Relics of Eternity (Duchy of Terra Book 7)

by Glynn Stewart

  “The Mesharom didn’t record much about this region because the central stars didn’t know anything. Ten billion people two hundred light-years away from the nearest Alava system. They weren’t out here because they liked how the Hegemony ran things.”

  “So, they might have been out here to do research and development the Hegemony didn’t like? Like biotech?”

  “From what we’ve encountered, almost certainly,” Dunst agreed. “My concern, though, Captain, is that they only reported the one system to the central archives. Population growth for the time frame we’re looking at suggests we should have seen a world of twelve to fifteen billion.

  “There were maybe two hundred million people on D-L-K-Six-Beta,” he told her. “So, ten-plus billion sentients were somewhere else. Different systems…or construction projects that called for billions of workers.”

  “Megastructures,” Morgan concluded with a sigh. “That appears to have been the Alava style from the moment they had enough resources to build the damn things.”

  “It does speak to something fundamental in their psyche, I think,” Dunst agreed. “But…more than megastructures, Morgan. Any Alava group is going to build something of a scale we’d regard as excessive and stupid. We saw that around Arjtal.

  “These people almost certainly built something like that…but they also appear to have left the Hegemony to work on research the Alava main culture would not permit.”

  “I’m not liking where that leads me, Dr. Dunst,” Morgan admitted.

  His response was interrupted by the chime announcing the waiters, probably coming to remove the plates. He exhaled a long sigh and nodded to her as they waited.

  No waiter materialized but the warning light was still on. Glancing at her companion, Morgan felt a chill of paranoia and rose to her feet.

  “Something’s wrong,” she told Dunst—and then was thrown from her feet as an explosion tore through the tube connecting them to the station.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Situation Threat-Actual, we have an active threat on Defiance-Actual.”

  “Merde.”

  Pierre’s response hung in the air of his office for several seconds as he processed the situation. Even as he was swearing and thinking, he was pulling up the map of Kosha Station and grabbing the location of his Captain and her protective Marine detail.

  “Lance Aniston, report,” he snapped. “What is going on?”

  “I’m not sure yet, sir,” his team leader, Lance Emily Aniston, replied. “The Captain and Dr. Dunst were in a secured dining room suspended in part of the station’s water supply. We had secured the entrance in cooperation with the restaurant, but it looks like we missed an explosive being carried by a waiter.

  “The access tube has been severed. Status reports for the dining room suggest it is maintaining integrity, but I’m assuming there is a second component to the attack and I’m attempting to locate the nearest entry point to the tank.”

  “Understood. I’ll have additional Marines on their way immediately,” Pierre replied swiftly. “Are you patched into Station Security?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re the ones—yes, I have the nearest entrance. I am requesting Station Security secure the restaurant, and we are moving to the tank.”

  “Move, Lance,” Pierre ordered. Leaving the channel open so Aniston could reach him if needed, he muted his side of it and started bringing up other channels.

  “Speaker Qadir, we are Threat Actual; are you in motion?” he asked the woman in charge of his Alpha-Three Platoon, the current ready detachment.

  “We are. Two squads are on the station in power armor and navigating to the restaurant and the water-reservoir access. One squad is reequipping for underwater combat and will follow under my command,” Qadir replied.

  That was the biggest problem they faced, Pierre knew. The bodyguards had breathers, but their plasma carbines wouldn’t function underwater without prior preparation. Only their stunners were waterproofed enough to function underwater.

  He hadn’t expected to have a firefight in the station’s water reservoirs, but he doubted whoever had just turned a waiter into a probably unknowing suicide bomber had expected that to be the end of the situation.

  “Standard armor-carried plasma guns will function,” Pierre noted. They’d only do so in one mode and it would be terrible for anything around them, but they’d work. “Send them in as soon as they have access. Our Captain is uncovered.”

  “They’re on their way, sir,” Qadir repeated. “But they knew this was coming and we didn’t.”

  “I know,” the Battalion Commander conceded. “En avant, Speaker.”

  He left that channel in the same semi-open status as his link to Aniston and switched to a third channel.

  “Captain Casimir, what is your status?” he demanded. He wasn’t sure she’d be able to answer him, but he had to at least try.

  There was no answer and he checked the scanners. The entire space his Captain had been eating in was secured against communications to stand bugs off. Even with Navy coms, she almost certainly couldn’t communicate out now that the hard link had been severed.

  “Comtois, take over the watch,” he ordered as he opened a new channel. “Defiance-Actual is dark and I am moving in myself.”

  “Is that wise, sir?” Comtois asked.

  “I don’t know, but our Captain is in danger, Company Commander,” he replied. “We will do everything we can. Begin scrambling the rest of the battalion for me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pierre strode purposefully to the half-closed bookshelf next to the plaque holding his ancestor’s sword and swung it open. The bottom shelves were missing, replaced with a weapons safe that readily yielded to his codes.

  None of the weapons in the safe were modern, but the twenty-second-century battle rifle his father had used for the Franco-German Army had the unique qualification of being a high-velocity battle rifle designed to function in any environment. Underwater had been third on the design criteria after regular combat and vacuum, but it had been considered.

