"What’s your name, son?"
"Maranov, sir. Please, don’t move."
Martin had been about to step forward, in an attempt to block the man’s view of Harlan aiming for the middle of his faceplate.
"It’s okay, Maranov. No one wants this to get ugly. I’m putting my helmet down, but I want you to promise me something, all right?"
Come on, son. Think this through.
"I can’t do that, sir. Please get on the ground. Ma’am, lower your weapons. Captain Kołodziejski’s orders—"
Martin turned to look at Harlan, still holding his helmet in his hands. He knew that if he couldn’t get the situation under control, and fast, there was no way out for anyone.
The boy’s right about one thing. People have got to stop pointing guns at one another.
In a move that must have appeared far braver than he felt, Martin turned his back on Maranov and his two flankers. He held the helmet out to Harlan, fixing her with a knowing stare. The woman’s dedication to his safety was admirable, but he wondered how much of it was loyalty and how much pure adrenalin.
Stick with me, Mira. We’ll live through this if we can just stay calm a little longer.
Harlan made a face like she’d swallowed something vile, but seemed to understand his intent. She slowly placed the gun in her right hand into a holder on her chest plate, then took the empty helmet from her captain. She didn’t let go of the other pistol, but at least she wasn’t pointing it at anyone.
All right, that’s one . . .
Martin made a slow turn, noting the positions of everyone on the flight deck. There were twenty people besides himself and Harlan, most of whom were pointing at least one weapon at someone else. As he turned, Martin kept his hands at shoulder height, palms down and making gentle patting motions.
Apart from his personal shuttle, this deck held a few smaller vessels under repair, along with the machinery and supplies necessary to work on them. But Martin and Commander Williams had seen to it that no crews ever got assigned to those ships, and it was about as private a place as one could find inside the hull.
Good. The last thing I need right now is someone I’m not sure of charging in here and shooting people.
"Everyone, please, do what the man said and lower your weapons. No one needs to die here; I just want to talk. Maranov, is it? Any relation to Commodore Maranova? She’s good people, and I’d like to think she would want you to listen to what I have to say."
Maranov was silent for a few seconds, and then he lowered his rifle halfway. The gesture caught his comrades by surprise, one of whom spoke up.
"Ivan, what are you doing? We have our orders."
Martin recognized the trooper as Randall Jensen, another name on Bill Williams’s list of potential recruits.
"He’s thinking, Jensen. Like all of you should be doing right now. I’m no traitor, and neither will you be if you lower your weapons. Horace Kołodziejski is mistaken, and I want to hear what he has to say as much as the rest of you. But I can’t do that with a gun in my face."
From Jensen’s aggressive tone, Martin didn’t think he’d stand down without a lot more convincing. But Maranov wanted to talk, and since at the moment the others were taking their cues from him, Martin wanted to hear him out.
Stepping in front of Harlan for a second time drew a muttered curse from her, but the longer Martin could keep the troopers talking, the better it was for everyone.
"Sir, my great aunt, sir. She’s spoken fondly of you in the past. She was very proud when I was assigned to the Valiant after graduation."
Martin was glad he’d guessed right. Ykaterina was more than good people—she was on the right side of all this.
"As am I, son. As am I. Now, if you can just convince Jensen there and your other friends that the guns aren’t helping, I can try and explain what’s going on. You all know I’ve taken great pains to secure that sleeper unit aboard my shuttle, and the rest of the information you need to see is aboard as well. If we can just go inside and talk . . ."
"Not gonna happen, sir." Jensen took a firmer grip on his weapon, the exact opposite of what Martin wanted. "Now get on the ground, hands on your head. Do it!"
Worse, it was exactly what Harlan was afraid of, and she’d apparently had enough of waiting. Martin heard his helmet hit the deck, and he could only assume she’d filled that hand with a gun immediately.
"Mac, Callen. On me!" Harlan’s order blasted out at full volume, and Martin flinched away from the sound. He spun to face her directly, but before he could countermand her, the sight of several techs sneaking up behind a security trooper changed everything.
