“Go,” he snapped, as the hatch crashed open. “Move!”
He led the way, hurling a flashbang through the gash in the alien hull and dropping through the hatch. The gravity field twisted, sending uncomfortable spasms through his neck as his perspective shifted. Down was suddenly up and ... he pushed the thought out of his head as he landed neatly and looked around. The air was misty, heavy with dead or dying viral particles. His HUD flashed up a constant stream of alarms, warning him of the danger of removing his mask without going through a complete decontamination process. One breath would be more than enough to turn him into a mindless slave.
And not in the fun way, either, he thought, as the remainder of the platoon plunged into the catapult. He looked at the bulkheads, hoping to find something vaguely familiar. The boffins swore blind the marine techs could interface their systems with the alien catapult, but Colin had his doubts. The old movies featuring bold hackers who’d cracked alien computer systems had always had a friendly scriptwriter pulling the strings. If they tear off our masks, we’re dead.
A shape loomed up in front of him. Colin didn’t hesitate. He pulled the trigger, sending a plasma burst into the host body’s chest. The poor bastard practically exploded, blood and gore flying in all directions. He’d been human once, Colin thought. It was hard to be sure. The remnants of the body were covered in so many pustules, it looked as though he was on the verge of giving birth to countless viral particles. Colin pushed through the mess, peering further into the mist. His mask’s sensors were unreliable. He snapped a command, launching microscopic drones into the air. Hopefully, they’d plot out the interior and alert the marines before they walked into a trap. The virus hadn’t known the shuttle was there, until it started to chop through the hull, but it sure as hell did now. It could hardly have missed the flashbang wiping out entire chunks of viral matter.
“We sweep the hull,” he ordered, quietly. “Platoon One, with me. Platoon Two, secure the bridgehead. Kevin, take point.”
“Aye, boss,” Kevin said.
Colin watched as the alien led the way forward, moving with practiced ease. He’d definitely had some kind of experience before, Colin noted; he didn’t move with the squeamish determination of young men facing combat for the first time. A marine could do well on the training field and yet freeze up when the bullets started flying. Colin knew he’d come close to freezing himself, that he would have if his sergeant hadn’t planted a boot up his arse to keep him moving. He put the thought out of his mind as they slipped past devices of unknown purpose, half-hidden in the mist. The flashbang grenades cleared the way, wiping out huge chunks of viral matter without damaging any of the hardware. Colin hoped the blasts hurt. It was hard to be sure. Pulling out his nose hairs would also hurt, but it wouldn’t do any real damage. The virus might be even less concerned with the individual particles.
The communicator bleeped. “Sir, we’re losing recon drones.”
Colin grimaced. The drones were practically invisible to the naked eye, but they were moving through a sea of viral matter. The virus was probably perfectly aware of their presence, even if it couldn’t see them. Hell, it probably could see them. Colin didn’t understand how the virus actually saw, when it wasn’t within a host body, but it was clear it had some kind of awareness of its surroundings. It could probably congeal around the drones and weigh them down, eventually sending them tumbling to the deck. Or something. His mask darkened, automatically, as another flashbang detonated. The virus had to be on the back foot. It was his job to keep it that way.
“We’ll sweep the floor, room by room,” he said. “Prepare additional drones and sensor nodes to follow in our wake.”
The sense of unreality grew stronger as they inched into an oversized corridor. It was weirdly proportioned, designed in a manner that made his head hurt. The host bodies weren’t human, perhaps. The corridor certainly wasn’t designed for humans. Or maybe the virus didn’t care. It was just a giant living thing ... he frowned as it dawned on him they were crawling through a host body, infecting the virus as it infected its victims. He had the strangest feeling they were being watched and judged by a vast intelligence, one so far above him that it was barely even aware of their presence. A chill ran down his spine, sweat prickling down his back. He’d never been quite so scared in his life ... he snarled a curse, dismissing the warning icons that flashed up in his HUD. No one was ever not afraid, particularly when facing an enemy he couldn’t see. He just refused to allow the fear to dominate him.
And yet ... his eyes narrowed as they made their way through the giant complex. Where was the enemy? Colin knew what he’d be doing, if he was in charge of defending the catapult, and the virus wasn’t doing any of it. Or was it? He could imagine the host bodies frantically arming a nuke, ready to blow the catapult and the boarding party to hell. And yet, it was wasteful. Surely, they’d at least try to repel boarders. Unless they felt there was no hope of saving anything. The fleet had practically won the engagement. It could blow the catapults away from a safe distance if the marines failed to keep them intact.
His concerns grew as the enemy remained unseen. Droplets of moisture formed on his mask, and he absently brushed them away as alerts flashed in front of his eyes. Where were they? The techs were trying to hack the network, but - apparently - not having much luck. The virus didn’t bother with passwords and firewalls, not when it was the only intelligence on the station, yet it required a level of biomechanical interaction no human could match. Colin had seen enhanced soldiers, with implanted weapons and computer links, but none of them came close to the virus. Given time, it could turn its host bodies into super-soldiers out of science fiction nightmares. The only thing standing in its way, he thought, was a simple lack of concern. It cared as little for its host bodies as Colin cared for his skin cells.
