The Midnight Sun (The Omega War Book 2)

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The Midnight Sun (The Omega War Book 2) Page 7

by Tim C. Taylor


  Seconds later, Tatterjee stood on the man’s shoulder, riding him like a bucking bronco as he staggered around with a hand pressed against the side of his bleeding head, screaming in agony. The Flatar was munching the ear he’d bitten off, as if he hadn’t a care in the galaxy.

  The Scorpions screamed their battle cry, “Rammy!” and charged.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 15

  “Ever fought in a quarter gee?” Albali asked when Branco took up a ready stance alongside.

  “No, Sarge.”

  The two had hung back as the Midnighters counter-charged, smashing into the Scorpion line ten yards out from their drinking mound.

  Albali watched the fists and feet fly for a few moments before turning to his most junior trooper. “Watch and learn, lad. Follow me.”

  He bent his legs and jumped like a flea in the light gravity, over to an unoccupied drinking mound to their left flank. He proceeded to bound from position to position like a ball in a pinball machine, squashing paws, spilling drinks, but working around to the rear of the mob of Scorpions.

  At first, Branco struggled to keep up. But then it suddenly made sense. In the low-g, Albali was moving like a CASPer tapping his jumpjets. And Branco had plenty of experience doing that.

  “Grab them by their ankles,” Albali instructed when they’d worked their way behind the Scorpions. He flew at one of the mercs pummeling a rating from Midnight Sun.

  As the Scorpion fell headlong, the sergeant twisted and stamped down with his heels, converting his linear momentum to angular. The effect was to flail the Scorpion overhead and slam him down onto the floor at speed. The impact was against a rubberized high-grip surface sticky with beer, but it was enough to stun him.

  Branco saw this out the corner of his eye as he flew at his own target. But he didn’t know how to twist the way the sergeant had. At the last moment, he switched targets and tried to grab the Scorpion behind the knees. His grip was loose, and his target kicked him away.

  They circled each other warily, buffeted as men, women, and a few aliens careered out of the brawl that was in full flow all around them.

  Branco dodged left as if to flee, but it was a feint to open his opponent. He kicked the bearded man in the groin, bringing a howl of pain. Then he punched his guts repeatedly until he curled into a ball. Branco kicked him onto his back and, kneeling on him with as much weight as a quarter-gee would allow, reached down with clawed hands to choke the life out of him.

  Albali grabbed Branco’s arms and ripped him off the fallen merc. “Leave him, killer. You’re only supposed to rough them up a little.”

  Staring at his trembling hands, Branco forced them to relax. “Sorry, Sarge, I only know how to kill.”

  Sergeant Albali was too busy scratching his head at this comment to notice a Scorpion copy the sergeant’s own tactic and jump through the air at him. “For the love of God, Branco,” gasped the Sergeant as he grappled the man, “don’t call me Sarge.”

  “No, Sergeant.”

  “What’s wrong with you? Get this ugly haggis off me.”

  Branco kicked off the Scorpion, driving his boot into the man’s skull and causing his eyes to glaze over momentary, then his opponent was back on his feet and full of fight. He must have still been stunned, though, because he barely reacted when Branco punched the Scorpion’s already bleeding nose, remembering at the last moment to resist the natural urge to follow through with his strike and drive the shards of broken nose deep into the brain.

  With his shoulder back, ready to unleash his bloodied fist once more, Branco stood over his opponent as he sank to his butt. The man was out of the fight but wasn’t obviously about to die. Just as the sarge ordered.

  The sarge?

  He suddenly remembered Albali and looked down to see his squad leader struggling to pick himself up off the deck. Branco gave him a hand up while Keiko emerged from the brawl to come to the defense of her battered sergeant.

  “You’re a worry, lad,” Albali told Branco. “Go keep the major safe. That’s an order.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 16

  Branco fidgeted on the seat next to Sun as the brawl spread out and kept going.

  “I don’t permit Betty to visit bars with a reputation for trouble,” said the major. “If those Scorpions had provoked her, she wouldn’t stop until they were dead, or she was.” She rounded on Branco. “Betty’s a Tortantula. What’s your excuse, Trooper?”

