by Ben Wilson
If I do that, then I'll be a prisoner of war. Eventually I'll be exchanged, and my father will be proven right. I'll return home in shame—even if he will let me return. I chose to be a marine. I have to fight as a marine.
He knew there was only one thing he could do. He would have to save the fleet. He took a moment to straighten his tunic. He opened the hatch and walked back onto the bridge. He confidently strode over to Bence. Almost reflexively, he drew his service pistol from its holster. He aimed at Bence's head and pulled the trigger. The incident happened so slowly as the adrenalin kicked in. Bence fell slowly as Litovio's reactions and senses quickened.
Once Bence's body landed on the deck, Litovio turned to the bridge guard who was starting to react. “You heard him. He made me the fleet commander. Do you want to get out of this alive?”
The guard relaxed. After a moment's hesitation he nodded his assent.
“The loss of an admiral is what makes a massacre. I guess this makes it a massacre. Somebody get this carcass off my bridge.” He turned to face the display. “Out the airlock, if I see that carcass again heads will roll.”
His focus on the display intensified such that whenever the body was removed he did not notice. He studied the Navy formation, looking for the fissures. “We need to identify the jump ship and target painters. Which one of these looks like—” He looked around the bridge. “Get over here. I'm not going to pick targets.” He put his hand on his service pistol.
The officers reluctantly came over to the display.
Litovio started barking orders. “You, identify the jump ship. You, look for interdictors. Find the target painters.”
“What—” one of them started to ask.
“Painters are going to be near the center of squad formations. Interdictors are going to be faster moving ships looking for gaps in our formation to cut through us and hit targets of opportunity. The jump ship will be the most protected.”
One of the officers pointed at the display. “This is a painter?”
Litovio followed the finger. “Yes. Feed those targets to the cruisers and order them to target the closest ones.” He debated explaining that painters helped improve targeting in fleet actions. He decided not to waste the time, especially as it could lead to a question and answer session.
The officers started issuing orders. The first target painting ship winked off the display. The officer's confidence jumped and he started tapping targets faster.
Litovio turned to the communications officer. “Tell the fleet to break formation. They've got us in the focal point of their firepower. We need to make them split up. Break them into squads.” The more he studied the map, the more he realized it was a hopeless fight. He was determined to do as much damage as he could before the first postal fleet in existence was exterminated. He smiled as he watched the Postal fleet start to break ranks chaotically. The Navy fleet will need a few beats to adjust to a disorganized action. Maybe that will buy us enough time to find the key ships and take them out. “All we need is a miracle.”
* * *
Bophendze - Tannenberg System
Bophendze's thrusters continued to accelerate him toward the closing battleship. The HUD showed that he was traveling at 18.026 meters per second, then the thrusters cut off. The feeling of weightlessness returned and he stopped clinching his teeth. Then he realized he had no idea how large the battleship actually was, so he would not know how close he was getting to the monster of a spaceship. To make matters worse, he realized he had no idea how to stop. His anger mixed with panic.
Are you ready to listen to me now?
“What, now you show up?”
Fancy that. I see you want revenge. I can help.
Bophendze did not notice the mechanical nature of Smee's voice. “Right now I want to know how to stop. I'm going to slam right into it.”
More than likely, it is going to slam into you. Larger things do the slamming. Smaller things get slammed.
“Is now really the time to argue over semantics?”
Every event is a teachable moment.
“Yeah, well can we postpone the lesson? That thing is getting bigger.”
No. That battleship is getting closer. It is not growing.
“Enough with the word games. Help!”
Bophendze's fingers uncontrollably worked the controls on his left bracelet at the same time he twisted himself around. The suit's jets fired slowing Bophendze to a near stop.
“Thanks.”
The jets continued firing, sending Bophendze away from the battleship.
“Wait. Where are you going?”
Silly human. That battleship has a course, I put you on a real intercept course.
The suit's HUD lit up. Two faint red lines formed a narrow ‘V’ with the apex pointing toward the battleship. As Bophendze looked around, the lines adjusted. He tried to follow the ‘V’ to its end, when he noticed a much smaller, green ‘V’.
Those are the two courses. The battleship is that big red line and the green one is you. You'll see that the two of you will be coming together in about four beats. Had you kept going in the direction you were going, then you would be mush in less than a beat.
Then how do I board?
Isn't this your plan?
Bophendze thought for a moment. He saw the battleship's main guns fire a volley at the postal fleet. Those guns, how big are they?
They are 720 millimeter. Wait, are you going to go down the tube?
I've been around guns like that for months now. Even with this suit I should be able to make my way down, right?
I don't like how you say ‘should.’ Nobody should be going down an angry gun tube. It's one thing to perform maintenance on one of those, but quite another to try to go down the tube in combat. In case you haven't realized, the breech-end of that gun will be reloading right about now. Any second it will fire another volley.
“Then time the volley. It has to be operating at maximum firepower. I need to dive down the tube when it's reloading.”
Right.
After a beat Smee spoke again.
It's about twenty seconds between volleys. Are you quite certain you want to do this?
