A second later there was a heavy impact as a line of human bowling pins went tumbling down. Kyler’s broken-handed victim lay mewling in their midst, blood bubbling from swollen flesh. Then, suddenly, the stakes went up. Nathen saw a flash of a blade as someone in the back of the mob yanked a combat knife from its sheath. The soldier pushed through the ranks and made straight for Kyler with a dangerous glint in his eye. The giant’s back was turned, focused on two other soldiers who had moved closer hesitantly. The knife wielder drew back his arm, gritting his teeth.
Jonathan saw him. The stealthist spun like a flash, arm darting with a sharp wrist movement. A spike of blood went shooting up into the air, and for a second Nathen’s breath caught in his throat. Then the attacker started screaming, and he turned enough for Nathen to see a razor sharp throwing knife embedded deep in his shoulder socket. Before the blood could even settle on the deck, five more soldiers charged together, looking for payback for their comrades. Kyler blocked the nearest soldier’s two punches, then knocked his legs out from under him with a single sweeping kick. The soldier landed back-flat, coughed as the wind rushed out of him, then his eyes bugged out as Kyler brought his heel down on his stomach.
Jonathan caught his first attacker in the face, clawing at his eyes with a look of animalistic frenzy. The next shoved past his teary-faced companion and swung his impressively-conditioned arms in haymaker fashion. Jonathan blocked, absorbing the blows patiently. When the soldier drew back for a knee strike, Jonathan grabbed his wrist and speared him through the bicep with a steel needle that just seemed to materialize from between his fingertips. The soldier gasped in shock as the needle pushed through the meat of his arm, distracting him long enough for Jonathan to rip a concealed knife out, drop into a low crouch and drive it through his attacker's foot. The man hollered and fell back into his comrades’ arms, just as another younger-looking private dive-tackled Jonathan from the side. The two fell to the floor, punching, kicking and swearing as Kyler fended off his numerous attackers.
As the towering giant made ground, one soldier tried to quickly back away as his shaking arm unholstered a Denchura .45 caliber pistol. He was in the middle of drawing a bead when Kyler lunged forward and sandwiched the private's head between his bear-sized palms. The gun discharged—Nathen couldn’t tell if it hit—and the soldier’s eyes rolled into his head as he collapsed unconscious. The next soldier was lifted up clean off his feet and slammed bodily into the deck. Then the Infantry were all over the giant Paxtonite hunter, mobbing him and beating him with fists, boots, and anything else they could get their hands around. And still, bodies were flinging out of the mass of uniforms as Kyler roared and fought them off.
One soldier came spinning out of the mob, spraying blood between his teeth before slapping lifelessly onto the deck, a gorilla-sized fist print sunk into his jawline. Kyler Jeston was done holding back. Jonathan never had.
Nathen decided enough was enough. He turned, making his nearest captor raise the muzzle of his gun to eye level. Nathen stared him down, angrily.
“Someone’s going to die if you don’t let me stop this.”
The soldier closest to Nathen glanced at his partner. Neither had expected this fight to last more than a minute. What had obviously started as a stupid fistfight had escalated into utter chaos and bloodshed. The one nearest the archway thrust his nose in the air.
“Waste him,” he said. “This ain’t fun no more.”
“I’m not gonna shoot him,” the other said, fretting. “Sarge will know it was my gun. He’ll kill me.”
“He’s just a merc,” the other said, angrily. “Mercs are better off dead anyway. And that goes for his friends, too.”
“You either let me stop this, or you shoot me,” Nathen said, narrowing his eyes down the barrel of the assault rifle. “You’ve got three seconds to decide.”
The soldier next to the archway scoffed and pointed his rifle. “Or what?”
Nathen’s eyes looked past both soldiers. “Or she kicks your head in.”
