by Richard Fox
Several of the Dotari ships opened fire with counter-asteroid batteries. The first several salvos missed, then peppered the side of the Breitenfeld. Valdar swayed on his feet but remained standing, with both hands on the tactical railing around his bridge station. “Not bad for some asteroid busters. I think the Breit can take heavier hits than that.”
Nervous laughter spread through the bridge crew.
“We’re coming around their formation,” Egan said. “It is my duty to inform the admiral that, from this position, they are able to aim a lot more of those guns at us.”
Valdar grunted. “Hold on, everyone. We’re about to take a broadside.” He moved his gaze around the room to judge the morale of his crew. Some were veterans; others were not. If they were shaking in fear, he didn’t see it, which meant they were all excellent actors. “XO, I wouldn’t say no to evasive maneuvers.”
“Always wanted to be a fighter jock,” Egan said.
The Dotari ships continued to fire, striking more often than Valdar would’ve liked. “Damage report.”
“We’ve suffered two hull breaches, but they’ve been contained. No casualties,” Jamison said.
“Sir, we have a problem,” Egan said rapidly.
Valdar saw the problem. One of the Dotari ships was too close to miss. Every counter-asteroid cannon on the port side of the Dotari ship aimed at the Breitenfeld. “Lieutenant Clark, weapons free.”
“Firing rail batteries two, three, and four,” the weapons officer said in a dry voice. “All hits, sir. I assumed you preferred I take out the engines before killing the civilian sections of the ship.”
“Well done, Lieutenant,” Valdar said.
“Brace for evasive maneuvers,” Egan said. “I mean really brace.”
Egan’s hands flew across the controls, and then he grabbed the manual joystick to finish the maneuver. The ship rolled, and Valdar was suddenly glad he was wearing armor and had pumped the atmosphere into storage tanks. He locked his eyes on the holo tank and spread his feet for stability. From what he was seeing, the Breitenfeld looked like it had already been rammed. He’d never seen such a close call without a collision.
Egan spoke through clenched teeth as he fought to override the ship’s safety protocol. “Just keep rolling. Just keep rolling. Just keep…rolling.”
Something massive struck the Breitenfeld. It felt like they’d run into a moon. Valdar was thrown sideways, saved by his safety harness linked to the railing and the pseudo-muscle strength of his armor. “Did we actually get rammed? Damage report.”
“They tried, but it was a glancing blow,” said Egan’s relief officer, Lieutenant Morgaine-Phillips.
“Nice flying, Egan,” Valdar said.
Several of the Dotari ships fired at once, spraying the Breitenfeld with kinetic projectiles that blasted holes in the armor. If Valdar hadn’t decided to fight in void conditions, the atmosphere would be spraying into space and fires would be sweeping through hallways.
“That was a bad one,” Morgaine-Phillips said. “Engineering is reporting substantial damage. We have serious casualties on decks four through eight.”
“Understood. Egan, are you all right?”
His XO nodded. “Just catching my breath. Thanks.”
She nodded.
“Guns, hit those engines. We need to even the odds,” Valdar said.
Another series of impacts rocked the ship. The icons in the holo tank turned to encircle the Breitenfeld. It was a basic Xaros mob attack. The only thing that saved the Breitenfeld thus far was how slow the Dotari ships were compared to a Xaros drone. Valdar felt the comforting thump of his ship’s rail cannons. Clark, his weapons officer, lined up his shots with precision and fired only when he was ready.
“You’re doing good work, guns. Just do it faster. Don’t give me perfection—just give me a victory,” Valdar said.
“Aye aye, sir,” Clark said.
Gor’al shook his head side to side, quills whipping this way and that. “No, no, no. More ships are peeling off from the main fleet and heading our way.”
Lieutenant Clark and his weapons team fired rapidly, soundless explosions marking their success. Several of the Dotari ships drifted out of control.
“Gor’al,” Valdar said.
The Dotari officer faced him.
“We’re on the Breitenfeld. Crewed by the best men and women the Terran Alliance has to offer. The only reason we’ve suffered this much damage is because we’re playing nice.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“Guns, show me something amazing.”
