#
By the time Kismet yanked a pair of molecular-circuitry storage crystals out of the data center’s systems, it was very clear they were not leaving the way they came.
The Terrans were no more willing to wreck the data center than the raiders had been, and with only one door, it was easy to keep them away from the one door—but the door also limited Edvard’s people’s field of fire and was allowing the Terrans to sneak right up to the entrance.
“Each of these crystals has everything,” the tech told Edvard, handing him one. “One of us gets out of here, El-Maj, or all of this was for nothing.” She glanced around. “What we do know?”
“We go down,” Edvard replied. “Since we have what we need—blastcord on the floor and take cover!”
A circle of blastcord—a length of preshaped high-explosive charges designed for basically this purpose—was thrown on the floor and the Federation troops took cover behind the crystalline stalagmites of the data center’s molecular computers.
“Fire in the hole!”
The room shook as the explosives went off and Edvard found himself dragged forward by iron-hard hands and all but thrown down the hole. Kismet was the only one in front of him, carefully balancing herself as she gestured at a map only she could see.
“This way, sir,” she announced as the rest of the black-ops troopers dropped down behind them.
“Any chance of linking up with the Marines?”
“Still jammed,” Riley told him. “We need to meet up physically—hell, we don’t even know where they are.”
And so long as they were jammed, they couldn’t relay their data back to Chameleon or the Federation. Until they reached the shuttles and their Q-Coms, this all remained for nothing.
“Then let’s move,” he ordered.
#
They made it almost halfway back to the shuttle bay before they ran into the Terrans again. Despite the overwhelming jamming, the station defenders clearly had their own communications working as the raiders ran headlong into a barricade—with emplaced heavy weapons.
Their entire front team went down in a spray of fire as three tripod-mounted machine guns opened up, filling the corridor with streams of high-velocity penetrators. Overkill against the light armor they were wearing—enough to not merely go through Kismet’s armor but also through the storage crystal she was carrying.
Edvard found himself slammed bodily into a wall by a cursing Riley, out of the line of fire as her people ducked backward to safety.
“Stay down, sir,” she snapped. “You’re now carrying the only copy of that data we have. Do not get shot.”
He spent a second reviewing what he had seen of the barricade. Portable neutronium-coated barriers—with built-in mass manipulators to make them easier to carry and harder to move when placed—blocked the entire corridor. Slits in the barriers showed little more than the barrels of the machine guns.
“We are not going that way,” he said quietly. “Give me a moment.”
He pulled up the map Kismet had hacked out of the systems in the flight bay control room, looking for another way back to the bay. This was the fastest route, but there were other ways.
“We need to go back,” Edvard ordered. “About twenty meters, then if we swing right, there are three other ways we can get back to the shuttle bay.”
“Make it happen, people,” Riley barked, gesturing for their rear guard to about-face.
They’d barely started moving before their original pursuers arrived. Battle-armor rifles spat more penetrators.
“We’re trapped,” Riley said grimly. “Close up, everyone! Shoot anything that moves and isn’t us!”
Edvard studied their situation grimly. They had about four meters of corridor in which they weren’t going to come under fire, but if they went either way, they ran into enemies with heavier armor and heavier gear.
They’d started the assault with forty of Riley’s black-ops cyborgs.
Including the two officers, they had sixteen people left. Presumably, the cyborgs intended for covert ops couldn’t be traced back to the Federation, but the losses hurt.
“We’re out of options, Edvard,” Riley said quietly. “You have to get back with that data crystal. We’re going to have to blow a hole in that forward barricade.”
“That’s a frontal assault,” he hissed. “It would be suicide.”
“Yes,” she said flatly. “But we can break them open and get you through to where the Marines have hopefully set up their beachhead. My people have to be the rear guard anyway, Edvard. You know what we have to do.”
Edvard spent several precious seconds staring at her in horror. She was right, but he couldn’t—couldn’t let her do it.
Except…
“I cannot let my personal feelings compromise my professional judgment,” he whispered.
“No,” she agreed, holding his gaze. Everything they both wanted to say was in their eyes, but this wasn’t the place or time.
“Do it,” he ordered, his voice harsh.
“Form up, people,” Riley snapped loudly. “We’re going forward and punching a hole! Last of our smoke grenades first, then follow them up with real grenades. We know where they left the holes in that neutronium bullshit, so put grenades through them.
“You can do this,” she said softly after a pause. “We knew what we’d signed on for.” She glanced around, probably realizing that there was some kind of recording most likely going on, and replaced whatever she’d been ready to finish her little speech with: “Vae victis!”
Two of the troopers stayed with Edvard, following some unseen signal from Riley to keep him out of trouble. The rest threw their grenades and charged.
Without the eye implants the cyborgs possessed, he couldn’t see through the smoke—but neither could the Terrans. There was a reason Riley’s people were down to their last set of smoke grenades.
He heard the grenade explosions, followed by one long, ear-tearing burst of fire from a single heavy machine gun and a chaotic flurry of gunshots from rifles and carbines. He itched to lunge forward, but Riley was right: this was her job.