  Even Pierre had thought keeping ammunition on hand for the obsolete antiques in that safe was being excessively paranoid—but he’d still done it.

  “Battalion Commander Vichy, this is Battalion Commander Addaka,” a new voice sounded in Pierre’s ears as he ran through the station. Qadir and her underwater-equipped Marines trailed in his wake, creating a large degree of chaos as twelve Marines set up for swimming and fighting underwater charged through the crowds.

  “Do you have sensors on my Captain, Addaka?” Pierre asked the Rekiki officer.

  “Not close-range, no. Someone has disabled the sensors in the fish farm tanks,” Addaka told him. “Other Station internal systems strongly suggest we’re looking at multiple divers in the tank, but it appears they’ve underestimated the restaurant’s security measures. That dining bubble is more heavily armored than it looks, and there’s a secondary security hatch that appears to be frustrating their efforts so far.”

  “Do you have anyone in there yet?” Pierre demanded. This was at least as much Station Security’s mess as his.

  “The farm tanks are somewhat intentionally hard to access,” Addaka said grimly. “A course for the herd that made sense at the time, I’m sure. It mitigates theft, but my divers have commented on it before. It appears that they were correct.”

  “If my people aren’t in the tank by the time I get there, we are going to start cutting walls,” Pierre warned.

  “With the blessings of the herd, Commander Vichy,” the Rekiki replied instantly. “There is an emergency retrieval mechanism for the dining pod as well. It has also been sabotaged, but my people believe they’ll have it online in a few minutes at most. The pod’s armor should hold that long.”

  “I don’t want to hang my Captain’s survival on should, Commander Addaka.”

  “I agree. Water Management is screaming at me, but I’m opening several portals that aren’t supposed to be opened.
Your people will have access.” The Rekiki paused. “And the fish will have an exit, but that’s tomorrow’s problem.”

  Directions popped up onto the HUD projecting to Pierre’s contacts. It was a different access route now, but one that would get his people into the water sooner and about the same distance through the water as before.

  “Thank you, Commander Addaka.”

  “I’d hurry, Vichy. We’re registering explosions in the tank, and I don’t know how long the bubble’s armor will hold.”

  “Sir, it’s Lance Aniston,” the NCO leading Casimir’s bodyguard cut in. “We’re in the tank and are engaging the hostiles. They appear to be shielded against stunners and used explosives to throw my people away. Everyone’s alive, but most of my team is injured, and I’m evacing two whose breathers have been damaged.

  “Without better gear, I can’t get to the Captain. I’m sorry, sir. There’s nothing my team can do except get shot.”

  “Understood, Lance,” Pierre replied. “Establish visual if you can and guide the relief teams in. We need to get the Captain out.”

  He muted all of his channels and stared down at his feet as he continued to run.

  “Merde.”

  Power armor could function underwater without problems, though the guns were more complicated. There were modules that could make it function underwater better, including everything from adding stabilizing fins to adding water jets to provide propulsion.

  The eleven suits of power armor with Pierre had managed the quick and dirty version of that. No one had expected to be needing to fight inside the station’s water reservoirs. Most of the time, almost everyone tended to forget that most stations and spaceships were something like thirty percent water by volume. It was required for life and it made a handy storage medium for both oxygen for breathing and hydrogen for the fusion reactors.

  And now his Captain was free-floating in those tanks while some connards were trying to kill her.

  Pierre’s power armor hadn’t been fitted out with the underwater gear, so he hadn’t even bothered to grab it. He had grabbed an unpowered underwater deployment ensemble and had been strapping it on as he ran, with some help from Qadir.

  By the time they reached the access point and he dove in, he had the same stabilizing fins and water jets as his Marines. He was far less armored than they were, but he suspected that the sixty-year-old slugthrower he was carrying was a far better underwater weapon than a plasma gun.

  The water was cold and Pierre was wishing he had his armor even before he was fully submersed. Regardless of his desires, he turned on the water jets and shot forward toward a navpoint projected on the faceplate of the breathing helmet.

  Icons told him the Marines were right behind him, their more powerful jets offset by the far greater mass of the armor.

  “Form on the Commander,” he heard Qadir order. “Watch your fire. Even on these settings, the corona of the plasma beams is a lot worse down here and your range is much shorter than you think.”

  The irony of potentially being vaporized by his own men not being careful enough wasn’t lost on Pierre, and he listened to Qadir’s unspoken suggestion, falling back into the formation so the Marines with plasma guns weren’t shooting past him.

  “Commander, this is Addaka.” The Rekiki security officer—also an Imperial Marine, despite his current ignominious role—cut into Pierre’s feed. “We have the retrieval mechanism working, but it looks like the attackers might be nearly through the armor.

  “We’re almost out of time. I show you on the edge of the tanks; I’m dropping targeting icons to your team. I can’t guarantee they’ll work, but I know you need to start shooting now.”

  Eight amorphous red blobs appeared on Pierre’s faceplate, each marking a heat signature that he was too far away to pick out himself. Hopefully, the station computers weren’t setting them up to accidentally blast the Captain with plasma.