“Aye aye, sir!” Clark said.
“Egan,” Valdar said, “do you see what I see?”
“They’re moving in a perfect triangle. We can fly straight down the middle. Every time they miss, they’ll hit each other. And we can use all our guns.”
“Guns, ready all your gunners. Gor’al, what kind of damage will their asteroid busters do to the civilian sections of those ships?” Valdar asked.
Gor’al hesitated. “I believe they are aiming at the bridge. Our closing speed will be…fast. My concern is that they’ll ram us, or each other, depending on Egan’s skill.”
Valdar studied the holo tank. “It’s a risk, but it’s the only way we can put all our guns to work. XO, make it happen.”
“This is going to be ugly,” Egan said as he plotted a head-on collision course with one of the ships, with a last second run down the middle.
“Firing solutions are programed for all rail cannons. Faster than human reflexes, sir.”
“Very good. Brace for combat,” Valdar said.
The Dotari ship grew large in the holo tank. Valdar held his breath, standing motionless at his station. His gauntlets gripped the railing. The grav liners in his boots held the floor.
Egan let out a whoop a second before the Breitenfeld slipped through the gauntlet. Dozens of gauss point defense turrets fired almost simultaneously. The holo view spun to watch the destruction behind them.
Three Dotari ships veered away from each other at random angles and made no effort to correct course. Debris clouds expanded where each of the ships once had engines.
“XO,” Valdar said, “bring us around. Let’s have a look at our work. Should be a lot easier to avoid their teeth now. Good work, crew.”
Cheers erupted on every deck of the ship.
Valdar gave them some time before quietly gathering casualty and damage reports.
Chapter 18
Opal grabbed a computer tower near the back of the room.
“That’s bolted to the wall, Opie,” Booker said.
Duke shook his head. “Dummy.”
Opal heaved backward, driving with his legs and straightening his back as he pulled higher and higher with his hands. The mainframe computer tore free of the wall and rose into the air. Opal turned and carried it overhead to the doorway. He dropped it with a loud smash.
“I bet you were all thinking he couldn’t do that,” King said. “Don’t just stand there. Help him build the barricade—except for you, Duke. Find a position and start shooting.”
An energy beam glanced off King’s shoulder. He dropped to the floor out of reflex even though it had already touched his armor. Rolling to one side, he came to his feet and moved to Duke’s side to return fire. “Hop to it!” he yelled over his shoulder.
Duke locked his sniper rifle to his back and drew his combat carbine. He fired the smaller gauss weapon in single-fire mode, but he did it so quickly it almost seemed like an automatic weapon. Every shot struck a target, either chest or throat. The first two ranks of banshees wore heavier armor than the others, shrugging off rounds that hit their piecework armor.
King fired at the banshees Duke had only wounded, finishing them off. “Get to it, Opal!”
“Break stuff!” Opal said as he grabbed two benches at a time and flung them into the stack of debris at the doorway. Booker and Adams rearranged it to make it more efficient and to create firing holes.
“Tha
t’s as good as it gets. Everybody online. Weapons free!” King shouted.
****
The hiss of a sliding door woke Hoffman. He opened his eyes a crack, wincing as light seemed to slice his brain in half. He was being dragged across the deck by the carry handle on the back of his armor. He couldn’t turn his head, but he saw legs in Strike Marine armor next to him. He blinked, waiting for the fuzzy display on his visor to clear up.
“Garrison…where’s Lo’thar?” he asked. An error icon popped up on his visor, alerting him that no one was in range of his IR. He tried to twist out of the grasp on his body, but the hold only got stronger.
“Max? Why are our comms—” He was dropped to the deck and a boot stomped onto his upper back, pinning him down. His helmet came off with a violent snap and was thrown against the bulkhead hard enough to shatter the visor. Hoffman twisted his head to one side and looked into the white eyes of Captain Bradford. If his commanding officer could show emotion, it didn’t penetrate the metal discs bolted to his face, head, and neck. Wires ran under the plates and through the Marine’s skin.
Bradford slapped a hand on Hoffman’s throat, cutting off the blood flow to his head. Hoffman fought through the near panic of being strangled and the knowledge that his commanding officer had been corrupted like the banshees.