"No, you fools. Don’t—"
Martin’s warning was too late for the unarmed techs. The first stumbled as he ran forward to make a tackle, and the trooper nearest to him whirled and fired his weapon. The tech went down in a heap, and Martin knew from the angle of his head he wasn’t going to get back up again.
Oh shit.
Something hit Martin in the chest, and for a moment he thought he’d been shot as well. But the pressure continued all the way to the deck, and the sight of Harlan kneeling on his chest while firing both her weapons was truly impressive. He marveled at her cool competence, right up to the point where he followed her line of fire and saw Maranov’s chest plate disintegrate as grav-accelerated micro-slugs punched through it.
Shock didn’t do justice to the captain’s state of mind. He’d almost done it, almost talked everybody back from the edge. Now he was trapped in a worst-case scenario, and his newest recruit was the one doing the most damage.
The deep-throated growl of Harlan’s guns was nearly deafening, and the accompanying electric tang of ionized air stung his nose. It wasn’t until she stopped to insert new ammunition canisters that he could make out her shouted commands.
". . .’ve got to fall back! Everyone, get to the shuttle!"
Before Martin could stop her, Harlan sent another short volley at Jensen, who ducked behind a maintenance frame just in time for one of Martin’s faceless allies to come up behind him and put a dozen micro-slugs into his back. The trooper had no time to celebrate, though, as someone else walked a deadly line of fire up her body from waist to armpit. The last few micro-slugs shattered the hardsuit’s faceplate, and the look of complete surprise on the young woman’s face tore at Martin’s soul.
What have I done?
The noise over his head dropped in intensity, and Martin turned his attention back to Harlan. Her faceplate was blanked, and the mirrored finish made her seem inhuman. He thought he heard something like a grunt come through her external speakers, but he had no idea what the sound meant.
Before he could speculate, Harlan slapped one of her guns back into its holster and used the now-free hand to grab Martin’s collar and drag him towards their escape craft.
It took several meters for Martin to process that the muzzle of the gun on her chest was glowing cherry red. When the one in her left hand stopped firing as well, she dropped it and started running, with Martin bouncing heavily behind her as she made a dash for cover.
Somebody watching the lanky fire control officer dragging her middle-aged captain along the deck in the middle of a firefight might have found the sight amusing, but as the drag-ee Martin was glad when she let go of his collar and he rolled to a stop behind a workbench. He couldn’t make out the rest of the flight deck from where he was, but from the sound of things it was still going at full tilt.
I have to stop this. If they’ll only just listen!
Martin got to his knees, but he couldn’t see over their improvised cover. From the sounds of the rounds slamming into the other side, she’d picked right. But Harlan wasn’t firing back at the moment; she was busy repairing her remaining weapon.
First, Harlan ejected the fused barrel of her induction pistol and replaced it with a spare drawn from one of the many hard pouches on the front of her suit. She then snapped a new ammunition canister into place, held the weapon at arm’s
length, then triggered the acceleration module. He heard the miniature gravity generator whine to life, and the amber light on the side of the pistol switched over to green.
Martin played back the frenzied activity of the last two minutes, and realized why she had to fix the gun in the first place.
One, two, three . . . was that really her fifth reload?
Quickly doing the math, Martin realized that Harlan had just fired at least two thousand micro-slugs at members of her own crew in an attempt to save his miserable hide, and the thought that she was prepared to do so again moved him to action.
"Harlan, Stop. Everybody, stop! You don’t understand what’s at stayiaaaaagh!"
Hot metal rained down on Martin as a section of the bulkhead above them shattered. He couldn’t see Harlan’s expression behind the mirrored faceplate, but he was pretty sure what it would look like if he did. He was making it increasingly harder for her to save his life, and there was only so long they could hold this position. But the lives of every man and woman in human-controlled space depended on the outcome of this encounter, and despite his desire to stop the killing Harlan might have the right idea after all . . .