The soldier by the door looked confused. Then Helen Platner’s boot swung up in a wide arc and smashed his jaw with a roundhouse. The man folded like a house of cards, blood gushing from between his broken teeth. The other soldier spun in surprise, taking his eyes off Nathen. Before he could shift aim, Nathen reached out, grabbed the rifle, and jarred it back, cracking the man in the side of the head with his own rifle’s stock. The soldier slumped but stayed standing long enough for Nathen to wrench the rifle loose and crack him again at the base of his skull for good measure. The soldier, somehow still conscious, fell to his knees, groaning and whimpering. Nathen turned his back and changed his grip on the Coyote, briskly striding toward the mod. Helen scooped up the other Coyote and followed, looking witheringly mad.
Nathen cocked the Coyote back and squeezed off a burst into the ceiling. The reports of the rifle shots resounded off the bolted steel walls of the enclosed cafeteria like an amplifier. The Infantrymen spun, backing up quickly as they saw two White Sun uniforms armed with assault rifles approaching them. Several lunged to retrieve their rifles that were leaning against upturned dining tables.
“That’s enough!” exploded Nathen, dropping his muzzle level with the soldiers.
The shouting stopped. Five soldiers who were still standing had weapons drawn, but they hesitated to make a move to use them. Something in Nathen’s voice had left absolutely no doubt that he would kill them, if they made one more move. As the noise died down, the mob parted and Kyler Jeston stood up with a grunt. His white and black uniform was torn and ripped, but he seemed mostly to be in one piece, all seven feet of him. Several soldiers on Nathen’s right had pistols drawn and aimed, threateningly, but not at him. Jonathan Harper stood several feet away, locked tightly behind the young private who had tackled him. The Infantryman was bleeding profusely from his leg, barely allowing him to stand, but he didn’t dare fall because Jonathan had a knife wrapped under his chin and his arm behind his back. The youth looked scared, either from the thought of getting his throat cut by Jonathan, or getting shot by his comrades. No resolution looked likely. The tension was high, to say the least.
The two groups stared each other down, waiting for one or the other to make a move. Nathen’s evaluation of the situation wasn’t encouraging. He had to admit, if the soldiers decided to open fire, the chances of he or Helen surviving would be low. The soldiers glared, looking very hatefully toward their interservice adversaries, each man wondering if he should open fire first.
“Alright,” Nathen said, calmly, “Enough’s enough. People have been hurt. Let’s not let it go any further than that. When I say drop your weapons, I want you to do it. My people will do the same. Then we’ll sort this out like we’re supposed to.” Nathen, not ready to assume anything, gripped the handle of the Coyote tighter. “Drop your weapons.”
No one, least of all Nathen, dropped their weapons. Nathen gritted his teeth and swore under his breath. Things were out of control. One of the soldiers, a focused-looking private with a swollen jaw, sneered at Nathen.
“You rotten muck-suckers,” he said, speech slightly slurred because of his swollen jaw. “I don’t care who you think you are. Nobody spits on the Infantry and walks away.”
Nathen sensed the tension rising. “I gave you an order, private. Secure your weapon.”
“Oh, so now you’re giving us orders, hmm?” The man spat on the floor between him and Nathen. “Who made you my mother?”
“I own your mother,” said Helen. “I think its time you showed a little respect toward your superiors. Do as you’re told.”
The soldier scoffed. “We still have you outnumbered four to one. You drop your weapons, ‘cause there is no way I’m dropping mine.”
Nathen glared coldly. “This is your last chance.”
The cocky soldier sneered and lifted an arm to point. “You can-”
The air echoed with the hollow sound of an assault rifle bolt being pulled. Everyone glanced up. Stand
ing on the catwalk over the cafeteria stood Trenton Baxter, calmly pointing a Coyote down into the gang of Infantrymen. No one had seen, heard, or otherwise noticed when the sniper had arrived, or by what means. All that mattered was the soldiers realized who owned the high ground.
A short, shrill whistle turned everyone’s head toward the serving table built into an old cargo container by the wall. Doc rested his Casper submachine gun on the counter, ready to cut a swath of forty-five caliber bullets through the Infantry’s ranks.
The man with the swollen jaw looked at the two newcomers, then glanced at Nathen. Slowly, he bent down and placed his rifle on the floor. Reluctantly, the others followed suit. Soon, the only ones holding weapons were the ESCs. Jonathan hadn’t budged, still holding the rigid private at knife point even though the pistols weren’t pointing at him anymore. The youth issued light gasps, barely able to breath for fear of cutting himself. Kyler looked over at his comrade.