“All right, move up!” he heard her bark.
He and his two escorts charged through the dispersing smoke toward the mobile barricade. One of the barriers was completely wrecked, thrown forward onto the ground when its mass manipulators had been shredded and shorted out.
There was no way that super-heavy panel of compressed matter was moving, but the remaining barricades still covered over half of the corridor. Riley and her people were behind them, waiting for Edvard and his escorts.
He was only halfway to the barrier when the floor started the distinct rumble of charging troops in battle armor. He was being pursued.
One of the heavy machine guns was still intact, however, and opened fire as the pursuing Marines rounded the corner into range.
“Get in here!”
Edvard wasn’t going to argue. He charged forward, keeping his head down as the machine gun fired several more times, suppressive bursts to keep the Terrans back.
There were a lot fewer people on the other side of the barricade than he’d hoped. Including Riley, only four of the fourteen black-ops troopers who’d charged the barricade were still up.
The full twenty-man squad of Marines, with battle armor, fixed defenses and heavy weapons that had tried to stop them was shredded, bodies tossed where they’d fallen. Some had even gone down to close-range monomolecular blades—and Edvard tried not to notice that Riley was the only one with the shortsword–like weapon out.
“They’re not going to slow down,” she said grimly. “You’re not making it back without a rear guard.”
“They have numbers, battle armor, and heavy weapons,” he objected. The only way Riley could slow the Commonwealth Marines down was by making them take the time to kill her, an option he was unwilling to accept.
“I have neutronium barricades, plenty of ammunition, and a heavy machine gun,” Riley said with a
smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Taylor, Madison, escort the El-Maj back to the launch bay,” she continued sharply. “We’re out of time and out of options, boss. Go.”
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. He wasn’t apologizing for leaving her behind.
“Make it back, Edvard. Make it worth it.”
“I will,” he promised.
“Good. Now go!”
#
The two black-ops troopers clearly thought they were going to have to physically hustle Edvard along. Once he’d made the decision to leave Riley behind, however, he almost left them behind.
They were physically augmented—but he was in better shape than they were around the implants. They caught up quickly enough, but he found a tiny amount of amusement in leaving them behind even for that instant—and anything remotely positive was hard to find right now.
The machine gun opened fire again moments after they left, now with rifles and carbines adding to the chaos as the last handful of men and women from the two squads they’d launched the assault with did their best to hold the line.
The sound faded as they pushed toward the outside of the station, and Edvard could only hope it had faded due to distance. He kept expecting to run into the forward elements of the beachhead his Marines were supposed to be putting up—the silence and empty corridors as they drew closer to the shuttle bay were worrying.
When they turned a corner and ran headlong into a trio of Terran Marines, it was almost a relief to see anyone. He and his escorts opened fire first, dropping two of the Marines before they could react—but the third’s armor held against even the anti-armor rounds, and they returned fire.
Madison went down before Edvard and Taylor’s fire punched through the Marine’s armor, the short exchange of violence sending adrenaline pumping through the Lieutenant Major’s veins—enough to allow him to drop to the floor as another fire team of Terrans swept into the corridor, following the sound of the guns.
One went down under Edvard’s fire—but Taylor went down under theirs. Edvard twisted his weapon, trying to get it to bear on the two remaining Marines, only to run out of ammunition as he dropped a bead.
He didn’t have time to grab another magazine, and for a moment, he knew he was going to die and render Riley’s sacrifice worthless.
Then the resounding noise of a series of full battle rifles opening up echoed down the corridor. Both of the Marines about to shoot Edvard spasmed as heavy penetrators punched in through the back of their armor and failed to leave through the front.
“Sir, is that you?” Rothwell bellowed. The demoted Sergeant was leading a fire team forward—something Edvard suspected was above the rank he’d left the bully, but he wasn’t complaining at the moment.
“Looking for my armored beachhead,” Edvard told the big man as he rose to his feet and checked the integrity of the data crystal. To his uneducated eye, it looked intact. It had to be intact.
“You found us,” the Marine replied. “Communications suck; we’re having problems holding an intact perimeter.”
“I have what we came for,” Edvard told him. “We’re falling back to the shuttles; I’ll need your team to escort me and pass the word as we go.”
“Yessir!” Rothwell answered, crisp and professional on the battlefield, his commander noted. He paused. “Where’s the rest of Charlie Platoon?” he asked.
“They aren’t coming.”
#
Chapter 44
Tau Ceti System
20:15 June 21, 2736 Earth Standard Meridian Date/Time
Scimitar-Type Starfighter “Strike Actual”
Chameleon’s reduced acceleration would have been blood in the water to any nearby enemy or pirate within half a star system, normally. With Shipyard Alpha spinning slowly toward annihilation, however, only the one formation of starfighters was chasing the Q-ship.
“They do see us coming, right?” Alvarado asked.
“Oh, they see us,” Russell agreed. “And they’re not going to let us shoot at them unopposed, but their target is Chameleon. They know that if they take her out, we’re trapped here for the rest of the squadrons to chase down.”
“So we stop them,” the gunner said with a confidence Russell hoped he actually felt.
