“You don’t have to tell me,” Othello said, “get some support over here before we lose anyone else. Can you tell what happened?”
“On their way. Yes, we received a distress probe from your ship that was tagged with its location. It logged a blast separate from a collision or offensive attack. Best estimate is a bomb or miscellaneous system malfunction.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, so far as we can tell. I’ve got six shuttles in the air. Can you get a bay opened or get your survivors up to the damaged levels to offload?”
“I’ll see what I can do. We’ll rally in the main hangar and go from there. Maybe there’s an override somewhere for the hatch.” Othello switched channels back to his crew. “Everyone, listen up! Rescue party has arrived and shuttles are en route! Everyone alive and dead, get to the central landing area and standby for loading. Operations personnel, find me someone to open the main landing bay doors.”
Othello stood and looked about the shredded landscape around him and up to the new Patriot that floated closer with each passing second. To the side and far in the distance, another spark of light appeared and sustained, growing ever larger. In a brilliant flash, a large, odd ship cruised silently out of the growing ball of light. He heard a furious squabbling from their sister Patriot as it opened fire.
***
The faint but steady vibration of the platform beneath Scott’s feet changed in frequency and slowly dissipated to nothing. The platform dropped to the ground and slid to a stop, nearly throwing the engineer headfirst over the control panel. He surveyed the walls anxiously, searching for dangers while his mind simultaneously troubleshot what could have just happened.
Lyran troubleshooting, that was a joke, there was no way he was going to be able to reverse engineer a piece of alien roofing tin that could float under its own power and effortlessly transport a few tons of equipment anywhere on his command. Scott hopped off the platform and continued to check his surroundings. It had taken him most of the way, as far as he could tell, and a short run was easy enough.
He rounded the last corner that would take him from the outer extrusion back into the central body of the ship, below the landing bay and in front of the mass driver. Again the passage was dead silent with flowing walls, all white like a hospital. The hall was as large as the rest, nearly twenty meters wide and ten high; big enough to fit a passing armor division. Scott kept moving until an explosion in the wall to his right sent shrapnel in every direction and tossed him to the ground like a rag doll.
Through the thick clouds of black smoke, multiple Cygnans emerged from the hole, scanning to either side for targets. Lying motionless on the floor, Scott fought his pounding heart and screaming ears to figure out what had just happened and how he should react. Where is the commander? He asked himself and came to the inevitable conclusion that there’d be no one to save his life; it was up to him.
He was in the open. The aliens were close. The last thing he needed, Scott thought, was to let them surround him. Taking a deep breath, he swung his light machinegun around and burned a belt of ammunition lighting up the doorway, tearing apart the two leading alien soldiers before they could react and causing the remaining ones to retreat on the other side. Scott continued with short, successive bursts and carefully crawled about to his knees before sliding to the side.
The next turn was only another fifty meters or so farther down the corridor; a few more steps and Scott reasoned he could make a run for it. At that point, he’d at least have some cover or be able to retreat. He reached the side wall and fumbled with the pockets on the front of his armor, searching for a grenade, explosive, anything to keep the bloodthirsty creatures at bay a few seconds longer.
Scott found a small block of metal, pulled it out without looking closely, set the fuse and pitched the device towards the hole. He turned and with a final burst from his rifle, sprinted for the far wall. The concussive blast from the grenade knocked his brain hard inside his skull but he didn’t hear it over the sustained ringing and surging blood in his ears.
He reached the edge and threw himself around the corner as the first reprisal shots snapped at the floor and walls behind him. Scott rolled about and quickly ripped out and replaced the empty magazine in his rifle. More shots rang out towards his position as the Cygnans exploded forward, newly emboldened by the evolving situation.
Scott retrograded further, firing blindly behind him and hoping to find a better covered position from which to hold his attackers at bay. Nearing the next corner as he wound deeper into the ship, he rotated the lower launcher of the rifle through its multiple options, stopping at the hardened slug. He turned about and put his shoulder into the stock of the weapon while bracing himself against the next rounded corner.
The lead Cygnan burst around the facing corner in a long-striding run, not expecting or simply ignoring any resistance. Scott squeezed the trigger and saw the short-lived flash off the rifle’s muzzle reach halfway across the room. The shot entered the alien’s chest with a hole the size of the engineer’s thumb and ripped a square meter of flesh away from its back as it drove into the facing wall, graced by a wide, thick spray of dark, congealed blood and liquefied organs.
It hadn’t hit the ground before Scott had broken lock and was running once more. The aliens fell back, satisfied to bark and growl at each other in their foreign tongue and fire randomly into the corridor’s walls. He ran faster, covered the last few turns in the ship and found himself just a few meters outside from the probe bay. Scott sprinted the last few steps as the aliens closed in and got a few stray shots in above his head.
More of the deadly black rounds snapped off the floor over the rising blasts from the Cygnan weapons. Scott hammered down the door control, sealing him inside the ancillary facility. With the adrenaline surging, he looked over at the launcher, peppered with holes from the last few rifle bursts and leaking some sort of gas from a high pressure line.