“Oy,” he snapped.
Jonathan’s eyes snapped to Kyler, snapped back to the Infantry, then he pulled the knife away and shoved the unfortunate youth staggering into his friend’s arms. The stealthist kept the red-stained knife clutched in his hand as he drew one of his Sachlars and pointed it, keeping the men covered.
Cafeteria secured, Nathen lifted the barrel of his Coyote up, neutrally. He started to ask how it had all gotten started when the back of his neck tingled. Nathen turned around. Standing in the archway to the cafeteria was one of the soldiers he’d encountered on his way in. The one Helen had kicked was out cold, or dead, Nathen couldn’t tell from where he stood. The one he’d struck was on his feet. And in his hand was Nathen’s Denchura.
The private looked scared, and confused, like a lost animal. Nathen’s .45 wavered at the end of an unsteady arm. The commander didn’t flinch, measuring the threat. Nathen was almost at the edge of effective pistol range, for most people. The average Infantry soldier had only modest pistol training, functioning mostly with rifles. The fact that he’d taken two blows to the head and the way his arm was weaving didn’t speak much for his accuracy, either. But Nathen knew if he went to fire, he’d have to kill him. The commander coolly sighted his stolen rifle on the soldier.
“Don’t do this to yourself.”
The soldier didn’t listen, switching his aim from Nathen, to Helen, then back to Nathen. Helen never turned around, but her azure eyes gauged the threat from her peripheral vision. Nathen brought his index finger a little closer to the trigger, just barely brushing it with his fingertip. If someone was going to get shot, it wasn’t going to be him.
“Put it down.”
The soldier swayed like he might fall over, but remained standing and shook his head.
“If I die, I’m taking one of you with me,” he said. “You dirty mercen-”
There was a loud discharge like a bolt of energy, a small flash, and the soldier dropped his weapon in a violent spasm as a disabling amount of electricity went screaming through his body. Then, with a crack/snap, the electricity dispersed, and the soldier crumpled to the ground.
Nathen looked up from the sight of the Coyote to see Sergeant Donal standing in the archway holding a taser rifle. The end was still smoking. Behind him, a fresh squad of on-board troops held their weapons at the ready.
Donal slowly walked into the cafeteria to face his men, not saying a word. He looked like a Rottweiler about to tear into an intruder’s flank. Nathen kept his rifle pointed at the ground as Donal approached, but the sergeant walked right past him, not so much as giving him a glance. When he was several feet away from the mob, Donal stopped and looked over each of his men. The sergeant glanced toward the floor, at the motionless forms of the broken and beaten men, and gave a deep sigh. Donal switched his glare from soldier to soldier, as if deciding for himself who was to blame. Finally, he exploded.
“You spitless dogs!” he rattled off, saliva flying from his mouth. “Your macho man antics make me sick! Just look at yourselves, you disgraces! I tell you, I didn’t think a one of you could get any uglier, but I should have known better than to say something because you proved me wrong! These ladies and gentlemen are our honored guests on this station and the only way you barbarian behinds can express your hospitality toward them is to punch them in the face? Unacceptable! I’d send you all crying back to your momma’s except they paid me too much to take you off their hands in the first place!”
The soldier with the swollen jaw growled. “Now look here, Sarge, we…”
Another loud discharge and the man was cut off as the taser rifle sent a charge into the man’s gut, silencing him except for the occasional moan. Donal hardly even stopped talking.
“It’s been a nightmare having to put up with you weasels! Day after day of my life is spent trying to turn you prissy little princesses into combat-hardened men, but you all seemed inclined to disappoint me over and over! You are a dishonor to me, yourselves, and your positions! If the army can’t sort you wannabes out from the real men, I suppose the stockade will have to do it for me! Now give me those guns! Go back to the barracks and fuss over your pacifiers like the bunch of diapered-doddling dumbspits that you are!”
