“As close as this girl’s gonna get, sir,” Dann said.
Grimshaw welcomed the interruption and couldn’t wait to get out of the claustrophobic cockpit. “Pull up behind that bulkhead, Dann. Briggs and I’ll go on foot from there.” He pointed to a large section of warped metal twice as long as the Barracuda. “Between that and the smoke, hopefully we’ll stay hidden if the enemy shows up again.”
“Long-range scanners are still busted, sir,” Briggs said. “Short-range can’t find the bridge section. She must have detached in time.”
“Let’s hope so,” Grimshaw said, trying not to think of the alternative.
“SR is also reading high levels of radiation. Nothing your TEK can’t handle, but that could change fast in a wreck like that.”
“The core?” Grimshaw asked, Yelchin and her engineering crew springing to mind.
“As far as I can tell, the core’s sound. But that fire doesn’t look good.”
“We won’t be long.” Grimshaw unstrapped and returned to the rear compartment, Briggs close on his heels. The Barracuda’s back parted in several sections like an opening maw. Grimshaw scanned the sky and sea of debris beyond. He signaled the all-clear to Briggs, and they made a run for the wreck.
Grimshaw darted from a pile of rubble and into a shadow cast by an upright segment of hull plating cut deep into the dirt.
They moved from one form of cover to another all the while remaining alert, watching for signs of the enemy.
Grimshaw ran into a tunnel—created by a stretch of folded sheet-metal—and emerged within a stone’s throw of the wreck. From the look of the damage, the Bakura had hit the ground belly-first and plowed a long furrow before coming to a stop. Her undercarriage was a mangled mess, and gaping wounds had been torn open all over her hull. If not for one partial wing still marked with her name, the SS Bakura would have been unrecognizable.
Grimshaw hoped that visual confirmation of the bridge’s separation was a good sign, at least.
“Looks like the bridge made it,” Briggs said.
“We’ll need to get LR scanners working as soon as we can to be sure.”
Shadows, obscured by waves of heat, shimmered inside a vast hole in the Bakura’s side. Grimshaw signaled for weapons and leveled his rifle. He looked down his scope for a better view but still couldn’t see much through the haze.
“Looks like survivors, sir.”
Grimshaw took his word for it. Being a comms specialist, Briggs had better scanning equipment and visual implants. The smog cleared somewhat as they drew closer, and Grimshaw ran to assist a pair of cadets climbing from the rubble. He didn’t recognize them for the caked blood and soot, but the man walked with a limp. “Are you okay?”
“We’ll live, sir,” the woman answered, supporting her fellow cadet.
“Are there other survivors?”
“Heard shouts earlier, but the heat and smoke…” She coughed, and her voice trailed off into despair. “I don’t know.”
“It’s okay, cadet. Can you get your friend to the Barracuda back that way?” He thumbed in the direction of the APC.
“Shouldn’t be a problem, sir.”
“Good.” He tapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t delay. The enemy has eyes in the sky.”
The tattered survivors moved on as he and Briggs climbed into the ship’s burning corpse.
Grimshaw’s TEK lights activated but barely cut through the smoke. He accessed his VD’s grid matrix, overlaying a frame-outline of the ship’s interior across his visor. His scanners caught glimpses of life-signs every now and then. “My scanners are all over the place. Any luck?”
“Just ran a deep scan, sir. Results are coming back now.” Briggs slapped his SIG as though trying to get it to work. “Two clusters. One’s in sickbay. The other’s in engineering.”
“You carry on ahead, I’ll take engineering.”
Briggs nodded and headed deeper down the throat of the ship, his silhouette appearing against occasional sparks before being swallowed completely.
Grimshaw traced his way to the rear of the wreck, his memory and the grid matrix leading the way. He encountered a collapsed bulkhead and had to detour through a network of maintenance tubes, scarcely wide enough for his TEK. He eventually reached the entrance to engineering and found several life-signs emanating from just beyond the doors. Grimshaw activated the keypad, and the motors whined, but the doors refused to open. He removed a wall panel and accessed the hydraulic override. He pumped the lever fast, but it made no difference.