The console control panel was unresponsive and only flashed a short series of alien symbols that Scott assumed to mean ‘catastrophic failure.’ The only directive that still stuck in his mind was to call for help. The launcher was the only option, so he threw the rest aside.
Ripping off the tattered front panel, Scott checked between the well-ordered but incomprehensible array of components that lay behind it. Most had survived, but a single pipe running along the top had a split down the side with a plume of gray gas billowing into the room. Wrapping his hand around the hole, he found the pressure was too high to stop on his own.
A sharp thud from the far side of the door spurred Scott to fix the system before they ran out of time. He spied the equipment bag he had brought along earlier and upended it, scattered the pile of tools in search of a clamp or anything to seal the gap. There was nothing so elegant among the drivers and small powered scopes but… he pulled out a heavy roll of black reinforced tape, emblazoned with yellow radioactive symbols.
“No…” he mumbled and stared back to the ruptured pipe. Really? Duct tape was the best he could do? That seemed so… unrefined but then again, there was a reason it was packed with the kit. It was rated to sufficiently seal a reactor leak on most Space Corps vehicles, thus the warning. Maybe it’d be good enough for Lyrans? Supposedly the doctors carried a version with red biohazard symbols to pack medical waste while underway.
Scott went with it and quickly wrapped up the hole, using every newton of his augmented, surviving strength to seal the breach and then cover it as far as he could in each direction. He dropped to the ground, exhausted, and heard the terminal switch to a diagnostic and return to the main screen once it was convinced of its own integrity.
He entered every parameter he could think into the probe’s registry and marked it for Earth, the only position left he could reliably find. With the press of one button, Scott heard a loud crunch as the probe was ejected from the ship in the hope it could find its way home. Within two seconds, the system cycled and loaded another into position i
n its place.
An explosion echoed outside the door, sending fragments of the frame flaking off while the vaporous hatch stayed in place. Scott knew it wouldn’t last long and looked around the room once more. There’d be no running or hiding this time. With no other options, he dropped to the floor and waited for the next hit. The door was already starting to fail, showing dim light and moving shadows through the thinning surface.
It flickered again and Scott dropped his trigger, lighting up the floor from frame to frame, shredding anything in his line of fire. More shots came back his way and he felt several impact hard against his back, but the suit held and he didn’t feel an injury worse than the initial stabbing pain of impact. The rifle ran dry and he dropped the magazine while reaching for a replacement.
Scott’s hands shook but instead of an intensified counterattack, he heard a resounding explosion of mechanical rifle fire echo down the hallway. He kept his head down while multiple Cygnans dove into the room with him to shield themselves from the unexpected assault from the rear. As each took hits, they fell to the floor, thrashing about and spraying dark blood in all directions while Scott struggled with the magazine on his own weapon.
From the dark and smoke-filled hallway emerged a figure dressed in red. Commander Grant’s weapons were loose, with an open breach on the M-14 and a massive pistol in his hand. Walking between the aliens, he executed each with a single round to the face.
Somehow the individual blasts at close range were sharper and louder than the rest and Scott flinched with each one. Grant finished and switched pistol magazines while the last brass shell pinged off the floor before rolling to a stop in the corner.
“Thanks” Scott managed as he cautiously got back to his feet.
“Don’t mention it; you’d do the same for me.” Grant said, replacing the pistol in the holster at his waist. “I figured you’d have made it back here by now.”
“How’d you get here so quick?”
“We cleared out the last of those shitbags in the lower right bay and I sent the rest of the guys up to take care of the command tower. Did you start locking doors?”
Scott nodded, “Yeah. I tried to keep them contained but they must have found explosives somewhere along the way to blow through them. I got the probe launcher working again and sent one back to Earth.”
“So they’ll know where we are?”
“I gave it the best position I could figure out plus our current situation. As long as the last Patriot is still back there, they should have no trouble finding us.”
“Well I hope you’re right. We’re not quite out of this one yet.”
“What do you mean?” Scott asked, afraid for the answer.
“There are a few more of them still in the main landing bay that didn’t follow the rest into the ship.”
“Why not?”
“From what I could see on the security monitors, they’re wearing some larger combat suits and couldn’t fit through the hole.”
“Are you sure? They had explosives with them.”
Grant shrugged, “Maybe they were being conservative. Or maybe they’re lying in wait for us. In either case I wouldn’t put it past them.”
Scott turned to the console behind him and brought up the security feed. As the commander had said, he could see at least eight aliens wearing large suits, shambling around the bay, moving their shuttles and equipment. “They’re building cover from an attack via the central hatch.”
“That sounds about right. I’d be willing to guess whatever they are planning can take down my fighter too. We might have to go in from the ground or not at all. Do you need anything else down here?”
“I don’t think so-“
“Then let’s get moving.” Grant interrupted Scott’s reply. “Don’t worry about these guys,” he added, gesturing to the pile of alien corpses beside him, “They aren’t going anywhere.”
“What about Major Kael?” Scott asked and the commander instantly stopped short without turning back.
“He’s not going anywhere either. We need to get out of this, and then I can worry about him. Those bastards need to pay for this.”