Donal motioned over his shoulder with a sharp snap of his wrist, and the fresh troops moved in. Four medics in faded grey uniforms with red crosses went to the sides of those most injured, checking for pulses in some cases. The beaten mob indignantly surrendered their guns and pistols, swearing up and down to their comrades that they were in the right.
While Donal’s fresh men went about securing, or in some cases, helping up, the offending soldiers, Donal turned to Nathen and Helen, looking slightly winded from his rant.
“Let’s talk in the officer’s mess,” Donal said with a huff.
Nathen followed the sergeant and motioned for Helen to follow. Kyler and Jonathan started to follow, but Helen sent them a warning gesture. The hunter and stealthist looked at each other, then moved over and joined Doc at the serving table. Nathen, Donal and Helen climbed the stairs to the catwalk and marched toward the private officer’s mess, boots rattling the scaffolding. Trent stood guard with his Coyote as the others slid past him. Donal entered the boxy room suspended above the floor and peeled off his helmet.
“What a day,” he muttered, as he dropped his helmet upside down on the middle table. “This is just what I needed.”
Nathen waited until Helen was inside, even though they had no door to close.
“I understand how this looks,” Nathen said, apologetically. “And I-”
“Shut up,” Donal said, sharply. Nathen stopped talking. After a second, Donal threw his crowd-control rifle across the room, bouncing it off a table.
“I’ve had it up to here!” Donal shouted, rounding on Nathen. “I wasn’t happy about letting you mercenaries onto our station, and I wasn’t exactly thrilled when I had to call out the bomb squad. But this? This is the last straw!”
Nathen didn’t back down. He counterattacked.
“I could say the same about you!” he snapped, harshly. “From the moment we’ve set foot on this station we’ve been outcasts! Just because we don’t wear the same uniforms doesn’t mean we don’t fight for the same cause with the same dedication, and your men don’t seem to accept that! We’re the ones who found the missing explosives; we’re the ones who discovered the core had been contaminated! I led, and you followed! You followed me because you had no choice!”
“Wrong!” exploded Donal, stabbing a hand at Nathen. “I followed you, because you were right. You were right about everything, so I let it be. But this!?”
Donal shut his eyes hard, balling a fist and taking a deep breath. When he opened his mouth next, his tone was more controlled.
“Those were my men,” he said. “And they may not be my proudest achievement, but so help me God, when you lay a finger on them, I will burn you.”
Donal looked away, leaving a finger to point at Nathen and Helen to get out.
“Get off my station. Take your peopl
e, and go. We’re done.”
Nathen didn’t move. “No, we’re not.”
Donal looked up, eyes ablaze. “Don’t test my patience right now. I’m being very generous.”
“This incident doesn’t change the fact that you’ve still got a traitor on board,” Nathen said, crossing his arms defiantly. “And he’s got thirty-four pounds of plasmatics to play with. You really think you can stop this scheme by yourself?”
“Get out!” barked Donal, angrily. Nathen motioned to Helen, who turned and exited the officer’s mess. Nathen stayed a moment longer.
“You still need us, Donal,” he said. “And by the time you realize that, it will be too late.”
Without another word, Nathen turned and strode out of the room, stepping onto the catwalk. Trent and Helen were waiting for him in the now empty cafeteria, and they followed their leader down the staircase as they heard Donal scream in frustrated anger and upset the tables. They met up with the other ESCs on the grunt’s dining floor, and together they walked out of the cafeteria.
Chapter 37
Helen slung her Coyote over her shoulder. “He certainly seems harder on his own men than on us.”
“Yeah, swell mate. If I’d hed thet philosophy when I’d stahted fightin’ beck, I’m sure I’d feel a’lot bettah right about now.”
Kyler came limping up beside Trent, holding a torn rag to the side where a pistol round had grazed him. His white and black uniform was cut and splotched with blood, but somehow it didn’t look terribly serious. Doc was with him, preparing bandages. The Alpha’s medic shook his head as he ripped a bandage down the middle.
“Blunt force, lacerations, gunshot wounds,” he recited to himself. “You’re lucky nothing was serious.”
Prime Alpha (Planetary Powers Book 1) Page 44