“Sir,” Kevin said. “The viral particles are growing stronger.”
Colin frowned, holding up a hand to slow the team. The mist was wavering, as if the air circulation had just been turned up to the max. Streams of mist billowed towards him, somehow interfering with his mask’s sensors. Nothing seemed to peer through the haze. He dropped to one knee, raising his rifle. There was no hope of hiding, not when the virus was practically crawling over their suits. He unhooked a flashbang grenade and hurled it into the mist, half-expecting to hit a wall of host bodies heading towards him. But there was nothing ...
A tidal wave of liquid crashed down on him. Colin barely had a moment to realise the ceiling had caved in before he lost his footing, the yellowish liquid carrying him down the corridor and bashing him against the bulkhead. Alerts flared up as the suit’s sensors realised it was under attack, the virus trying to find a way to break through the latches and worm its way into the suit. Colin felt the liquid start to congeal, threatening to pin him in place as the virus worked its way into the suit. Panic shot through him. He’d once rolled his eyes as a woman - a rape victim - had described feeling helpless as her attacker had started to remove her clothes. He’d thought she was a wimp, unable to stand up for herself. He understood now. God! He understood now.
He grasped hold of the final flashbang and detonated it. The jelly dissolved into liquid. Colin forced himself up, suddenly all too aware the remainder of the team was trapped. He snapped orders, looking around for his rifle. Sergeant Bowman would have a whole string of nasty things to say about a bootneck who lost his weapon in a combat zone, although Colin expected the sergeant would understand. They’d nearly been infected because ... he picked up his rifle as the rest of the team broke free, dead viral matter dripping from their suits and pooling around their feet. Colin breathed a sigh of relief as he realised they were alive and uninfected. They’d have to go through decontamination before they were allowed to return home, but at least they were alive. Their minds were their own.
“Incoming,” Kevin snapped. There was a hint of ... something in his voice? Delight? Fear? Anticipation? It was impossible to be sure. “They’re coming!�
�
Colin hefted his rifle as a shivering blob of viral matter advanced towards them. He had no idea how it was moving - it had no legs, as far as he could tell - but it moved with all the grace of a mid-sized tank. Giant tentacles reached out towards the marines, glimmering in the half-light as they snapped at the air. It was easy to believe they were harmless, but their appearance belied their strength. Colin had seen the recordings of marines torn apart by the blobs, armour or no armour. They could not be taken lightly.
He pointed his rifle and pulled the trigger. A stream of plasma pulses blew the blob into pieces, which picked themselves up and kept coming. Behind them, a line of host bodies appeared and ran at the marines. Colin keyed his radio, ordering more flashbang grenades from the second platoon as the marines opened fire. The host bodies looked nasty, their arms reaching out as if they intended to hug the marines to death, but they weren’t the real threat. The viral particles in the air were the true danger. Given time, they would break through the line and crush the marines.
Colin gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to use anything nastier than the flashbangs. The risk of damaging the catapult was just too high, particularly when they didn’t have the slightest idea how the device worked. There was no way to be sure they weren’t shooting at something vitally important, something that couldn’t be replaced before the fleet ran out of time. The spooks hadn’t been able to swear to anything, but Colin was morbidly sure time wasn’t on their side. The virus wasn’t known for wasting time. Once it had all of the catapults up and running, it would start the offensive.
“Open the airlocks,” he ordered, curtly.
He braced himself. They’d planned to vent the atmosphere, as a last resort, but there was no way to be sure just how much damage they’d do to the device. It wouldn’t trouble a human design, he’d been assured, but the virus handled most of the command and control tasks itself, rather than relying on proper datacores. The sudden drop in temperature might do much more than simply freezing the virus in its tracks. It might damage the catapult beyond easy repair.
It isn’t as if we could rely on the virus to help us, he thought, as the mist started to flow out of the compartment. The liquid beneath his fleet crackled as it turned to ice. It’s too dangerous to take lightly.
Alerts flashed up in front of him as the temperature continued to drop. Tiny pieces of hail cracked against his mask, making him jump even though he knew they were largely harmless. The air was starting to clear, revealing a scene out of hell itself. Host bodies lay on the deck, steadily freezing to death. The pustules seemed to have been frozen in the midst of bursting. Colin felt sick, reminding himself - again and again - that the host bodies had been beyond salvation. Their very souls had been stolen by the virus. He hoped they hadn’t been aware of what had happened to them, as their bodies were taken over and controlled by an alien intelligence. The reports from the handful of people who’d been freed were somewhat contradictory. And none of them had been infected for long.
