by Bobby Adair
A blast of wind explodes from the main corridor.
The wind tunnel force nearly knocks me off my feet, but I increase auto grav to keep my boots stuck to the floor.
Two of my squad slide down the hall, dragged by the wind.
“Increase grav!” I holler at them as I ready my weapon to shoot.
Everything is happening fast, and something I’m seeing down the hall doesn’t make sense. It takes a frantic fraction of a second for me to understand. Two black shadows are riding the wind, coming impossibly fast. “Ghosts!”
Panic trips my trigger finger, and I fire on full auto.
My rounds spread spears of red all through the hall.
The ghosts are bouncing off the walls, ceiling, and floor.
Brice is shooting, too.
The rounds whiz past the ghosts or deflect off their blue pulsing anti-grav fields. Suddenly, my brand new superior firepower 6k, two-hundred-rounds-a-minute, recoil-compensated, state-of-the-art, grav-drive Trog-killing rifle doesn’t seem like it’s worth its own weight in dog shit.
It’s clear to me, the single-shot weapons our troops have been using so far in this war against Trog armies numbering in the hundreds of thousands is one of the big reasons we’re losing.
Only a heartbeat or two has passed.
Still, I fire.
As the Trog in front moves closer, more of my rounds find their mark, and the blue anti-grav deflection field shimmers non-stop, overloads, and lets some slugs through.
The Trog’s body takes a shot through the shoulder and he tumbles in the wind, still swinging his blue-lined blade.
Blood is spewing from his wound.
And he’s on us.
He slashes his blade.
Bautista’s head spins away from her body as her neck still squirts blood to feed a brain no longer integrated into the system.
The wounded ghost Trog is past us in a flash and slams into Lenox’s grunts back at the blasted door.
Somebody shouts.
There’s still one coming.
Chapter 35
I’m not sure how frustration turned to inspiration and then to action so fast, but it’s clear to me these ghost Trogs’ black suits have an extra helping of defensive magic built in.
I let go of my rifle to dangle from its harness and I reach back for the ghost Trog blade I just acquired. Its pattern of lines glow blue with the power from my suit’s fusion reactor.
The theory that only has microseconds to gel in my mind tells me these ghost Trogs in their special suits must think they’re the most badass killers in this part of the galaxy and they’d likely want to carry weapons they could use to kill the meanest, deadliest bullies on the block—each other.
I step to a good spot just off center in the hall so I can put some power into my swing as the second Trog bounces off the wall, off the ceiling, and heads right toward me.
Brice and a few others are still shooting at the Trog.
At the very last moment, I kneel as I swing, and max the auto-grav in my suit to hold my boots against the floor.
The Trog didn’t expect that move, and his blade cuts a path through the air where my neck was just a moment before.
My blade comes up with all my strength at his torso.
The blade’s blue lines pulse intensely, and the Trog’s defensive grav field flashes bright, but doesn’t deflect.
The blade cuts through black suit, bone, and muscle, cleaving the Trog’s body in two, sending a spray of blood and split organs into the wind blasting at Lenox’s troops down the hall.
I understand immediately what the blue lines on the blade are for, and I know instantly that our scientists on earth haven’t invented anything new with the gravity lens on my assault ship. They simply came up with a new application for a technology that already existed in these Trog blades, a grav field focused to a fine edge, capable of cutting through deflective fields and enemy bodies.
“You all right, sir?” Brice is at my side, tugging at my arm.
I look at him through my red-spattered faceplate and realize I’m covered in blood that’s just starting to boil as the air thins to vacuum. Not bothering to answer his question, I say. “Bautista bought it. Anybody else?”
“Mostyn and Hastings are banged up,” he answers. “They’ll live.”
Outside in the hangar, two ghost Trogs are dead, at the cost of at least one grunt’s life.
We killed two more in the hall at the cost of another.
We can’t afford two for one. That angers me.
My desire to kill is giving me visions of genocidal slaughter.
Dammit, I barely knew Bautista’s name and face, but being in my squad, her loss feels acutely personal. “Blow those damn doors and get this fuckin’ show on the road.”
“Mendez, Silva,” Brice calls over the comm, “set those charges. Move it! We got killin’ to do.”
Good. We’re all on the same page.
Chapter 36
“We’ve got Trogs in the hall,” says Jill over a crackly comm channel. Now that we’re in the bowels of the ship with lots of walls and whatnot between us, the signal is having trouble getting through. “Thirty, maybe forty.”
“Stay safe,” I tell her. “And keep them busy. Our path to the bridge is clear for the moment.” I hail Lenox. “How are things out there?”
“Holding our own,” she answers. “God, there’s a lot of them.”
“Kane,” Jill calls, “Bruckert is under pressure back at the assault ships. He won’t be able to hold them for long.”
“Retreat to the airlock,” I tell her. “Keep those Trogs in your access hall pinned, and send a squad back to help Bruckert.” Taking one of the two bridge assault teams off the table is a risk to our objective, but I need to make sure my platoons have a way to escape once this mess starts to go south. And it will go south. Though we killed several thousand Trogs when we rammed the cruiser, it’s looking like there are plenty enough left to overwhelm us once they’re organized. “Lenox,” I call again, “be prepared to go where you’re needed.”