  Branco looked down at the blood darkening on his fist. “I can’t offer you an excuse. I don’t even know who I am.”

  “At least you’re honest, and that’s a start. If I can’t trust you to keep your berserker nature under control, then I’ll only allow you out of the ship under supervision, and I’ll transfer you to Vengeance Squad. You should feel right at home bunking up with Betty. It seems you two have a lot in common.”

  Branco stared at the sticky deck, conscious of all the eyes, ears, and antennae upon him. It wasn’t just Sun and Lieutenant Flkk’Sss at this mound, but a half dozen Midnighter officers and less robust personnel who’d taken shelter here. He felt two inches tall.

  The ground began to shake. He thought the thumping was coming from music starting up again in the dance pit, until two pairs of heavy boots passed by.

  He looked up and saw the boots were attached to shaggy alien brutes the size of a Mark 8 CASPer. They were Oogars armed with claws, fists, and shock sticks in cross-body holsters if needed. Their muscular bodies, coated with purple fur, were stuffed inside utility suits in the red and silver colors of the Exuberance’s crew. Tiny in comparison, an albino alien in goggles and stun carbine took up position in front of them, watching the brawl. This was a Veetanho, and despite its size, Branco knew the Oogar would rush to obey its every command.

  Three more of these security trios took up position and…did nothing.

  “Why don’t they break it up?” Branco asked.

  Sun sniffed as if someone had made a foul smell, leaving it to Lieutenant Flkk’Sss to answer. “Do you think this is the first brawl the Leaky Vent has ever seen? The drinking vessels are made of plastic, the drinking mounds are cheap, the dancers are protected by force shields. These security teams will observe, record everything, but step in only if the brawl threatens to spill outside the bar. We’ll be charged for any damage to the bar, of course, and at a punitive markup.”

  Realization smacked into Branco. “You mean they want us to wreck the place?”

  Sun nodded. “Red Star Shipping learned centuries ago that it’s far more profitable to monetize barroom brawls than to prevent them.”

  The brawlers were staggering now. Surely they’d had enough. “If they won’t break it up,” said Branco, “shouldn’t we?”

  “Stay where you are,” said the MinSha officer. “This is part of the captain’s plan.”

  “Lieutenant!” snapped Sun. “Watch your words.”

  “I apologize, Major.”

  Branco glanced at the insectoid alien, who drooped her body in disgrace. He couldn’t help flashing her a grin; now they were both in the doghouse.

  The melee had slowed almost to a halt, but the other patrons still kept their distance. One man stood out when he strode confidently to within ten feet of a pair of grappling mercs and appeared to apprise the situation before talking into the high collar of his white jacket.

  “I know you,” one of the Scorpions shouted at him. “Yes, you, you putrid little rat – no offence to any Flatar listening. I know what you are. You’re a Condottieri.”

  The man was now bolstered by a half-dozen friends in white fatigues who’d rushed through one of the hull-side hatches. “I myself am a Condottiere,” said the accused man. “Understand? Con-dott-i-ere. But we are many, and together we are Con-dott-i-eri.”

  “Och, aye. I understand all right,” said a Scottish voice. “One of your sort is a traitor. But you are many, and together you’re a fucking disgrace.”

  The Scorpions separated themse
lves out from the Midnighters and drew up to face the Condottieri, who were growing in number by the moment.

  The security teams from the Exuberance watched and recorded everything.

  “Hold,” Albali shouted to his squad. “We’re here to retrieve a property and fulfil our contract. We’re not a human-registered company. Whatever’s been happening back on Earth is not our problem. Not professionally speaking. Not yet.”

  With more Condottieri streaming into the bar to reinforce the advance guard, the Scorpions suddenly charged the newcomers. One of the rearmost, a veteran man with a pronounced limp, turned to the Midnighters. “Did you not hear us? They’re traitors. Are you lot joining in or what?”

  “Get ’em!” screamed Albali and the Midnighters charged into the fray.

  “This wasn’t part of the plan,” growled Sun.