He opened a short-band vox channel in the hopes that someone might pick it up. “This is Commander Jason Grimshaw. Does anyone read me?” he said, breathing heavily. He waited for a response, but none came. He was about to try again when a familiar voice spoke in his ear.
“Lieutenant Yelchin here. Was that someone on the vox?” Static corrupted the weak signal, but Grimshaw could just about make her out. “Was someone communicating on this frequency?”
He adjusted the signal. “Yelchin, it’s Grimshaw. Do you read me?”
“Loud and clear now, sir.” She coughed violently. “Good to hear you’re alive.”
“How many of you are in there? Can you open the door, Lieutenant? We need to get you out before the fire spreads.”
“Three of us still alive in here, sir. Jesse didn’t make it.”
He pounded the door panel. “I can’t open it from out here, Lieutenant.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that, sir.”
“What are you talking about, Yelchin? Open the damn door!”
“It’s no good.” She cleared her throat. “The core containment unit was damaged. We executed the engineering lock-down protocol. The radiation shields have activated. No one’s getting out of here.”
“We can override it.”
Yelchin’s cheerless laugh echoed through the vox. “Not that simple, sir. The core leaked before we stabilized the field. Even if we could leave, we’re already dead. We have to stay, though. We’re taking turns to keep the containment field up manually, but I don’t know how much longer we’ll last.” Her words bubbled with poorly concealed pain.
“Yelchin—”
“Sir, you need to get off before the core blows.”
“I understand.” Words failed him.
“Before you go, sir. Can you do something for me?”
“Of course, Yelchin.”
“I’m sending you a file,” she said. “Please get it to my husband and kids.”
“Consider it done, Lieutenant.”
“And, sir. It’s been an honor serving with you.”
Grimshaw cleared his throat. “Likewise, Lieutenant.”
“Yelchin, out.” The line went dead, and the vox crackled.
There was nothing Grimshaw could do for them, and there was no point in letting their sacrifice go to waste. He gathered himself and dashed back the way he’d come.
As he arrived at the maintenance shaft, an explosion tore through the bulkhead and collapsed the tubes, barring his only way back.
Breathing steadily, he opened a ship schematic and quickly skimmed through the decks. He found another nearby maintenance tunnel that led to an emergency airlock. It meant crawling half the length of the wreck, and there was no guarantee that route hadn’t also been blocked. Either way, it was his only option.
Grimshaw hurried along the corridors and arrived at the maintenance tunnel entrance, feeling along a wall for the access panel release. The panel clattered to the walkway, and he descended on a ladder into the bowels of the ship, hoping that Yelchin and her team could hold the containment field long enough for him and Briggs to get out. Grimshaw dialed Briggs on the vox and got nothing but static.
He swore as his boots clanged on the bottom of the shaft, and he crouched into a low secondary tunnel, crawling faster than he’d ever crawled before.
The tube seemed to stretch on for miles, but just when Grimshaw decided to stop for a breath, his hand touched the airlock juncti
on. Finding the airlock door buried under a pile of debris quenched any sense of relief.
Grimshaw dug through the pile, one piece of scrap at a time, until he sweated profusely, his TEK’s moisture reclamation system struggling to keep up.
He finally shifted the last piece of junk and manually removed the airlock clamps. He pumped the hydraulic lock and raced through into the airlock chamber where he closed the metal door behind him. His arms burned as he repeated the process with the outer door while trying not to imagine the coffin-like space as his final resting place. If the core blew before he could get free, he’d be dead before he felt a thing.
Small mercies.
The lock disengaged, but the door didn’t open. Grimshaw repeatedly kicked at it to no avail. Inside, his TEK grew warmer than he could bear, and sweat trickled down his spine.
He redirected additional power to his arm servos and tried it one more time. When the hatch didn’t budge, Grimshaw stumbled against the circular plate, the last of his energy spent. Nothing short of explosives was going to open the portal. The vox crackled as he called for help, but once again no one answered. It looked like he would be joining Yelchin and her crew after all.