Harlan fired her remaining weapon dry over the maintenance bench, then slapped in yet another canister and continued shooting. From his position on the floor he could see a distorted version of the flight deck reflected in her faceplate, and the people fighting across it.
Harlan shifted her aim, and the gun growled as one of the hardsuited figures running across the floor dropped. She moved again, and a trooper positioned at the base of the cargo ramp doubled over.
A fresh round of impacts slammed into the workbench as she ducked back down to reload, and Martin wondered how Harlan could tell friend from foe in all this chaos. She wasn’t hesitating in her target selection, but neither was she firing indiscriminately. That discretion was somewhat encouraging, and Martin decided to take another approach.
"Harlan, that sleeping Alpha is the only priority here! You have to survive and get it to a safe harbor. So forget about us. Leave me here to deal with this, and I promise you’ll get away clean."
Harlan wasn’t paying attention to him, or if she was, she didn’t turn her head in his direction. Her faceplate was angled out over the top of the bench, as if she was looking at something in the firefight. Martin chanced a peek of his own around the side of the workbench to try and figure out what it was.
About six meters away lay a fallen trooper. At first he thought Harlan might be eyeing the weapon lying next to the body, until Martin saw a second suited figure moving towards it. Then the trooper’s head just disappeared. The body slumped forward, and when it hit the deck a crimson fountain erupted from its neck.
Martin stared at the corpse, noticing that the sounds of combat had diminished. He dove back behind cover and turned to look at Harlan. Her faceplate was tracking slowly to their left now, while her hands were busy reloading her pistol underneath the bench.
Harlan hadn’t said a word since they’d taken cover. He chanced a whisper in her direction, although it was more for his own sanity than concealment. Anyone with eyes and ears knew where they were, yet no one was coming for them.
"What is it?"
Harlan stopped moving her head, apparently looking at something in the direction of the shuttle. Then she was back under the bench almost too fast to see, and another section of the bulkhead exploded with a small shower of sparks. Martin looked up at the two shining craters in the supposedly indestructible surface, and shuddered.
"There’s someone out there shooting at both sides. And one of these," she said, hefting her induction pistol, "can’t do that." Harlan gestured at the gouged out sections of bulkhead, and the captain nodded his understanding.
It’s too late, they’re already here. And they don’t care about taking me prisoner anymore.
"Whoever it is, they’re herding us. I count five groups out there, and all of us are afraid to stick our heads out. We have to get aboard the shuttle as soon as possible, but it’s too far. If we go out without cover, I don’t think both of us will make it."
Martin tried to think of some way to distract the sniper so that Harlan could take him or her out. Other than just stepping out into the open, none came immediately to mind.
"Harlan, how many of our people are still up?"
"I clocked Sergeants Callahan and Sykes holed up against the far wall. I’m really not sure who the ones without heads are at this point, but there are at least six hostiles active, three of whom are more or less dug in at the ramp."
Damn. I guess it’s not a hard decision after all.
"Okay, I’ll make a dash back the way we came and try to get a weapon off somebody. You get to that shuttle, and get the Alpha away from here. Once you’re free, contact—"
"No."
"What?" Harlan’s refusal caught him completely by surprise.
"No, sir. Even if I do get off this ship with the Alpha, I haven’t got a clue what to do with it. And as we’ve seen over the last few minutes, I have no idea who I can trust, or even who’s in on your little secret."
"On the ship, Harlan. It’s all there. Your command key will—"
"Negative, sir. We go together, or we blow the damn thing up. But I’m not leaving you behind in either event. You have to make those casualties out there right, and whether I like it or not I’m in this now up to my neck. So it’s both of us, or not at all."
A flurry of gunfire brought their attention back to the flight deck. Two hardsuited figures were running broken lines toward their position. Martin was alarmed, but they weren’t firing as they ran, and Harlan wasn’t aiming at them.
Must be Callahan and Sykes. They’ve probably come to the same realization Harlan has.