“Roger dodger, General.”
Where did that come from?
“Ready to blow the doors!” Brice tells me.
I put my back to a wall. “Do it.”
“Grav tight!” Brice tells the squad. He wants boots on high-g holding us to the floor when the doors go. We don’t need to have more troops tumbling down the hall in the depressurization blast. “Three. Two. One!”
The ship shudders again.
The wind comes, carrying metal fragments and spindly gray bodies, broken and whole, dozens of them, eyes wide and black, showing no expression at all. Waving arms and grasping hands belie their desperation.
Everything alive fears death.
“Where the hell did all the Grays come from?” Brice spits as the bodies fly past.
“Kill any that are alive.” It’s no answer, just pragmatism. I point down the main corridor. “We need to move. We’re running out of time.”
Brice wrangles the squad. “Let’s go.”
We’re running fast, weapons ready.
As I sprint, I wonder about those Grays. It doesn’t make sense they’d be on the ship, unless they’re Trog prisoners. But then, why have them targeting the cruiser’s railguns? Could they be Trog slaves?
We reach the end of the corridor.
Four conduits, wide enough for a Trog or a human to stand inside, run toward the central axis of the cruiser, passing each level on the way to the bridge. They’re the in-ship version of elevators, with grav plates set to keep each tube in zero-g. All one need do is step inside and push off, and then step out at the destination floor.
I peek inside and look up past exits to three levels to see the top of the tube sealed shut. “They’ve closed the hatch to the bridge.”
Grunts in the squad confirm the other three are closed as well.
No problem.
“Silva,” I point up my tube. “Get up there as quick as you can, plant your last C4 charge on that door and then hustle back down here.”
“Gimme two seconds.” Silva jumps in, and she’s gone.
My thoughts wander. Why did I select Silva? Why is her pretty face stuck in my thoughts?
Brice tells the others, “Grenades up the other tubes as soon as Silva is out!”
Three soldiers pull pins and reach their grenades into each of the empty tubes.
Just as promised, Silva is back.
“Damn, that was quick.” I give her a nod of approval, then glance at the others.
Brice says, “Grenades first. As soon as they detonate and discourage Trogs on the other levels—Silva, you blow the charge on the bridge hatch. Once it goes, follow me up. I’ll lead.”
“Follow us up,” I tell her, nodding at Brice. “You behind me.”
He shrugs.
The grenades go.
We all step away to a safe distance.
As I wait the two seconds for the explosions, I feel vibrations through the floor. The fighting elsewhere is growing intense. I hear Jill talking to Sergeant Bruckert. I hear Lenox ordering a fire team to support the rear defense. I’ve committed nearly half our strength to the defense of the assault ships. Jill’s squad is fully engaged with a platoon-sized bunch of regular Trogs and Lenox is weakening her position to support the rest of us.
If the Trogs attack our little squad from the rear, we’ll be in trouble.
Or if more of the black-suited ghost Trogs come at us…
The grenades detonate.
Silva sets off her C4 in a bigger explosion.
With the shock of the blast still tingling my senses, and with no rush of released atmosphere from above, I hop into the lift tube and take off. “Max grav!”
Brice is literally on my heels.
Chapter 37
The trip up passes in an eye blink, and I’m decelerating desperately to avoid breaking my neck in a collision when I reach the top.
I twist and crouch just before my shoulder impacts the ceiling through the cushion of my deflective grav. On the rebound, I luck my way into landing on my feet beside the blown hatch.
I’m all adrenaline and wide eyes, scanning for threats.
It looks like three pods of Grays, eighteen of them, manning the bridge. Most have been knocked to the floor by the explosion. Others are looking at me, and I read surprise into their expressionless, flat faces.
Parts of a ghost Trog are scattered outward from the tube entrance.
Wrong place, wrong time for you, buddy.
An ebony Trog is slinking along the back wall of the bridge, thinking I don’t see him there. Another ghost already has his attack planned, and he’s sprinting toward me from the far end of the bridge.
Disruptor time.
And my pistol.
I don’t expect pistol slugs to penetrate ghost Trog shields, but each of those bullets packs a punch of momentum, and Newton’s third law guarantees energy will impart a hard enough thump to throw a Trog off-balance long enough for me to kill him.
In theory.
I jump to my right, hoping to put a waist-high instrument console between me and the sprinting Trog, a little defense to help offset its power.
Then it occurs to me—I’m alone.
Brice, Silva, or one of the others should already be on the bridge with me. Nobody’s popped out of the damaged grav tube.
Shit!
No time to ask questions, no time to wonder what happened. I don’t have backup. I’m on my own.
New plan!
I skirt the instrument console and rush the Trog coming at me.
Its boots skid on the deck, and it waves an arm to catch its balance. It didn’t expect me to attack.
I’m firing my pistol at its chest to press my tenuous advantage to gain another critical half-second.
The Trog’s grav field sizzles blue from my pistol slug’s impacts.
And then I’m close enough.
I swing the disruptor down and hack off his arm.
