,” the Lancer said finally, a new determination in his voice.
“You won’t be alone for long,” the Sergeant growled, leaving the channel to the spotter open as he switched to the general push.
“I need the MA-39 up here on the double to provide suppressive fire. Get me that crew-served plasma-cannon. We’re pulling out all the stops,” he snapped.
“Ma’s on the way, Sergeant,” said the reserve quad set up on the relatively flat top of the Spindle for a 360-degree view of the edge leading down to the rest of the Spindle.
The sergeant waited until the icons showing the plasma cannon team were almost to the edge of the Spindle’s top.
“This is Sergeant Philips, your new War-Leader. The enemy’s all set to blow us into the afterlife. But I say we’re not done fighting yet. What do you say, boys? Are you ready to die today?” he demanded.
Not waiting for a reply, he continued.
“On my order, we all charge or get ready to die and be uploaded where we stand!” he waited a beat.
“Up the Phalanx… CHARGE!”
Putting words to action, Philips jumped to his feet and took a shot from the enemy’s crew-served blaster cannon, knocking him down again.
Ignoring the screaming pain in his shoulder, he jumped back up, switching the combat blade into his still-working hand. Ignoring the high-pitched squeal signaling a potentially fatal armor breach, he tongued his internal to full, tapping into his emergency oxygen tank to compensate and then trusted the suit’s automatic repair systems to keep him alive.
In the time the enemy fire team was distracted with the sergeant, the Lancer team with the MA-39 locked their cannon into a set of prepared firing brackets and swung the cannon toward the enemy weapons team.
Recognizing the threat, the recon marines of the imperial jacks turned to rain down suppressive fire on the lancer’s newly-arrived, crew-served plasma cannon.
The two crews opened fire simultaneously.
As a hail of large-scale blaster and plasma fire broke out between the two cannons, every lancer on the top rim of the Spindle charged after their War-Leader.
Sergeant Philips kicked one marine off the hull and rammed his vibro-blade in the torso of a second. Even run through, the enemy marine wasn’t finished, pressing his hand against the blade, locking it down; the imperial jack pivoted. The blade snapped as the imperial spasmed then collapsed sideways on the hull.
Casting aside the vibro-hilt, Sergeant Philips grabbed the flash shotgun, fired a round into the face plate of the first jack to take the fallen marine’s place and then under the axe swing of a third marine.
Bull-rushing forward, the Sergeant grabbed the marine around the waist and heaved upward, forcibly breaking the jack’s magnetic lock on the hull of the Spindle.
Roaring, he tossed the jack out into cold space, getting a vibro-blade in the shoulder for his efforts. Pulling the blade out, he cast it aside.
“Do you want to live forever!” he bellowed, snatching a floating boarding axe and taking another two steps forward, laying about him on both sides.
Behind him, the remainder of the platoon poured into the breach in the imperial marine line.
Lights flared and blades rose and fell; each side did its best to kill the other.
“Don’t stop!” Sergeant Philips ordered several times. Behind him, the crew-served plasma cannon fell silent and the imperial blaster cannon swiveled to the now advancing lancer force.
“Grenade!” shouted a warrior, tossing aside a pair of activators. With a plasma grenade clutched in each hand, the lancer deactivated his magnetic boots and launched himself at the imperial blaster cannon.
Realizing the threat, the marines smoothly turned and opened fire.
Less than a second later, the marines were diving to the side as the lancer’s blaster-ridden battlesuit shot over to the cannon. Both grenades exploded while still clutched in the hard metal gauntlets of the unmoving lancer and when the flames cleared, it was clear his sacrifice had rendered the imperial crew-served weapon inoperable.
“Forward the phalanx for blood and honor!” shouted Philips, breaking free of the scrum and charging down toward the imperial shuttles.
Behind, a squad of warriors broke free and followed.
Imperial blaster fire seemed to come from all directions at the same time and the squad fell to the size of a fire-team before it reached the first of the imperial jacks guarding the entrance of the first enemy shuttle.
“Grenades,” the sergeant ordered over the company channel, reaching for one of his own.
Two jacks stepped out of the entryway and the hatch behind them swished together. Three grenades bounced off the hatch but not before one plasma grenade sailed through the rapidly closing doors.
The grenades exploding around the imperial jacks, effective as they were, didn’t manage to do nearly as much damage as the plasma grenade that sailed inside. While the imperial marines were still reeling from the grenades, outside, the shuttle’s hatch ruptured outward releasing a torrent of oxygen rich atmosphere straight into the backs of the alre
ady unsteady jacks.
Pummeled from all directions, the jacks collapsed forward and it was the work of seconds for Sergeant Phillips to finish them off.
Brandishing his captured imperial boarding axe, he ran forward and with one savage slash, severed the hard data lines running from the shuttles toward the Spindle’s control relays.
A pair of blaster bolts sent a bolt of pain through his thigh, the new hiss of escaping air revealing a new, if hopefully minor, suit breach. If it was a major one, the suit’s emergency sealing system couldn’t deal with it until he had time to slap an emergency patch on; if not, he’d find out sooner than he liked.
In the meantime, he was taking fire from three different positions on the Spindle’s hull.
“Forward, Lancers!” he shouted, unmagnetizing his boots and kicking off a protrusion on the hull like a rocket taking flight.
A blaster rifle went sailing by his head and he snagged it with his boarding axe, more by instinct than anything else, his reflexive attack morphing into a snag and catch as soon as he realized what had happened.
Turning his helmet to look behind him, the Sergeant saw the last of his Lancers take a number of hits that locked up his suit and sent blood covering his visor.
The last of the lancers behind him, his lancers now dead or dying, Phillips determined to sell himself as dearly as he could. That was when the Lancer he’d sent forward to scout the enemy and destroy their shuttles took action, rising up and slinging a boarding charge at each of the remaining imperial stealth shuttles.
Explosions rocked the sides and tops of each shuttle, giving Sergeant Phillips the cover he needed to reach the nearest enemy emplacement.
The first jack that came to him with extendable arm blades was skilled, but momentum was on his side and a lucky blow ended the enemy marine.
A searing pain in his back indicated the arrival of a new enemy. Ignoring the pain, Phillips brought his boarding axe to bear in a savage backswing.
A swift back-kick and a tongue toggle to deactivate his combat boot’s grip on the hull, and he was shooting away from the nearest jack.
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