by J. N. Chaney
And press home the attack it did. Dash watched it doggedly accelerate toward the Forge, its velocity such that a collision was inevitable. Of course, its polarizing drive might be able to slow or redirect it, but if not, then that much mass moving that fast could actually do serious damage to the station.
Still it drove on, trailing bits of debris, sparks, and a wispy wake of vapor. But the Forge, which had fallen utterly silent after that one spectacular burst of destruction, stayed silent.
“Uh, Custodian, do you need us to come and take out that last ship, or do you have it?” he asked.
“Please wait a moment,” Custodian replied.
The Bright ship charged on.
“Custodian, is something wrong? Seriously, do you need Leira and me to—”
“There is no problem with the Forge,” Custodian replied. “Rather, Benzel has requested that this remaining ship be disabled, not destroyed.”
“He—what? Why?”
“He wishes to take it as a prize.”
“A prize?”
“They are pirates, Dash,” Leira said. “You hook up with that sort, you have to expect them to look at things from a pirate’s perspective, right?”
“Custodian, can you disable that ship before it plows into the Forge?”
In answer, a single dark-lance beam flashed out and struck the Bright ship, tearing completely through its drive section. Its acceleration immediately dropped to zero, but it still raced on, sheer momentum driving it forward. Dash had to admire such surgical precision from the Forge, in contrast to the hurricane of violence it had unleashed only moments before. But it left the Bright ship a dangerous projectile, still hurtling toward a catastrophic collision with the Forge.
Dash shook his head and accelerated toward the Bright ship on an intercept course, Leira close behind. “Okay, Custodian, disabled just isn’t going to be enough. All due respect to Benzel, but that ship needs to be destroyed before it—”
“That will be unnecessary, Messenger,” Custodian replied—and the Bright ship began to slow.
“I have reconfigured the tractor systems used by the Forge to facilitate dockings and transfers between portions of the station to decelerate the Bright vessel. I believe it can be brought to a full stop before a collision.”
“You believe it can?”
“There is a margin of error in the calculations.”
“I don’t like taking the risk, just because Benzel wants to take a prize.”
“More practically speaking, taking an essentially intact Bright vessel would be useful from the perspective of intelligence about our enemies’ capabilities,” Custodian replied.
Dash sighed and slowed the Archetype. “That’s true. Okay, fine. Over to you, Custodian. Leira and I will stand by in case you need help.”
Custodian didn’t answer, though. Benzel did.
Thanks, Dash,” he said. “Now you get to see what pir—I mean, privateers can do. This is what we’re good at. This is how we can help the fight.”
Dash shrugged. “Okay, I take it back then. Benzel, over to you.”
15
Benzel clapped his hands together and laughed. “Okay, look alive, Gentle Friends,” he shouted. “We’ve got work to do!”
All around him, the Gentle Friends snapped their vac suits closed, donned helmets, and checked their weapons. Beyond the force field closing off the docking bay, the disabled Bright ship hung motionless against the starfield, brought to a halt there by the Forge’s tractor systems. Custodian had brought it as close to the station as he dared, citing the risk of a containment failure in the ship’s reactor. That left it a few klicks away from the Forge, which was an awful lot of airless empty for the Gentle Friends to cross.
Amy, standing nearby with Viktor and Conover, stepped forward with a solution. “When Conover and I had to get to a remote part of the Forge, and do it fast, we rode on these nifty little maintenance remotes. You should ask Custodian if you can use some of those to help get out to that ship.”
Benzel grabbed Amy’s shoulders and laughed. “Young lady, that’s an excellent idea. You’d make a fine pirate.”
“Oh. Um, well…thanks, I guess.”
“There is no higher compliment,” Benzel said, laughing at her look of puzzled wariness. “Custodian, can you use these maintenance remote things Amy’s talking about to help us out here? Anything would be better than dawdling our way out to that prize—the ship, that is—using nothing but reaction jets.”
“There will be several maintenance remotes available shortly,” Custodian replied.
