And then, silence. Nathen, clutching his mangled arm to his shredded midsection, pushed himself up onto his injured leg. He limped toward the door with his battered pride, rolling the Flog over with his toe to make sure it was dead. Nathen leaned shoulder-first against the doorframe, holding the empty Karl 9 ready at his side, and looked across the floor at the bodies with a sigh.
What a day, he thought tiredly as the Golo twitched, stomach shredded from multiple kinetic dart strikes. Nathen looked up with a grizzled squint in the direction the whistle had come from. Standing about ten feet away, Helen Platner stood with a hissing BOAR assault shotgun crooked in her arm. Her hair was disheveled and her uniform was a mess, but there was no sight sweeter to Nathen's eyes than a pure bred Monenite warrior in that moment. Calico stepped cautiously into the light and caught sight of the ESC co-commander and let loose a cry of relief.
“Helen!” she called, awkwardly. “Er, I mean, Zora? Bayonet!”
Helen strode toward them with a confident swagger that reflected her deadly nature. “Call me what you want,” she said, reaching up and pulling a strand of brown hair from her face. “But don't call me late to a fight.”
Calico abashedly looked over the bodies Helen had created. “Yes ma'am.”
Nathen stepped out into the hallway, standing up straight in the light. Helen stopped several feet away, looking the savaged commander up and down with an appraising look. Nathen just let her absorb all his actively bleeding wounds with her cool, azure eyes. Helen smiled, humorously.
“You look like crap,” she said, in a way that made her sound genuinely happy for him. Nathen turned his head to spit out a cheek full of blood.
“Buckshot would have said I looked like 'death and ugly had a baby'. But I digress. How'd you find us?”
Helen propped the empty BOAR against the wall, double blade bayonets scratching the already-marred surface, and moved in to gently examine her commander's wounds. “Got a page on the comm unit, soon as the power came back on. Fiend. Said you two were traveling to this level. Then I just followed the gunshots, and the sense of urgency.”
“Your arrival was well-timed,” Nathen said gratefully.
“Nothing that well-timed,” Helen said, pulling a broken Maul claw tip from Nathen's uniform with a look of admonishment. “No offense, Boss, but you need a medic. How are you still standing?”
Nathen sniffed, the pungent scent of blood searing his nasal passage.
“It’s not about standing,” Nathen said, trying to control his heartbeat. “It’s about refusing to fall down.”
Nathen started into his lurching march, handing the empty Karl 9 off to Calico and twisting his shredded sleeve around his wounds in an effort to slow the bleeding.
“I'll make it to Central Command. Where's Doc?”
Helen matched pace, taking up her leader's flank opposite Calico. “He split off from me to scavenge medical supplies. Hopefully he's back by now. I got a hijacked hover chariot nearby with a grav-sled full of weapons, waiting to be delivered to CC.”
Nathen nodded, instantly regretting it as his head did a dolphin dive.
“They'll need it,” he said. “There's still a fight to be won.”
Chapter 56
Merthal clicked his beak impatiently. If there were two things he hated, they were incompetence, and waiting. At the moment he was dealing with both. The Golo soldier standing over him waved off the smaller alien admiral with a hefty gesture of its bulky arm.
“Hno seen,” the larger Yew said, steadfastly standing in Merthal's way. “Hnot bothersome at time. Go else.”
Merthal felt his temper rise. This particular Golo's expression of the Yew Alliance Common language was taxing its vocal cords, he could tell, but the message was getting across. Barely. Someone had left orders for Merthal to be delayed.
“I know the General's here,” Merthal said, making his words very clear. “Now let me past! That's a direct command!”
The Golo crossed its arms and snorted, looking about at its companion squad of Flogs. The smaller, rodent-like aliens were gathered about with their cell blasters, exchanging hissed murmurs amongst themselves as they eyed the admiral and his bodyguards. One Flog, a sergeant amongst his pack, clicked forward and reared up on two legs, addressing the Stelkan admiral eye to eye.
“The General is in council,” the Flog soldier snapped out, speaking in YAC with an admirably masked accent. “With orders not to be disturbed.”