“Did he have anything to say? At the end?”
“Not now.” Grant stopped him again, “It’s complicated and it’s mine to figure out for the moment. If I need your insight, I’ll ask you. Stay alive now, philosophical vexations later.”
Scott nodded once more as the commander turned his back. “Yes, sir.” He added and caught up, walking in matched cadence to Grant. “What’s the plan from here?”
“I’m not real sure yet.” Grant admitted, “Hopefully Mason, Allen and the rest of them can take care of the rest of our infection. I really hope they have some ideas to take care of the landing bay.”
“The big question is just deploying enough firepower in there quick enough to take them out, right?”
“Exactly.” The commander confirmed, “I’m down to about twenty percent myself and I doubt these things will penetrate those suits, especially if they’ve got shields.”
“I talked to Sergeant Allen earlier. He said there were tanks on one of the lower decks.”
“I like the way you’re thinking, but that might be overkill. Those things are bigger than a city block and pack a smaller version of the deck guns outside.” Grant smirked when he saw Scott’s expression change. “I read the log entry on them a few days ago. There’re ramps that we can drop to get them to the bay, but even if we did, we’d risk letting them escape or doing just as much damage to the ship ourselves. If we had more time, I’d say we get trained up on them and give it a shot.”
“Is there anything smaller? The Lyrans stocked the few armories I’ve seen pretty well.”
Grant stared off to the side. “That…That might work. Kael and Mason found some stuff they could use, if I remember right. Maybe that’ll do.” He smiled again and looked over at the engineer. “If it goes to hell, I’ll let you break it out and finish them off with a tank.”
20
Another blast struck the side of the Patriot, sending Othello stumbling to the wall of the narrow corridor leading down into the battleship’s wing towards what should have been a gunnery station. They had lost two shuttles before the first landing and didn’t appear to be any better outside for the rest of their survivors.
The Patriot’s mass driver wasn’t nearly charged enough to fire and wouldn’t get an angle even if it could. The best Sebastian could do was trade fire with the immense Cygnan vessel and keep it occupied while the shuttles cycled through. At the rate they were going, they’d need at least three trips so Othello offered to try and provide additional firepower.
The station ahead was dark but otherwise seemed in working order. A cluster of terminals were lined up across from a series of wide screens on the wall like a miniature launch control facility. The miner took a seat at the center and pecked at the console, praying that something he did would be recognized as a legitimate command.
A moment later, as if the system had to make a laborious decision about whether to work, a dark screen appeared with a line of English text: “Main power plant offline. Enable emergency defense generators?” The line ended with yes/no buttons. Othello hit the confirmation without thinking twice and saw the lights flicker as a dull rumble rose to fill the room.
Whatever started running quickly fed a signal to the station and the walls of displays flickered to life, showing vast swaths of empty space outside and the two engaged battleships to the upper-right side. Othello briefly considered the fact that they had no way to maneuver and likely had minimal defensive shields remaining. The thought subsided while he fat-fingered his way through the screens and dropped a targeting reticle on the Cygnan ship filling the monitor. There was no way he could live with himself if he let Sebastian take the beating for him.
“Cap’n, I’ve got a couple working deck guns over here. Engaging.” He radioed out and pressed the now-active execute key. With a grinding rumble, the six cannons in range
slew into position and erupted in a booming echo of fire.
Othello watched the screens and saw the volley skip the hardened edge of the Cygnans’ leading shields and slam hard into the weakened rear quarter of the vessel. He pumped a fist in the air in celebration of the brief success and immediately waited for the progress bar at the bottom of the screen to recharge and fire again. It was a long six seconds as he watched the alien ship begin to react and rotate towards him.
“Come on, come on!” he growled, nervously tapping the disabled fire button until the emergency batteries recharged. Target warning sirens blared but he ignored them and continued to hammer down on the key. It activated and sent another six rounds streaking back at the rear corner of the advancing ship. Four glanced off the defensive shields but the last two made it through, drilling deep through its trailing edge and sending a thick, rich explosion spilling out into the surrounding space.
Simultaneously, another ten rounds struck from the right as Sebastian followed up with his own volley. The extra kick was enough to rupture the leading shields and send a wide ribbon of green particles floating outward as the field broke apart.
“That’s it, shields are down! Hit it again!” Sebastian yelled out, both at his crew and Othello in his makeshift position. The miner complied just as the Cygnans charged for another shot and put a wave of twenty high-powered rounds into the disabled Patriot, shredding its starboard wing and pounding into the already blown-out fuselage.
Othello flinched from the screen’s view and felt the ship rock hard again from the coordinated strike. As the uncompensated and unpowered Patriot floated back, five of the lower guns came into range and the miner hit the key again, sending another grouping at their attacker but not before they recharged for their own.
The follow-up hit took the lights down in the small station again and Othello barely saw his wingman rotate about for a crushing blow of his own. The shouts of ‘FIRE!’ from the rest of his survivors over the radio drowned out Sebastian’s countdown to the ignition of his mass driver, now able to charge since Othello drew their attention.
MissionSRX: Deep Unknown Page 22