“Thank you kindly, sir.”
Benzel turned back to the Gentle Friends. Squad by squad, their leaders gave him a thumbs up, indicating their readiness to board the enemy ship. He shook his head, more than a little amazed. Here they were, aboard an ancient, alien space station, involved in an equally ancient war against more aliens, preparing to attack and seize a spaceship belonging to yet more aliens. Any of his people could flatly state that they’d never signed up for this, and they’d be right. Their Code, the unwritten but absolutely binding rules that governed the Gentle Friends in everything from splitting prize money to who got what bunk, gave them the latitude to say, at any time, that they were out.
But none of them did. Not one. Every one of his people was here, standing ready to face whatever might be aboard that damaged ship. He’d never been more damned proud.
He grabbed his helmet, but just tucked it under his arm. “Okay, listen up!” he shouted, waiting for the Gentle Friends to turn their collective attention to him.
“We’re going to take that ship!” he went on. “By the numbers, the same way we always do this. The difference this time is that we’re not doing it for the prize money. At least, not for now. For now, we’re doing it because these Bright are murderous assholes, who are working for other murderous assholes, and if they get their way…well, there won’t be any more prizes, ever.”
He paused to let that sink in, then said, “What that means is we’re going aboard that ship, and we’re going to fight as hard as we ever have. Harder, even. We’re going to prove that we can help win this war.” He paused again, this time to let a slow smile spread across his face. “And then, when it’s all done and we’ve kicked the asses of all these murderous assholes—well, then we’ll go looking for our prize money. And believe me, there’s going to be a lot of it.”
Thumbs raised. With their helmets sealed, even if they were cheering, Benzel wouldn’t have been able to hear much of it. But it didn’t matter. The Gentle Friends were ready to do what they did best—kick ass and take prizes.
“Your rides are here,” Amy said, pointing. A half-dozen black spheres, each about two meters in diameter, drifted silently into the docking bay. Benzel nodded, put on his own helmet, then snapped out instructions over the comm to his squads. He organized them into six groups, of either two or three squads, lining one group up behind each remote in single file. The first person in each group grabbed a handhold on the remote, while the rest joined hands behind them, forming six chains of Gentle Friends.
“Seriously, that’s how you intend to approach that ship,” a new voice said. Benzel turned to see Viktor talking into a comm.
“You can think of a better way?”
“Well—yes. Lots of better ways, actually. You could have only one or two people make each trip. Or you could have some use the remotes, and others travel some other way. Aboard the Slipwing, maybe. We could launch her, and—”
As Viktor talked, Benzel walked up to him and touched his arm, cutting him off.
“Viktor, I’m sorry. I had no idea you were a skilled privateer.”
“I’m not.”
Benzel grinned through his faceplate. “I know.”
He clapped Viktor once on the shoulder, then turned to join hands with the last person in the first line of Gentle Friends waiting to launch.
“Okay, people, we ready?” he asked.
One at a time, his squad l
eaders checked in, confirming comms and their readiness.
“Okay, Custodian,” Benzel said. “Any time you’re ready, we’re good to go.”
Benzel’s weight abruptly dropped to zero as Custodian killed the artificial gravity to the portion of the docking bay occupied by the Gentle Friends. Then there was a slight tug and the remotes slowly began to move, pulling them into space and toward the looming Bright ship.
Benzel peered around a corner, his snap gun at the ready. There was still no resistance, and they had to be in control of at least half of the Bright ship now. He glanced back, shook his head at the squad behind him, then held up three fingers. They’d move in three seconds—two—one—
Benzel stepped around the corner, snap gun raised, forefinger on the trigger, thumb on the targeting slide. The Gentle Friends had only recently started using the nasty little weapons, military-grade hardware they’d acquired for what had seemed like an awful lot of credits at the time. But they were perfect for parties, the name they’d given to these sorts of boarding actions.