In my opinion the General is already disturbed, Merthal thought, bitterly.
“I am here expecting results!” Merthal cawed, shrilly. “And I see none. If the General won't take responsibility for his own inadequacies, then I shall hold you responsible!”
The Flog sergeant bristled, and Merthal saw a hint of teeth. Behind him, he felt his two Vorch bodyguards tense, laying hands on their weapons threateningly. The Flog looked surprised, as though he wasn't prepared for this to come to violence, and looked up at the Golo blocking their path. The hulking brute looked down at its smaller companion, thinking with a creased scowl. Merthal knew the Golo wasn't as stupid as he appeared. Its slow speech and ponderous gestures and expressions gave the illusion that it was slow. But in truth, the Golo's were intelligent. They knew when to back down. After a moment, the Golo grunted something in Jagon and stomped aside, lifting an arm and pointing a thick sausage finger to his left.
“General hway,” he said, grudgingly. “Be seen.”
Merthal swept past, pushing through the row of Flogs with his strong wings, ignoring their yips of complaint. His Vorch bodyguards clicked their weapons into place and marched after him, showing expert precision. Ahead, in the Human barracks, the General's troops sat entrenched, set up with slugfests, TAC cannons, and blasters. Several Vorch aides were outside one of the officer's quarters, obviously standing guard. Merthal strode past them with an angry wave of his claws and swept into the room. The admiral was surprised by what he found.
General Scizzor was sitting in the center of the room, cross-legged, stripped of his weaponry, eyes closed, breathing slowly through his nose flap. His helmet sat on the floor beside him, next to his J'fin war sword. There were no war princes or troop officers in the room with him, and no council. His phantom communicator lay behind him, unused, so he wasn't even speaking to the frontline princes. He was still in armor, aside from his helmet. The General just sat there, in the darkened room, breathing slowly as though he were asleep. Before Merthal could think of anything to say, Scizzor broke the silence.
“Greetings, Admiral,” he said, identifying his visitor without opening his eyes. Merthal felt his wings tremor with agitation.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Meditating,” Scizzor said. “Thinking. Resting.”
“It’s the middle of a battle!” Merthal snapped, voice cracking like a whip.
“Hardly,” Scizzor said with a sigh, eyes still closed as though he were trying to sleep. Merthal groaned.
“Why are your troops just standing around? We need to push hard to claim Central Command. Or perhaps you've failed to notice that there's a battalion of Marines on their way and we don't have a hold point.”
Scizzor grunted in semi-agreement. “Hmm. Times like these are best spent waiting.”
Merthal cocked his head, narrowing his eyes to slits. “Waiting for what?”
Scizzor took a deep breath. “The order to retreat.”
Merthal exploded, flaring his wings out wide and shrieking furiously. “There is no retreat! You filthy disgrace of a soldier! Get out there and bleed them!”
Scizzor sighed and finally opened his eyes, resting his hands on his knees. “I'd ask you not to insult me, but I realize nothing you say can meet even that mild expectation.”
Merthal took a step forward and beat his wings once, feeling his anger grow. “You pathetic weakling! You sit and hide while our enemies build! Rally your troops, go forth and face them!”
Scizzor rose to his feet with a drawn-out
breath, never so much as raising his voice to the admiral's rage.
“You fail to understand,” he said with a calm tone. “There is a difference between admitting defeat and realizing that the path you walk is not the path to victory.”
Merthal slashed his wings down, drooping them at his side as he averted his gaze, unable to look at the despicable General. “Wark. Spare me your gasten sentimental warrior vilespew. You're worthless.”
Scizzor smirked. “On the contrary. I've followed your plan to the letter. You intended for me to march my troops through this station, counting on zero resistance. That's why your plan has failed.”
Merthal screeched. “You've failed!”
“Following your orders,” Scizzor corrected, blandly. “It was against my advice that we did not engage the Humans on Cravac, and we lost the system. It was against my advice that we docked on the lower station scaffold, and we lost the offensive. I believe the reports will show that I followed your every instruction, against my advice. Well, here we stand, Admiral, and here is my advice: Retreat.”