  She was trembling, fighting hard to stop herself running over to join in. “Lieutenant Flkk’Sss,” she said through clamped teeth, “take Trooper Branco and teach those Condottieri a lesson. Please try to stop him short of killing anyone. Go!”

  Branco glanced again at the MinSha. This time he grinned from ear to ear.

  The MinSha snapped opened her wing cases and launched an aerial attack.

  “This is low-gee,” Branco said to himself. “Two can play at that game.” He jumped up, arcing high and coming down on the Condottieri, fists flying.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 17

  Captain Blue trooped the line in an aggressive silence, radiating disappointment in the bruised mercenaries paraded on Midnight Sun’s secondary hangar. Most were humans, though Branco felt the brooding MinSha presence of Lieutenant Flkk’Sss standing two places to his right.

  Major Sun and 2nd Company’s commander, Sub-Captain d’Haubie, stood to one side, looking along the line comprised mostly of personnel from Vengeance and Shock. Neither appeared to be subject to this dressing-down by the captain. And Flkk’Sss had let slip that the captain had been expecting a brawl. What was going on? Were they in trouble or not?

  “Who threw the first punch?” demanded the captain.

  Branco heard his squad leader step forward. “It was me, ma’am.”

  The captain walked in front of Albali, the hangar ringing to the stomp of her boots as they locked to the charged deck. “You disappoint me,” she said. “You all do.”

  She resumed her march across the front of the line. “You fought aggressively and defended the honor of the company, but you must use more intelligence if there’s to be another incident. In a fight aboard a civilian ship, I expect you to take one of two approaches. If you throw the first punch, Sergeant Albali, I expect you to make your pre-emptive strike count. Hit your opponent so hard they never get a chance to properly get in the fight.”

  The captain came to a halt in front of Branco. He kept his eyes front, which meant he looked out over the head of the small woman. Her gaze bored up through his throat.

  “Alternatively,” she said. “Use the fact that the other side started the incident to disable them. Permanently.”

  What?

  “Did you have a question to share with us, Trooper Branco?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Ahh…” He did. He wanted to ask whether she’d really wanted them to kill the other mercs, but that sounded too close to questioning her orders, so he asked something else. “How do we disable our opponents efficiently without being killed by Exuberance security?”

  Disappointment emanated from the captain. “An excellent question. While we’re on board the Exuberance, we’re subject to her ship’s law. This permits us no firearms, no powered armor, and no blades longer than approximately 2.9 inches long. If we attack opponents with weapons that keep within that limitation, we’re in breach of ship’s law. But if we can demonstrate that we acted in self-defense, we can kill them, but only if we stay within the limitations. Luckily, while you’ve been in the brig waiting for us to pay the release fees, Midnight Sun’s manufactory has been busy.”

  d’Haubie gestured for a trooper not involved in the incident to push out a trolley bearing a sealed equipment crate. She opened the crate to reveal a stack of miniature knives.

  “Two point eight inches long,” said d’Haubie. “Hardened polycarbonate blades, and with a variety of shafts, rings, and other attachment options to suit every physiology in 2nd Company. From now on, any of my troopers goes aboard the UTS Exuberance, they take two of these.”

  Sun took up the pep talk. “We all know there’s a friendly rivalry between merc companies that sometimes gets a little – well, exuberant. This is different. After the ultimatum delivered by General Peepo to the mercenary companies of Earth, we’re entering a fluid situation. To be frank, we don't fully understand what’s happening. Our best intelligence analysis suggests that Earth-based mercenary companies are now in a state of civil war. You’re to regard Sinclair’s Scorpions as armed neutrals, and the Condottieri as enemy combatants.”

  Until that point, the mercs had stood as silent as scolded children. Now they fidgeted and grumbled.

  “I understand,” said Blue. “None of you were drafted into the damned army. And if we’re correct that Earth mercs are warring on each other, then choosing a side to fight on is outside your contracts. You might choose to remain neutral in this conflict, especially those of you who aren’t human. That’s your right, but consider this – the Scorpions and the Condottieri don’t give a damn about your neutrality, because they do consider themselves at war. We must assume they won’t hesitate to kill us if it aids their objectives – unless we present too dangerous a target. From now on, you go about armed and vigilant, or you remain confined to Midnight Sun. Choose now.”