A third trooper popped up from behind a partially disassembled thruster and sent a line of micro-slugs after the sergeants before his chest exploded.
Martin ducked back behind the workbench as micro-slugs started bouncing around, but two very different facts made him feel even worse about his situation than he had before. First, one of the sergeants was down, though Harlan’s cover fire let the other roll behind the workbench to join them.
But the second thing he’d just learned was more important than congratulating the scrappy sergeant.
I didn’t hear a shot when the trooper’s chest exploded. What kind of a weapon has that much power, and makes no sound?
Harlan reloaded quickly, and raised her head for another look at the flight deck. If she was struggling with the same question, she gave no sign of it in her voice.
"Callahan. Report."
"There’s motion in the corridors, ma’am. If we’re going to do something, it needs to be soon."
Callahan ejected his rifle’s grav accelerator and replaced it with a spare drawn from a pouch on his abdomen. Once it was in place, he repeated the same aiming and activation ritual Harlan had used with her pistol.
When he was satisfied with his weapon, Callahan clenched a fist and let it fall, and Martin saw Harlan nod in response. Callahan’s faceplate went clear, and Martin saw earnest blue eyes crinkle in a smile as the sergeant addressed him.
"Sir, stay behind me. I’ll get you aboard in one piece."
Before Martin could answer the trooper, the flight deck’s speakers sputtered to life again, and his heart sank. Given how quickly his plans had deteriorated after the last shipwide announcement, he was sure time that this one would only add more fuel to the fire.
"This is Lieutenant Ramirez in the command center. Captain Kołodziejski and his men have come aboard through the port cargo bay. I repeat, Captain Kołodziejski’s men have breached the port cargo bay. Sir, if you can hear me, we’re all with you. Crew of the Valiant, resist these invaders to the best of your ability! Don’t let them—"
The sharp report of an induction pistol cut off Harlan’s former second, and the sounds of a scuffle closed out the transmission. Martin closed his eyes, wishing he’d seen Alonso’s face at
least once before he and Harlan left the command center in his charge.
"Harlan, I—"
Harlan vaulted the workbench with an easy grace and was running at full speed toward the shuttle before Martin had a chance to continue his apology. Callahan was right behind her, and Martin stumbled to his feet after them, keenly aware that he had neither a helmet nor a weapon.
Callahan’s weapon was braced at his shoulder as they moved. The sergeant was sending streams of micro-slugs not at the troopers at the ramp, but seemingly at random angles as he advanced. Martin did his best to stay behind him, but as the trio grew closer to the shuttle, he noticed return fire coming from several directions.
"Down, sir." Callahan stopped suddenly, and Martin dove for cover. The captain heard the pinging of slugs all around him as Callahan fell to his knees. A second burst spun him around so he was face up, and Martin watched the light leave the sergeant’s eyes.
Harlan’s gun went dry, and this time instead of reloading she threw it ahead of her as she ran. Martin scooped up Callahan’s rifle and aimed over her head, hoping to add some kind of distraction to her insane charge. But when one of the two troopers left on the ramp was suddenly missing a head, he decided that his poor marksmanship would only complicate matters.
Not knowing what else to do, Martin sprinted after her, firing the rifle blindly off to his right. Harlan launched herself at the remaining guard, who was staring at the downed and headless corpse of his partner when her outstretched arm took him in the neck. Both of them slammed into the cargo ramp, but Martin saw Harlan’s arm raise and start slamming a gauntleted fist into the other trooper’s faceplate.
Martin was almost to the ramp when his weapon ran dry, and he was so focused on Harlan’s struggle that he didn’t see the figure hurtling from his left side until it was too late. The new opponent’s tackle was hard and fast, and Martin’s head bounced against the edge of the ramp hard enough for him to see stars.
He felt, rather than saw, additional figures piling on top of him. Everything was spinning, and the sounds of fighting slowed until they were a distorted growl. A mirrored faceplate was shouting something at him, but Martin couldn’t make his mouth work anymore. He was cold, and tired, and his suit weighed a ton.
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