A crack shook the hollow chamber, and before Grimshaw knew what was happening, he spun through the air before landing hard in the dirt.
He lay on his back stunned, the smoke-stained sky swirling above. By some miracle, the airlock had opened.
After catching his breath, and making sure nothing was broken, he willed his legs to run for the Barracuda.
Briggs was waiting in the back of the APC with half a dozen survivors. Weapons Officer O’Donovan sat among them, his face still swollen from his treatment. Grimshaw was also glad to see Junior Medical Officer Eko Andrews among the survivors. They’d be needing all the medical help they could get.
“We need to hurry.” Grimshaw wheezed as he caught his breath. “Engineering’s going to blow.”
“What about the life-signs?”
“Yelchin and her crew sealed themselves in to contain a radiation leak. They’re manually holding the containment field to buy us time.”
“Shit!” Briggs spat, reaching for the cockpit door. “Get us out of here, Dann. That core’s about to go critical!”
Grimshaw struggled into the cockpit and strapped into the Commander’s chair.
The Barracuda’s engines propelled them away from the wreck, and a howl issued overhead as an enemy ship sped by.
“It’s one thing after another,” Grimshaw said. “Did they see us, Wedgey?”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
Grimshaw was about to sigh in relief when Wedgey’s channel crackled again.
“Hold on, sir. It’s circling back.”
Grimshaw turned to Dann. “Put the foot down, Lieutenant!”
“Yes, sir.”
The APC skimmed a piece of debris and Grimshaw lurched forward. Dann accelerated the Barracuda sharply, throwing him back again.
Grimshaw linked into Wedgey’s visual feed and watched as the enemy ship lined up behind them. It swooped in for an attack when a white beam erupted from the Bakura, narrowly missing a wing, forcing the enemy to pull out of attack position.
“Someone on the Bakura fired that gun.” Wedgey sounded as surprised as Grimshaw felt.
Grimshaw had a feeling he knew who fired the weapon. “It must have been Yelchin.”
“No celebrating just yet, they’ll be back.” Dann steered sharply to dodge another chunk of debris, the force shoving Grimshaw into his straps.
How Yelchin had managed it from engineering, Grimshaw could only guess. But if anyone knew the Bakura best, it was her chief of engineering. Anytime she spoke about the ship, Yelchin made it sound like it was one of her own children. It almost seemed fitting to Grimshaw that she should go down with the vessel, but that didn’t lessen the pain.
The Raugh Forest crept into view in the distance when Wedgey called over the vox. “Coming in hot from six o’clock.”
The Barracuda's guns roared above them, and the APC rocked as it took fire.
“Shit. It got the guns,” Briggs spat. “Wedgey? Wedgey?”
Wedgey didn’t answer.
“Shields are almost down,” Dann said. “Passengers are okay. But one more attack like that, and we’ve all had it.”
Grimshaw unstrapped, stumbled into the back of the cockpit, and crawled into the hole-ridden turret station. Wedgey’s TEK was torn to shreds, and his life-signs came back flat.
At least it was quick.
Grimshaw drew his knife and cut Wedgey out of the chair. The gunner’s body tumbled to the ground below, and Grimshaw climbed into position.
The turret controls responded, but the actuators only turned at half-speed. Grimshaw lined the guns up with the red bleep on the turret’s VD. The enemy vessel circled above the debris-strewn surface, and based on its speed, would sweep down on them before they reached cover.
The bleep sped closer, and Grimshaw watched the fluttering spec through the smashed turret window. White flashed, and a second later, searing plasma blasts sprayed all around the compartment.
Grimshaw ducked and pulled the turret triggers. To his relief, the guns fired, sending pounding vibrations through his arms and high-velocity rounds into the sky.
A burst of plasma glanced off the Barracuda’s armor, spraying him with flecks of molten metal. The turret cried angrily and almost rattled him free, but Grimshaw refused to let go.