Bophendze tried to clear his head for a moment to think it through. As he did, he started to feel more panic. He knew what he was doing was suicide. He had to reassure himself. I'm not supposed to die today.
What, did your birth certificate have an expiration date? How do you know you're not going to die?
Because I'm here, flying at just under eight meters per second in what has to be the biggest fleet battle in the history of postal marines. Makaan should have killed me, I should have died on the Spaka or with Angel or with my team.
The ‘I'm-not-dead-yet’ theory of survival? Puppet, you are insane.
Smee tapped a bit more on Bophendze's suit controls. Their flight path changed, helping Bophendze line up with the aft gun.
The battleship's guns fired again as Bophendze closed. He flew through the muzzle flash as it dissipated, then grabbed the muzzle itself to adjust his course. He shot down the tube. He saw a light at the other end as he traveled through the tube. He only had a few meters to cover and less than fifteen seconds. He realized the firing cycle did not have the breach open all the time. Bophendze felt the fear wash out of his body. He trusted Smee's timing. He knew he would never be alone.
* * *
Smee - Ŝipfarejio - 109 Years Ago
Smee was tired of being followed. For the past three cycles, he worked to evade whoever it was tailing him. But the pursuer was unshakable. Smee decided the best way to deal with a tail this good was directly. He reached the alley and began walking down it.
The alley ended in a dead end. Three buildings formed the end. Smee did not worry about whether the doors were locked. They were. He did not worry that he had no means of escape. Neither did his pursuer. Smee might have been followed, but he was not prey. He was the predator.
It took a few beats for his pursuer to mak
e his way down the alley. Smee took note that this was not a foolish man. He was prudent and cautious. He had managed to thwart Smee's efforts to slip away. Not a man to be underestimated.
Smee smiled. He was not a human. He had a human shell, but he was a machine. Capable of lightening reflexes, able to read the threat before the threat had fully deduced its own action. Whoever was coming down that alley would certainly underestimate him. That was his advantage, being misunderestimated.
“There's no reason to take your time. It's just the two of us.” Smee tried not to sound too taunting.
A beat later, the pursuer came within view. “There's also less reason not to take my time.” The pursuer looked around. “Nice location you've chosen, Sirom.”
Smee laughed.
Does he not know who I really am? Or is he showing respect for the dead?
I guess we'll both just have to find out.
“It serves its purpose. I take it you're not out for a leisurely stroll.”
“No more than you are. I suppose you heard about the Manticore trials.”
Smee was confused. “I really haven't paid attention?”
“We have. We never thought Macrodyn would come through with the winning design. After all we did. My clients were quite astonished. When you knew the process was rigged, you still competed. You should know the rule is never mess with another corporation's done deal.”
“It must not have been a done deal if Macrodyn won.”
The pursuer sniffed. “Manticore was a battle, Sirom. You've ignited a war.”
“The coup?”
A shaking head. “I don't know what you're talking about. This is no coup. This is open war. Cel-Tainu will ravage Macrodyn before we're done. We have more assets, more resources.”
“If you did, then why did you come alone? Why not bring a friend?”
“Who said I didn't?”
That moment, Smee felt a debilitating shock. He dropped to the ground, convulsing. Before he could get control of Sirom's body, he felt his arms being bound behind him. A rope then tied his legs at the ankles and then pulled the ankles close to his wrists. Once he had regained motor control, he was properly bound.
“You think this is some kind of a game?”
A boot in the stomach.
Smee laughed. “Beat me all you want. You'll get nothing from me but laughter and taunts.”
After all, I'm not the one who will be feeling it.
You know what's happening, right?
Yes. They are going to kill The Prophet for stealing their business. Then, they're going to systematically destroy your family by destroying its company. They may not pull it off in a generation, but I'm sure Cel-Tainu will be thorough about it. Who do you think they'll send?
Several beats later, Ryante, BertinRyante Bertin walked into view.
Ah, they sent Bertin, the member of Cel-Tainu who nearly cut us out of the competition. How poetic. I'm almost weapy with nostalgia.
“Late as usual, Ryante?” Smee said.
“I arrive when the time is appropriate. I'm sure my associate here explained what's going on?”
“Yes. Yes he did. I'm about to die, and my family will eventually go down in flames.”
Smee, you don't have to be so cavalier. You'll be dead, too.
No. Actually, I won't be dead. I'm a computer, you moron. When's the last time you updated your will?
Not for years.
Thirty-four days ago, to be exact. Well, you didn't update your will. I did. Your young granddaughter is about to inherit a very special gift from grandpa. She's not even potty trained yet.
How dare you?
“Ryante, you might as well get it over with,” Smee said.
Bertin took the pistol from his associate. He aimed carefully. Smee thought the gun shook too much for Bertin to be comfortable shooting. Or perhaps he was uncomfortable killing?
Chapter
Bophendze - Tannenberg System
Bophendze raced down the gun tube to the gun's breech. A few meters out, he saw the charge bags had been dropped. Bophendze knew the projectile would be next—a fin-stabilized, phased-plasma warhead. Technology that had been perfected on. These warheads were armor-piercing capped, but carried a plasma injector that assisted the penetration. Having worked on cruisers, he knew if he saw the warhead dropped into place it would be too late for him.