Strike Marines had encountered twisted humans during the war and dubbed them wights. The Xaros’ thralls were deadly, vicious, and utterly without mercy.
Hoffman struck Bradford’s wrist and broke the hold. He drove his knee up, aiming for the groin, unsure if it would do any good given the state of his former commander, and struck home.
Bradford grunted, but it was almost mechanical—completely devoid of emotion. Hoffman kicked Bradford in the chest, driving him back.
Bradford rushed forward, feinting with a left jab, then swinging a vicious right hook. Hoffman executed an upward and outward left block with his forearm, which was more of a strike than a defensive movement. The captain seemed slow but just as skilled as he ever was.
Hoffman retreated, looking right and left for other threats. The scene at the bottom of the shaft was a nightmare. He suddenly remembered where he was and where he needed to be. The captain came at him and Hoffman retreated again.
“Captain? Can you hear me? Fight the Xaros, not me!”
Bradford opened his mouth to release a soundless shriek as he charged. Hoffman waited until the last second and sidestepped the advance, driving his palm into the captain’s chin and twisting his head up. Hoffman bumped his right hip into Bradford’s and used his arm as a lever as he twisted around, slamming the captain’s upper back against the floor as his feet flew into the air.
The captain pulled his knees back almost to his chin and kicked forward and onto his feet. He charged at Hoffman and snapped a kick at the other Marine’s knee, faster than Hoffman was prepared for. Bradford’s foot glanced off Hoffman’s shin and knocked the lieutenant off-balance. The follow-on punch thumped into Hoffman’s chest so hard Hoffman felt like he’d been shot. Hoffman ducked under the captain’s hook and rammed an elbow into the changed man’s sternum, then he shoved the captain against the bulkhead and pinned his arms to the metal.
“Talk to me, sir.”
Bradford tried to head-butt him but was too slow.
Hoffman chopped against the back of the captain’s neck and sent him stumbling to his knees. There, locked to his lower back, was a holstered gauss pistol. Hoffman tore it away and kicked the captain in the hip, sending him tumbling away. Hoffman activated the weapon and braced himself, the muzzle aimed at Bradford’s head.
“Stop, captain.” Hoffman put his finger on the trigger.
Bradford’s head snapped toward him, and light ran through the wires embedded in his skin. The wight charged and Hoffman changed his point of aim to the captain’s midsection. He fired three shots into the seam of armor joints over the stomach, a point Hoffman knew the underpowered pistol might break through. Bradford stumbled forward, blood spurting from his side. He raised his arms up and launched forward, tackling Hoffman, and the two went down.
Hoffman rolled and landed on top of his commander. He jammed the muzzle beneath Bradford’s chin and looked into the man’s eyes. The Marine Hoffman knew wasn’t there.
Hoffman pulled the trigger and blew a hole out the top of the captain’s skull. Bradford twitched for a moment, then went slack.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Hoffman got up as the image of his dead commander and the smell of blood and the ozone wafting from the muzzle etched themselves into his memory forever.
Behind him, an elevator door opened to reveal a pair of altered Marines in full armor.
Hoffman raised his pistol and pulled the trigger. The weapon vibrated, alerting him that it was empty. He tossed it aside and charged forward, popping his Ka-Bar from the forearm housing and launching himself through the door. His shoulder caught the first turned-Marine and drove him off his feet. The other, Lieutenant Fallon, jumped on Hoffman’s back.
The elevator lurched into motion and rose.
Hoffman rolled to one side and dislodged both his attackers. Coming to his feet, he realized there was no place to run and no room to fight. He stepped even closer to the first Strike Marine and drove his Ka-Bar under his chin with all the strength he had left, forcing the blade into the armor’s seams. Before he could twist the blade, the other turned-Marine hammered him with a gauntleted fist.
Hoffman got an arm up to deflect the blow from his bare head. The blow struck hard and sent a spike of pain down through his hand. Hoffman twisted at the waist and drove the palm of his right hand against his attacker’s collarbone, just hard enough to move him back a few inches. At the same time, he cycled his left arm back with the bayonet, reversed the motion, and thrust up under the armpit. He leaned into the upward lunge and pushed his opponent to the other side of the elevator. Slamming into him with all his weight, he felt the blade slide home and used the rebound from the collision to yank the blade free. A glut of blood spilled onto the floor and the wounded wight swiped a fist at Hoffman.