Bright-red blood and suit-air explode out of the wound, shooting the arm across the bridge in one direction and knocking the Trog to the deck in the other.
I leap over him and move out of range of his disruptor in case he’s able to muster a few more seconds of fight before the vacuum sucks out the rest of his life’s blood.
I scan the bridge for the other Trog.
Where the hell is he?
And where’s my damn squad?
I don’t see the Trog.
I spin around, swinging my disruptor blade as I go, and I spot it. He’s trying to come around behind me.
I realize, almost fatally late, these ghost Trogs are a lot faster than I ever suspected. Where Trogs in general like to keep their feet on the ground using auto-grav, these ghost Trogs use suit grav in three dimensions like they were born to it. And they probably were.
I pelt the Trog with a stream of pistol fire, aiming at his legs, hoping to trip him up as I run at him.
It works, almost.
I swing my disruptor down at his head to split his helmet. In quick defense, he moves his disruptor up to block me. For the first time since I picked up the alien weapon, I find something that can stop it—another disruptor.
I push down.
He pushes up.
Two soldiers, fighting face-to-face to kill one another, the age-old story.
Through his faceplate I see him looking at me from under thick, boney brows beneath a severely sloping forehead. He has a wide, flat nose, with a mouth full of broad, yellow teeth that look like they were built to grind through coconut husks. And he’s smiling, like he thinks he’s got me, like he’s full of Neanderthal smugness from having killed a dozen—maybe a hundred—frail humans just like me.
And that pisses me off.
“Fuck you, Trog!” I shove my pistol up under the neck ring of his suit, inside deflective grav range, and I fire.
Just like the North Korean officer I killed when my mutiny started, the Trog’s thick-boned head comes to pieces inside his helmet. A spray of blood vaporizes as the vacuum sucks it out the holes my slugs left in his suit’s neck.
The Trog drops.
I slap my disruptor onto my back, attach my pistol to a magnetic mount, and raise my rifle. I pull the trigger and spin as I spray the whole bridge. Grays’ heads explode. Others duck as rounds ricochet. I focus most of my fire on the giant wall of windows, giving the bridge a view out the front of the ship, the earth, a busted battle station, and the debris from countless other vessels.
There’s plenty of blackness out there in space, and I want to make sure there’s no ebony-clad ghost Trog standing in front of the glass, using that sky for camouflage.
I find none.
I take a breath and—
An explosion shakes the deck and sends hunks of shrapnel clattering in every direction. Some of it impacts my defensive grav field and the momentum sends me flying across the bridge to bounce off a waist-high console.
Damn Newton again with his fucking laws.
Luckily, my suit’s defensive field saves me from injury.
I’m back on my feet in two seconds, shaking stars out of my vision and pointing my rifle at a bank of grav tubes on the far side of the bridge.
A grunt pops out, ready to shoot.
Another comes through, a second later.
They’re not mine.
“Jill?” I ask. “Is this your squad?”
A third soldier pops onto the bridge. It turns out to be Jill. “We cleaned up those Trogs in the hall,” she says. “Just the regular kind. Not those ghost Trogs you dealt with.” She’s looking around and sees the bodies of the two I just killed. “Where’s the rest of your squad?”
“Don’t know.” But I’ve got a chance now to find out. I comm back to my people. “Brice? Status?”
“Dammit,” he curse
s. “I was ambushed by a Trog a level down from the bridge.”
“You okay?” I ask.
“It’s dead,” he answers. “But Hastings came up the tube after us, max gravved, got herself cockeyed somehow, and jammed her body in there. Clogged the tube.”
“Body?” I ask. That’s ominous.
“She’s dead.”
Another casualty. Something I need to get used to but can’t imagine what that state of mind even feels like.
“Check those Grays,” Jill tells her squad. “Kill them, or make sure they’re dead.” She’s coming my way and gives one of the dead ghost Trogs a kick. “You’re a badass grunt now?”
We’re all bloodied. We’re victorious. “Now we’re all badass grunts.”
Chapter 38
Brice pops out of the grav tube I came through. In a series as steady as metronome clicks, Silva, Mostyn, and Mendez emerge, my squad of six turned to four.
“What now, Chief?” asks Brice.
Jill looks at me with the same question on her face.
We have our objective, but I know our victory won’t last. Talking to Jill, I ask, “How long can Bruckert hold?”
“Minutes.”
We don’t even know how many more Trogs are in the stern barracks, or in the forward section for that matter. There might be hundreds massing on the other floors we didn’t check. An attack could be coming. If that happens, we won’t be able to hold the bridge.
We needed a lot more than two ships to ram the Trog cruiser for capture to be a realistic outcome.
Even though we have control of the ship for the moment, we need another way to capitalize on our victory. I hurry over to the helm and give it a quick glance. It’s familiar to me. It’s the same Gray design we use in our cruisers, with the same controls used on our assault ships. Only scaled up. A lot.
I know I’m no expert, but I’ve been through the basic flight simulators. I think I can fly this thing.
Jill cuts her eyes toward me. “What are you thinking?”
“It’s time we give these dumbass Trogs a hard lesson in what war with unchained humans is like.”