“Exactly,” he agreed. “Range in forty seconds, Rauol. Punch every missile we have down their throats, no reserves, no games. This play’s for the ride home.”
Churchill’s Katanas had settled into a defensive shield between Chameleon and the approaching Scimitars. They’d stop some missiles if Russell’s strike force couldn’t knock out the entirety of Bogey Delta, but they couldn’t stop a full salvo from forty Scimitars.
“Our third salvo will hit after they launch,” Alvarado warned him. “Should we redirect it after their missiles?”
Russell ran the numbers in his implant, studying the geography as the three groups of ships approached each other.
“No,” he finally said. “Our intercept chances would be atrocious; we’re better off making sure Delta doesn’t get a second salvo into space.”
Alvarado didn’t respond, but the firing plan he transferred to Russell for review a few moments later had all of their remaining missiles targeted at the fighters in front of him.
With a thought, the Wing Commander approved it and flashed it out to the other twenty-four fighters remaining in his flight.
“Launch in fifteen seconds,” his gunner confirmed.
Russell nodded silently, his mind linked into the starfighter as he studied the threat environment. While it wouldn’t make any difference to the survivability of his fighters, Delta would be a rare commander if he didn’t take a shot back at the Federation force.
“Launching,” Alvarado announced. A moment later: “Enemy has also launched.”
“How crippled do you think Chameleon is, I wonder?” Russell murmured. If Delta thought Chameleon was out of the fight—a frankly accurate assessment—he’d fire three of his available salvos at Russell’s people, use his last to overwhelm Churchill’s squadron, and take the Q-ship with lances. If he thought Chameleon was capable of defending herself, he wouldn’t spend more than one salvo on Russell.
“Second salvo,” the gunner announced. “No enemy response.”
Russell breathed a sigh of relief. A single salvo could hurt his force but couldn’t wipe them out. Even one follow-up wave, in the teeth of defenses weakened by the first salvo, would seriously threaten his command with annihilation.
“Third salvo in space,” Alvarado announced. “First salvoes are one hundred twenty-six seconds from impact. Bogey Delta is one hundred forty-five seconds from launch range on Chameleon.”
If everything broke right, they would never make it to that range.
A link flickered to life from Chameleon over the Q-Com link.
“We have a status change on the Marines, CAG,” Chownyk reported. “Shuttles are breaking free and beginning their return flight. We show them as clear of Delta’s firing arc until after Delta can fire on us, but watch their vectors, Rokos.”
“Understood,” Russell replied, watching the new data filter into his feed—and spotting the shift in Delta’s formation.
“Delta is splitting off a flight team to go after the shuttles,” he warned.
“Do we redesignate as primary targets?” Alvarado asked.
“No,” Russell replied. “We can’t.”
If his missiles took out the starfighters aiming for the shuttles, that was a win. If he took them out but failed to take out the ones firing at Chameleon, that was an instant loss.
“Churchill,” he pinged Alpha Squadron’s commander. “Watch that breakaway flight team. You should be able to put a salvo on them before they can range on the shuttles.”
He considered for a long moment. “Equal priority to defending Chameleon,” he said softly. “The Marines deserve that much.”
“Wilco,” Churchill replied. “I won’t mind if you make all of this irrelevant, boss.
Killing them all would be real handy.”
“I’ll see what I can do!” Russell replied, shaking his head. The counters ticked down inside his implants, and time was running out.
Waves of jamming flashed out from groups of starfighters, trying to confuse and overwhelm the relatively simple minds of the small missiles. Russell led his people into the swirling, spiraling mess of a “formation” mastered long before by his veteran pilots, one that made the ECM even more effective by crossing courses and engine streams to confuse the targeting sensors again.
Then the lasers reached out and Russell activated his lance, sweeping the weapon across chunks of space and firing pulses of antimatter through space at the incoming missiles.
Both missile salvos were lit up in space now by the fiery sparks of gigaton explosions as the leading weapons came apart under the fire. Every second saw a dozen missiles die—and the survivors draw closer, flying faster and faster toward their prey.
Russell could feel the inexperience of the gunners and engineers running his defenses—and was prayerfully grateful he’d left most of the new pilots with Churchill. They danced around the jammers, the decoys and the chaff, a swarm of deception and overwhelming radiation that was almost enough.
Almost.
The last explosions tore through his formation, each marking the final resting place of another trio of his people.
The Terrans had sent a hundred and twenty missiles at twenty-five starfighters and killed nine of his ships. A painful toll, one Russell knew he was going to feel later, but one that still left him with sixteen ships’ worth of people to shepherd home.
The Terrans were more familiar with their ships. All of their engineers and gunners were fully linked in. They were facing fewer missiles each—only a hundred missiles against forty starfighters. They had every advantage over Russell’s people…except the hard-forged experience of the veterans that still made up two thirds of his crew.
They only lost eight ships to his nine, but that was more than they should have. Russell’s second wave crashed down on them with their squadron networks fragmented, their brothers bloodied for the first time in battle.
Q-Ship Chameleon Page 30