The snap gun fired two separate beams that individually were mostly harmless, but when they intersected, they became something entirely different. Benzel didn’t really understand the physics behind it, but suffice to say that where the beams crossed, they were viciously deadly. With his thumb, he could move the targeting slide, changing the point at which the beams converged, meaning he could slide that little bit of deadliness toward or away from him to hit a target, but affect nothing else. It was perfect for taking out stubborn opponents who simply refused to surrender, while keeping the ship itself undamaged.
As he paced quickly along the corridor, Benzel wondered if he’d need to use the snap gun at all. During the admittedly hairy crossing from the Forge to the ship, he’d been grimly ready to come under fire, despite the assurance of Custodian that all its weapons had been neutralized.
But the maintenance remotes had towed them quickly and steadily along, six hand-linked chains of the Gentle Friends, the Bright ship looming silently closer—and nothing had happened. Likewise, breaching and boarding had gone without a hitch, helped by the myriad holes blasted through the hull plating by battle damage. And now, clearing progressed without any resistance or incidence. He checked the data-pad strapped to his arm. It marked the location of every squad as they systematically worked their way through the ship. It was more than half cleared now.
Maybe the crew was all dead. Or maybe there was no crew and the ship was automated. Either way, it would be both a relief and a bit of a letdown. Not fighting was always better than fighting, because it was less costly—and not just in lives, but in resources spent and damage done to a potential prize. But even a just a skirmish or two would help show Dash and the others that the Gentle Friends could take care of themselves. So far, they hadn’t done much but ride along, helping to move that Silent Fleet back here to the Forge. But any half-assed group of spacers could have done that.
A figure stepped out of a cross corridor ahead. Benzel lifted the snap gun, but didn’t fire. He couldn’t spare any attention to the data-pad now but was sure none of the Gentle Friends should be ahead of him. Still, you always checked your target during a boarding action.
Tall. Slender. Naked? Really? No, clad in something form fitting. Smooth, almost porcelain skin, bald.
Turning to face them.
Raising a weapon.
Benzel triggered the snap gun, at the same time sliding the focal point of the beams into the figure. A bright flash, like a welding torch, ripped open its chest. At the same time, something smacked hard into the bulkhead beside him, plowing a glowing furrow through the metal. Behind him, he heard a muffled scream.
His target, who must be one of these Bright, toppled backward, trailing smoke. Benzel took a quick glance back and saw one of the Gentle Friends down, the two further back spattered with blood. They’d confirmed there was an atmosphere on board, and it was breathable, but they stayed vac suited-up anyway; atmospheres could vent fast during a party. So Benzel couldn’t tell who was down. But, with active enemy now an actual threat, he couldn’t afford the time to check. Leaving the downed Friend to the care of a squad mate, they pushed on, up the corridor, crouching, weapons raised to the ready.
Benzel decided to break comm silence. “All Friends, we’ve had a red glitch. Stay on your toes, out.”
A glitch meant something bad had happened. A red glitch meant contact with a resisting enemy. They used other color codes, for everything from a fire, to a decompression, to an imminent containment breach. More than a few of the Gentle Friends were disgruntled ex-military, and Benzel had been happy to absorb their expertise in coded communications and other such martial stuff.
They reached the cross junction. Benzel signaled for the squad to move, securing the junction, while he stooped and checked out the—man he’d shot? Woman? He couldn’t tell. The fallen figure was entirely androgynous, its features so utterly bland and unremarkable it could have been shown alongside the data entry for the generic definition of a face. It was, Benzel thought, like a statue come to life.
Aside from a form fitting, one-piece jumpsuit, the only other notable pieces of gear were a belt hung with several pouches, and its weapon. Now that was interesting. It looked vaguely like a rifle of some sort, but the muzzle wasn’t a round hole, it was square. Weird. He shrugged and scooped it up, then slung it over his shoulder.
A Friend appeared, crouching next to him and touching their helmets together with a clunk. “Taro’s down for good,” the woman said, her voice buzzing through Benzel’s helmet. She pointed back at the fallen Friend. “Chest blown out by—” She pointed at the Bright weapon Benzel had claimed. “By that, I guess.”