Instead, the charge bag proved to be a bit of a landing cushion. He slammed into it, the armor's HUD dutifully taking off a couple percentage points of remaining available armor. Why does the armor show total body when the damage was to the head and shoulders?
The thought was left as an orphan. Bophendze looked up to see the projectile hatch opening. In a moment it would roll into place, which happened to be right where he was. He rolled and fell to the deck. A couple seconds later, the projectile dropped into place. Bophendze remained on the deck until it fired.
The detonation was surprisingly quiet inside the gun itself, though much louder than the silence of space. Smee started displaying a timer in Bophendze's vision marking the seconds until the next round fired.
Why couldn't you have done that before I went down the breech?
Picky, picky. Where's your rifle?
Bophendze lifted his hands up and looked at the empty palms. He thought back and realized where the rifle was. Back on the shuttle. That could be a problem.
You think? You've just boarded a hostile battleship. There should be about 1,500 officers and crew—and you left your rifle at home. What chance does a single, unarmed infantry marine have on a battleship?
We'll just have to find out, won't we? It's too late now. I'll just get one on the ship. The Navy uses the FACR, right?
Bophendze started to scan the gun room. Like the Postal Marines, the Navy chose not to automate critical parts of the ship. The gun room was one of them. There were six crewmen, all of whom looked at Bophendze with a mix of shock and amazement. Unlike Bophendze, none were in combat armor. Combat armor that boosted the wearer's effective strength and gave him certain hard points for unarmed combat. They were soft targets. Weak targets.
Without thinking, Bophendze moved into action. He closed on the nearest gunner and hit him in the jaw with an armored left hook. The gunner fell to the floor unconscious. Bophendze then sprinted to the gunner nearest the intercom. He crouched at the last moment, then launched himself into the gunner. His helmet cracked the gunner's skull as the body check shoved the gunner into the bulkhead.
Bophendze inspected the inert gunner and found a holstered pistol. He drew the pistol and chambered a round. He then took aimed shots at each of the other four crewmen. As he did, the battleship's guns fired another volley, masking his pistol shots. He then went over to the gunner he hooked and fired a round into his head.
“That should keep anybody from calling for help.” As he said the words, he thought back over the short melee. Smee, how much of this was you?
How much? None. I'm impressed—shocked, actually. I never knew you had it in you.
Thanks for the vote of confidence. He popped the magazine out of the pistol to count the rounds. Four remained, plus the one in the chamber. He went back over to who had to have been the lead gunner and patted him down. Rats. No more ammo. Let's just hope we're near a gun locker.
Not that it will help you much. Lockers have locks.
Bophendze took the holster belt off the gunner and put it on. Yes, but they're guarded, right? The guard is holding my next gun.
Smart. I'm going to have to reconsider your worthiness. I don't recognize the battleship's design. If it follows design standards of its era, there should be a gun locker just forward of this gun.
Bophendze opened the hatch carefully and scanned the passage. Seeing nobody, he slipped out of the gun room. Using the passage marking as a guide, he quietly made his way forward to where the passage made a turn. At the turn there was an open hatch. Just beyond it was another that was closed. Good call. That's the magazine. There should b
e a locker there.
They've closed the hatch, but there will be a guard on the other side.
Bophendze spoke in a low voice, “That's why I've got armor, right? Whoever is there won't be alerted that the battleship has been invaded, so he won't shoot first.” He pulled the hatch lever, letting the suit's strength assist hasten the opening. Bophendze then opened the door and stepped into the magazine's anteroom.
The guard was asleep. The guard's rifle, a FACR like Bophendze hoped, leaned in the corner just inside the guard's reach. Bophendze closed the hatch and quietly latched it back. He then tried to softly close the distance between the guard and himself.
Before he could fully close the distance. The guard awoke with a start, then reached for his rifle. Bophendze rushed forward and grabbed the rifle. The two looked at one another, though what the guard would have seen was an anonymous suit of battle armor. Bophendze felt like he knew the guard, who was young like he was. Feelings of doubt crept in, causing him to hesitate. He could not find it in his heart to kill the guard.
The guard seemed to have no such aversion. He started to wrestle for control of the rifle. Bophendze's armor made it easy for Bophendze to retain control. If I could just knock him unconscious.
An instant later, Bophendze's body uncontrollably pulled back, his grip still firmly on the rifle. This ended the contest for control of the rifle, with Bophendze having full control. Now he had the rifle in his left hand and a pistol in his right. The pistol hand deftly pointed the pistol at the guard and fired a shot into the right eye. The dead guard slumped onto the deck.
“Smee! He didn't have to die.”
Your sentimentality is going to get you killed. Of course he needed to die, not because you couldn't continue with him subdued, but because you need to accept that you're a killing machine.
Bophendze tried to drop the pistol, but Smee retained a firm grip. “This needs to stop.”
What needs to stop, Puppet?