  There was a brief hesitation, then a scramble for the knives. Everyone wanted them, even tiny Tatterjee, who helped himself to four, and so did Lieutenant Flkk’Sss.

  “I thought this brawl was a part of the captain’s plan,” Branco whispered to her.

  “It was,” replied the MinSha officer, before leading Branco to a quieter part of the deck. “A little friction between us and the Scorpions was meant to be a distraction from…subtler assaults on their ship. The intervention of the Condottieri has changed her tactics. You’re not to pass this information on to anyone. I speak to you on this matter only because my failure to keep silent back at the Leaky Vent will otherwise make Captain Blue appear inconsistent. I’ve learned to trust her judgment. You must learn this, too.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 18

  Once again, Jenkins opened the airlock from Detritus-2 and crawled into the darkness of UTS Exuberance.

  The route was now familiar and proven, yet the Jeha engineer-cum-superspy was still half-rigid with fear when he passed the damage control servitors and squeezed through the air scrubbers. Before dropping into the ventilation shaft, he checked the way was clear with a worm camera through the grille.

  There in the shaft below was an identical worm camera looking up at him.

  Jenkins shrieked.

  “What’s happening?” asked Zarbi over the channel from Detritus-2.

  “I am discovered!”

  A net curled around Jenkins. He tried scrambling away, but his many legs snared themselves. Nets – the nemesis of the Jeha race.

  “I’m trapped,” he wailed.

  “Most regrettable,” said Zarbi. “Die well.”

  “No. You must come to my aid. Please…” But Zarbi had already severed the link. She’d be shutting down all Detritus systems except emergency life support. Going dark.

  Abandoning him.

  “There’s our Mr. Jenkins,” said a human voice. “Nicely trussed like a lamb to the slaughter.” A fat arm covered in tattoos reached up into the crawlspace and dragged Jenkins out into the shaft below.

  He was small for a human – also bald and smelly – but he needed to be diminutive. The way his flesh was poured into the narrow confines of the shaft was probably how a Besquith would look if stuffed inside a human CASPer.

 
“Mr. Smith requests a word with you, and what Mr. Smith wants, he gets.”

  “Did this Mr. Smith tell you why?” asked Jenkins.

  “No.”

  “Will I be killed?”

  “That’s up to Mr. Smith. I just do his bidding. No more chatting. Mr. Smith is waiting, and no one keeps Mr. Smith waiting.”

  Shoulders pressed tightly inward, the human reversed himself up the shaft, dragging Jenkins with him.

  Mr. Smith, it transpired, was a lot closer than Jenkins expected. The human deposited his writhing Jeha package at the very next junction in the ventilation shaft before dropping down to the passageway below, leaving Jenkins to face his fate alone.

  He heard the scurrying noise of something small approaching at speed along the shaft from behind.

  Straining every effort to turn and see what was coming for him, he almost missed the figure walking toward him along the side passage.

  It was an elSha with an evil gleam in its eyes.

  One he’d seen before.

  “Senior Rating Shalzak?”

  “They call me Mr. Smith around these parts, but yes, it’s Shalzak.”

  The other occupants in the shaft began cutting Jenkins free.

  “And they,” said Shalzak, “are Ratings Li-Urj and Onyi.”

  “Why this performance?”

  “Oh, it’s no performance. You have your cover roles, and so do we. I need human allies and enforcers, and I need you to bend the Arashi to the captain’s will. Have you completed your work?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Unacceptable! The captain has a timetable and we have to deliver.”

  “This is all highly unprofessional but, yes, let’s talk of combining our efforts. First, however, I must return to Detritus. My junior assistant will be terrified. I fear she may attempt to detach our cylinder from the hull.”

  “Unlikely,” said his treacherous evil louse of an assistant, walking up the shaft toward them. Had she no shame?

 

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