“Taro. Shit. He owed me eighty credits,” Benzel said. It was an old joke, a way of acknowledging the loss of a comrade, while pretending it was no big thing. Taro had been a long-time Friend, with a booming laugh and a knack for somehow always finding the best booze aboard a prize, if there was any. Damn. He’d miss him.
Mourn later, Benzel reminded himself. Right now, party time.
He gave the woman a thumbs up, then gestured for the squad to get ready to move. As they did, he looked back down at the fallen Bright.
You shot Taro, you inhuman son of a bitch, he thought. I hope that snap gun shot hurt like hell.
Benzel winced as something clanged off the bulkhead behind him. He dropped almost prone and peered around the sprawling console from what he hoped was an unexpected angle, snap gun ready. A Bright similarly peeked around the edge of another console closer to the viewscreen. Benzel triggered the snap gun, but a burst of sparks and flame from the console itself marked his miss. He spat a curse and pulled back, just in time to avoid being taken in the face by one of those vicious Bright projectiles.
Commotion erupted from across the bridge. Benzel slid to the other side of the console and looked that way in time to see Wei-Ping, a squad of Gentle Friends with her, charging the Bright. Another squad gave covering fire, their slug guns pumping out squash-head rounds. The squash-heads would do just that on impact, flattening out into a splat of explosive, then almost instantly detonating; the result was a powerful shock wave that swept through the target, turning vital organs to a slurry of ruined tissue. Their explosions otherwise did mostly superficial damage, barely even propagating into void spaces behind the impact point. It was another way of minimizing the damage to something that was supposed to be kept mostly intact and undamaged.
The remaining Bright fell back into cover but kept snapping out shots from their brutal guns. Benzel saw one Friend’s arm snap back in a bloody spray of gore, then Wei-Ping and the squad with her were among the inhuman freaks, chain-blades whirring, boarding knives slashing and stabbing. Benzel leapt to his feet, dropping his snap gun and letting its combat sling yank it into his side; at the same time, he drew his own chain-blade, spun it up, and charged into the fray with a wild shout.
A confusing swirl of melee erupted around him. His c
hain-blade bit into waxen skin, shredding it. Something snapped past his head. Blades flashed. Blood spurted in shimmering jets and droplets. There were shouts. A scream. The deadly, ripping drone of chain-blades—
Silence.
Benzel looked around. None of the Bright who had taken their last stand on the bridge remained up. One more Friend had gone down, apparently shot through the hand, which he cradled in his lap, a gory mess. Wei-Ping, her vac suit spattered with blood, appeared in front of him.
“The other squads have reported in, boss. No more glitches of any color. The ship’s ours.”
Benzel shook his head, though. “Not yet it isn’t.”
Wei-Ping gave him a confused frown. “What do you mean? The whole ship’s been cleared, all squads are accounted for—”
“These Bright freaks planned to scuttle this ship. It’s rigged to blow.” Even as he spoke, Benzel started scanning the nearby consoles, focusing on those the surviving crew had used for cover during their last stand.
Wei-Ping just stared. Activating self-destruct was such a trope, it was almost a joke among not just the Gentle Friends, but privateers everywhere. The fact was that no one really wanted to die—or even fight for— a cargo of uranium ore or helium-3. The Gentle Friends were accomplished fighters and wouldn’t hesitate to use violent means to subdue their foes, but it was really all about the reputation, not the reality of it.
Most crews just surrendered when their ship had been run down, which played right into the other half of the Friends’ reputation—if you gave up, you’d be taken prisoner, treated well, and then released entirely unharmed. Fights were wasteful, damaging, and inefficient. You wanted your quarry to just give up without a fight. It maximized profit.
But these Bright had fought to the death. They hadn’t even contemplated surrender. A crew so willing to die would undoubtedly want to take their enemies with them.