  “Marines, we have targets. Fire at will!”

  He lined the rifle up carefully, surprised when the breathing helmet managed to interface with the obsolete weapon’s computers. He knew damn well he was out of practice with a projectile rifle, but he also didn’t think the plasma beams were going to make it.

  He didn’t compensate for the recoil well enough on the first shot and fell farther back among his Marines as they charged forward. New heat icons for the plasma beams were confusing what limited sensors he had, and he focused on the targets Addaka was giving him.

  The second shot was perfect. So was the third. The fourth was a bit off, but Pierre was in a rhythm now. Single shots at the center of the targets, using the jets to close the range and not even worrying about hitting his Marines.

  There was no way an Earth-built, pre-Annexation, slugthrower was even going to scratch his people’s armor. It was going to do a lot worse to the poor bastards he was shooting at.

  He was most of the way through a thirty-round magazine when Addaka came back on the coms.

  “We have the pod and it’s moving to retrieval,” the Rekiki reported. “I’ve sent the location to your non-underwater-equipped Marines; they’ll be more useful there. Pod integrity is holding; I think you might have got them all, Battalion Commander.”

  “We’ll move in and make sure,” Pierre replied, shaking himself from his shooting zen state. “Qadir, did we take any return fire?”

  “A bit, but more like your toy than anything that can threaten the suits,” she said. “I’m not showing motion larger than a fish; I think we’re clear.”

  “Move in and secure the pod,” he ordered. “Relay me targets if you tag anything. I suspect this toy is more effective in this environment.”

  Qadir chuckled.

  “I’m pretty sure we killed a lot more fish than you did, sir,” she replied. “But…you’re probably right when it comes to actual terrorists.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The dining room chamber shivered around them as Morgan regained consciousness. Her head was pounding and she was cataloging concussion symptoms half-consciously as she forced herself to her knees.

  “Rin?” she asked. It was dark except for flashes of light in the distance. Plasma fire. The hell?

  “I’m here,” he told her. “I want to know who manufactured this dining room for the sushi restaurant. I believe I want to buy shares.”

  “What?” she demanded, blinking away dizziness.

  “My com says you’ve been out for just over five minutes,” he said. “We need to get you to a doctor; that’s not a good sign for a head injury.”

  “No shit. What’s happening?”

  “Someone detonated a bomb in the access tube,” Dunst told her, his distracted voice suggesting that Morgan wasn’t the only one who’d need a doctor. “Then half a dozen individuals showed up outside with what are either plasma cutters or short-ranged underwater plasma guns and have been trying to open us up like a can of fish.”

  Morgan suddenly realized she was wet. The floor of the bubble was covered in a layer of water several centimeters deep.

  “They have failed so far, but I don’t think that’s going to last much longer,” he told her. “Despite the state I was in when your Marines first encountered me, I am not particularly good with weapons and did not bring one. I’m afraid we are in some trouble.”

  There were definitely flashes of light closer in, too. Morgan could just make out shadowy figures carrying weapons through the transparent windows, but the plasma wasn’t directed at them.

  “So are they,” she said with some satisfaction, then winced as her head pounded again. “Two sets of flashes of light tells me the Marines are here, so these guys are—”

  One of their attackers slammed bodily into the pod, their flailing body smearing a long streak of blood across the transparent armor.

  “Fucked,” Morgan concluded. That hadn’t been a plasma beam; those self-cauterized. What had they been shot with?

  An echoing bong washed over the chamber, an impact that drew h
er attention to the entrance hatch. The hologram that had covered it was gone now, revealing a solid metal wall with an extra security hatch over the exit. It appeared that it was the connection between that wall and the “glass” of the rest of the pod that was now slowly leaking.

  “We’re moving,” Dunst told her. “I doubt your inner ear is entirely functional, but I think we just got grabbed by something.” He looked out. “The shooting seems to have stopped and we appear to be being rescued, but given today’s events, I have to ask: are you carrying a weapon?”

  “Yes.” Morgan drew her plasma pistol and stared down at its vague, blurry shape. “I see two of them, so I probably shouldn’t be firing it, but I have a gun.”

  “May I, Morgan?” Dunst asked, holding out a hand.

  Morgan nearly dropped the gun passing it to him and forced a chuckle.

  “Definitely looks like you’re going to be the better shot,” she agreed, her words audibly slurred even to her. “And I’m not a great shot to begin with. Set for max disp, max fire.”

  Maximum dispersion, maximum rate of fire. The gun wasn’t set up to do much against power armor, but it would act as an automatic plasma shotgun at close range.

  “I didn’t know that was an available setting,” Dunst said faintly. “Thank you. Now stay upright,” he ordered firmly, one hand suddenly against the small of her back. “We might be rescued, but this pod is filling fast and we can’t wait once we make contact.”

  “There’ll be more,” Morgan told him. “I wouldn’t…only send one batch of assassins.”

  “I’m no tactician, but I was expecting much the same,” the archeologist agreed. “That’s why I asked for the gun.”

  She chuckled.

  “You might have already earned that second date,” she slurred at him.

  “That’s a future conversation, I think,” he told her. “Let’s get out of this alive first.”