As he ducked under another spray of white-hot metal, a flash erupted from the horizon followed by the rumble of a thousand thunder rolls. So intense was the light, Grimshaw was forced to look away, despite his visor’s auto-filters. As the blinding flash faded and his eyes cleared, he looked over the rim of his console. An expanding plume reached for the sky, followed by a rolling column of boiling smoke. The Bakura’s core had reached critical mass.
The wounded enemy ship streaked into the trees to the south, a bold black line in its wake.
The Barracuda jostled into the trees and Grimshaw exhaled as fatigue spread through his bones. He wearily descended the ladder and kneeled down by Wedgey. Grimshaw removed the gunner’s TEK plate and stowed it in his own utility belt.
“Rest in peace,” he whispered to Wedgey, and Yelchin, and everyone else who had perished that day. They had given their lives so that others might live. It was his job to see that those sacrifices were not made in vain.
Grimshaw sat down next to his fallen officer, his energy spent. He looked through a hole in the vehicle’s armor. Dark green and mottled browns sped by as the Barracuda cut through the shadows under the thick forest canopy. They had survived against the odds, but night was coming, and they were far from out of the woods.
12
Dead Or Alive
As Clio’s eyes parted, a searing pain drove through the back of her head like a white-hot knife. She choked and warm vomit soaked through the front of her uniform. She cradled her head until the wave of agony passed. It eventually faded to a hum but hid just beneath the surface, threatening to strike again. Blurred lights floated around her against stark darkness. She rubbed her eyes to rid herself of the smudges, but it made no difference. If not for the pain raking her body, she would have entertained suspicions of an afterlife.
Processing her thoughts through the head-fog proved difficult. She vaguely recalled steering the Bakura into Targos City on Colony 115.
Is that where I am? Something tickled the back of her throat, and she coughed, the action causing the vomit-inducing pain in her head to explode again. She held her breath and it simmered down quicker than before.
How am I alive? Their chances of survival had been negligible. The high-rise structure was the last thing she remembered. Clio clenched her teeth against the pain and drew a deep breath. Where are the others?
“Hello.” The sound was barely audible. Her throat was dry, and her lips felt like sand. She tried wetting them with her tongue and tasted blood. “Is anyone there?” sh
e called into the darkness, the words a little louder.
No one answered.
Either the other survivors had abandoned her, or there were no other survivors.
Why is it dark? What’s with the lights? Clio inhaled again, the air filled with the stench of blood, waste, and fumes. Her senses gradually returned, and she mustered the strength to push herself off the pilot’s chair. She made it partway before falling back to her resting position, head thudding against the headrest, burning stars tearing through her brain. She fought down the urge to vomit again. The smudges of light spun and faded as consciousness slipped. Clio grabbed the armrests tightly as if to root herself in reality. She bit the inside of her cheek, and a brief surge of alertness filled her veins.
An unknown amount of time passed before she steadied her breathing and took stock. Something heavy pinned her to the chair. With the splitting-headache subsiding, she noticed a lack of feeling in her legs. Clio’s hands tentatively reached out to determine what had trapped her on the chair. Her fingers brushed a cold pitted surface, like textured metal. She traced where the metallic edges touched her thighs and found a sharp corner had cut into her left leg. As far as Clio could tell, though, everything was intact, and hard coagulated lumps surrounded the wound. At least it wasn’t actively bleeding. Perhaps the debris was keeping pressure on her blood vessels. It meant her legs may have been lost. How long have I been here?
Cloying smoke filled her throat and sent her into another coughing fit. She shifted her weight and leaned into the metal sheeting with what little strength she could muster. It wouldn’t so much as budge, and she eased back into the chair.
“Anybody there?” She wheezed.
Still nothing.
The smoke thickened, and her eyes began to water. She tore her left sleeve and wrapped the fabric around her face, careful not to upset her head injury. The makeshift filter made little difference, but she hoped it would buy her some time—for what, she didn’t know.
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