The stabbed Marine fell against his companion, moving with grace of a drunk. The bright red blood running down his armor told Hoffman he’d severed the artery. Fallon pushed the dying Marine against Hoffman hard enough to bounce the back of his head against the wall.
Hoffman saw a punch hurtling toward his face. He got a forearm up and took the blow square against his gauntlet. Fallon pushed his punch farther and Hoffman cocked his head to one side a split second before Fallon’s Ka-Bar snapped out. The blade sliced Hoffman’s cheek open.
The lieutenant twisted his gauntlet up and jabbed a punch beneath Fallon’s arm against his helmet. He anticipated Fallon’s next knife strike and deflected the blade into the wall, where it tore through the thin metal and jammed against the elevator’s frame. Fallon tried to tug his weapon out, but he was stuck.
The wight hissed just as Hoffman slammed his fist against the visor, sending a spider web of cracks through the ballistic glass. Hoffman punched again, driving deep cracks across Fallon’s faceplate. With his third blow, Hoffman popped his own Ka-Bar and pierced the wight’s visor. Blood painted the inside of Fallon’s helmet and he went slack, one arm still pinned to the elevator wall.
Hoffman pulled his weapon free, his body singing with adrenaline, and he took a few seconds to stare at the turned Strike Marines. It was hard to accept that he’d just killed men who had been fellow Marines a few hours ago.
The Marine that bled to death still had his gauss rifle mag-locked to the back of his armor. Hoffman took it and set it to high-power shot. Fallon had a single anti-armor grenade on his belt. He took a grenade from the dead Marine’s pouch and tapped the grenade against Fallon’s helmet in thanks.
The anti-armor grenade would explode and turn a cone of depleted uranium into a shaped charge of metal. Hoffman didn’t care for the underlying physics, but he knew from experience during the Ember War that the white-hot lance of metal from
the grenade could crack a drone’s shell.
The elevator stopped with a chime and the door opened.
Kid’ran’s Gift’s bridge was no longer Dotari. A substance roughly the texture of iron pyrite lined the walls, floors, and most of the ceiling and was thicker along the corners and edges of workstations. Hoffman felt like he was walking into a giant geode.
Marines hung on the walls, bound by their wrists and ankles with the same crystalline material. Wires and tubes ran into their ears, eyes, and down their gaping mouths. Some moved; others did not. The flickering lights within the crystals gave Hoffman a headache.
Hoffman studied the ceiling and saw an oblong shape longer than he was tall embedded in the crystal. Fractal patterns pulsed across the surface. The Xaros drone. Eight stalks radiated out from the drone across the ceiling. As motes of light snapped down the drone’s limbs, an atavistic fear coursed through Hoffman’s body.
He remembered the skies of Earth full of thousands on top of thousands of drones as he fought them in the mountain fortresses of Utah. Machines like this had driven humanity to the very brink of extinction, had wiped out sentient life across the galaxy in a reign of terror that lasted for millennia. Now he was so close to one that he could almost touch it.
One stalk broke loose of the metallic geode moorings and pointed directly at Hoffman. The tip glowed red.
Hoffman aimed at the arm stalk without thinking and fired, severing the stalk halfway across the ceiling. Crystals fell to the ground like shattered glass. The stalk writhed against the deck like a wounded snake, then disintegrated, burning away from within.
Hoffman held up the grenade so the drone could see it.
The drone’s surface rippled with fractals.
“You know what we are?” Hoffman slowly moved his thumb toward the grenade’s activation switch. “You know what happened? We beat you. We found your Masters beyond the galaxy’s edge and killed them. Destroyed every last drone in the galaxy…except you. They program you with fear?”
During the war against these machines, from the first scouring of Earth to the final battle aboard the Xaros Master’s Dyson sphere, the drones had never communicated with their victims. Hoffman didn’t expect an answer now.