He tongued his throatmike. “Deploy the remainder of the drones,” he ordered. The atmosphere was gone. The viral particles were either dead or frozen. “I want the entire complex swept with UV light before we risk sealing the gash and pumping the atmosphere back inside.”
“Aye, sir.”
Colin allowed himself a tight nod as the platoon resumed its sweep, feet crunching through pools of frozen virus as they made their way through the complex. The virus didn’t seem to have fitted airlocks, somewhat to his surprise. It might not want to start cutting off pieces of itself, but it was going to lose them anyway. Colin had been warned he might have to cut off his own arm to save the rest of him ... he snorted at the thought. He’d always assumed the virus would be less concerned about the concept. Closing the airlocks would be roughly akin to pulling out a hair or two.
Which would still be painful, he thought, again. And the virus probably wants to avoid it if possible.
He smiled, briefly, as they completed their search. The complex didn’t have as many nooks and crannies, let alone hiding places, as its human counterpart. If there were any host bodies still alive, they were very well hidden. Colin let out a breath. They’d completed their part of the mission. It all relied on the techs now.
“Mission completed, sir,” he said, formally. “The catapult is in human hands.”
Chapter Eighteen
Susan smiled as the reports flowed in from the landing parties. Twenty-five of thirty catapults had been taken intact, with seventeen either in usable condition or repairable with parts scrounged from the remainder. The techs were already swarming over the devices, replacing the biomechanical software with human computer nodes and datacores. They insisted the catapults could be brought online within two days, once they’d completed repairing the damaged units. Susan hoped they were right.
Her eyes lingered on the starchart, silently tracing the jumps back to New Washington and Alien-One. They were on the far end of a tramline chain, well beyond the flicker network. An entire enemy fleet could be bearing down on them and they wouldn’t have the slightest idea, at least until it showed itself. It would be frustrating as hell to have to blow up the catapults and run for their lives, after spending so much time capturing them, but there might be no choice. The enemy might have shot a warning up their own flicker network, if they had one. It wasn’t clear if they’d established one.
She frowned as she glanced at the post-battle reports. The fleet had completed its first mission with flying colours, but a handful of escort ships had been destroyed and a number of capital ships had been damaged. She was lucky the enemy hadn’t managed to ram one of her battleships ... she grimaced at the thought. The virus had been caught by surprise, once. It wouldn’t take it long to deduce what she intended to do with the captured catapults. She just hoped it wouldn’t have time to reposition its forces to cover the rear.
If nothing else, it will have to recall ships from the front, Susan thought. The briefing from New Washington had made it clear that the defences were starting to crumble. The Americans couldn’t spare any more ships to extract the fleet if it ran into something it couldn’t handle. We’ll win time to resupply our defences and give our people some rest.
She finished reading the reports, feeling her scowl deepen. Damage control teams were working overtime, replacing armour and reloading missile tubes and pods. A handful of replacement starfighters had been rushed out of storage, the reserve pilots pulled from their regular duties and hurled into the cockpits. They were going to be spending the next two days training, but ... it wouldn’t be enough. Susan wanted to supervise personally, as if her presence would make the difference between success and failure ... she understood, suddenly, why so many admirals became micromanagers. It was easier to direct tiny aspects of the whole than sit back and allow one’s subordinates to do their jobs. Easier, but not right. She knew she’d picked a good command team. They could handle it.
Her wristcom bleeped. “Admiral,” Richardson said. “The command conference will be online in five minutes.”
“Understood,” Susan said. She silently blessed all the gods she didn’t have a political commissioner - or even a politician - looking over her shoulder. Not now. “I’ll take it in my office.”
She took one final look at the display, checking that the contingency plans were in place. If they couldn’t make use of the catapults, for whatever reason, they’d make damn sure they were destroyed before they fought their way back to New Washington. She’d had nukes emplaced amongst the framework as soon as the battle had ended, just to be sure. The analysts weren’t sure why the virus hadn’t destroyed the catapults itself - their suggestions ranged from the virus being caught by surprise to a new sensitivity to losses - but she had no intention of making the same mistake. They’d destroy the remnants of the catapults after they completed the jump, just to be sure. If there was an alien fleet en route to the catapult system, it was going to be disappointed.
The thought cheered her
as she stepped into her office. Her steward passed her a mug of coffee and retreated, leaving her alone. Susan sat in her chair, trying not to look at the stream of messages on her terminal. Most of them could be handled by her staff - she winced, inwardly, at a reporter’s request for an interview - but she wouldn’t know until she looked at them. She was tempted to ignore the messages, even though she knew it would be setting a bad example. If the mission was a success, she could handle them during the voyage home; if the mission failed, she’d have worse problems. Her lips thinned as the terminal bleeped, informing her that the conference was about to begin. The discussion would be a formality, and yet ...
If the mission fails, they’ll go through our logs with a fine-toothed comb to make sure the blame is assigned to the right person, she thought. And anything we say may wind up being used against us.
Fighting For The Crown (Ark Royal Book 16) Page 17