“We are the Yew Alliance!” yelled Merthal, infuriated. “We will not retreat before these Humans!”
Outside, the four waiting Vorch guards listened awkwardly as their leaders fought. Merthal's wings were an arched expression of anger, his chest heaving with rage. And still, Scizzor just looked bored.
“I had no idea you wanted this station so badly,” the General said, picking up his sword without a scrape. “Even after everything we'd hoped to gain from its capture effectively taken away by now. You truly want to continue to waste everything on these Humans?”
Merthal tried to squawk out an argument, but found himself thinking instead. It was true. This entire plan had hinged on critical details that were now gone. He'd needed the Human traitor to neutralize resistance, and that had not happened. He'd needed time to capture the station without interference, and then the Human battle group had jumped into the system and interfered. He'd needed the station, and its computer control of the starshield, to remain intact, but everything was in shambles or out of control. Begrudgingly, Merthal was forced to admit the awful truth to himself.
Yes, his plan had failed. There was no reason to stay now.
Scizzor sighed, flipped his sword over and clasping it near the blade, pointing the handle to Merthal. “If you truly feel I have failed you, then I submit to your judgment. Take my sword, and my resignation, as payment.”
Merthal's wings trembled, halfway extended, as he stared at the handle of Scizzor's sword. He wanted to take that sword and run it through the General's midriff so hard he pinned him to the wall with its curved fin blade. And he knew Scizzor might well let him do that. But that just made this all the worse. Because, as hard as he tried to deny it, Merthal knew... he needed Scizzor. And this was his subtle, face-slapping insult, offering this sword when he needed him the most. Daring him to prove him wrong. To make that mistake he knew he was already making. Merthal's wings quivered, poised halfway between calm and outburst, before slowly shrinking behind him, hook tips hanging on the rings of his admiral's uniform. Merthal blinked his avian-reptilian eyes and turned his head away, resisting the temptation to follow through with his desire to see that sword inside the general. Scizzor arched an eyebrow and coolly snapped the J'fin into its scabbard.
“Very well, then,” he said with a sigh, picking up his helmet but leaving his wrist rifle on the floor. “I will see you back at the carrier, Admiral.”
Merthal turned and marched stiffly out of the room before his temper boiled over again. He felt an overwhelming urge to take his thumb claws and gouge out those hideous eyes-... but he couldn't do that. That was an animalistic reaction, and he was not an animal. He stepped into the barracks and stopped, taking several slow breaths as all eyes fell upon him, waiting for him to speak. When he thought he could swallow his pride, he did.
“Alert all fronts,” he said. “Full retreat. All forces, withdraw to the Celestial Wind.”
Sub-admiral Danter scurried forward, casting darting, distrusting looks into the office where Scizzor was. “Retreat? Admiral Merthal, this is embarrassing enough without-”
Danter went flying back into the arms of a surprised Golo as a furious screech ripped through everyone's ears. The sub-admiral splayed his wings for balance as he looked up, terrified as Merthal swung his right wing back from the heavy blow, tucking it away. Without another word or further explanation, Merthal turned and marched off, with his Vorch bodyguards in tow.
Chapter 57
Nathen waited until the IV blood pack had finished its infusion and pulled the needle out, twisting his left arm in its flexicast to test the new range of movement. Doc had applied a mild disinfectant gel to his shredded arm, which dulled the pain... a little. Now wrapped in a durable flexicast, his entire arm stung and itched agonizingly. It was sealed in now, though, so Nathen had no hope of scratching it, which he realized was not a good idea when his skin was in shreds anyway.
As he tested his arm, Doc was finishing wrapping his chest and stomach in heavy bandages, having treated the Maul wounds for infection prevention already. The medic worked fast, showing off his speed as he tightened the bindings on the bandages. When he finished, he reached into a crate marked with the red cross and lifted out a medivest.
“Let's try this on,” Doc said, unbuckling the vest and holding it open for Nathen to slip his flexicast through. “It may be a bit tight, but I can adjust it.”
Nathen slipped his arms through the sleeve holes and shrugged it on, flinching where the padded fabric touched his bruised body. The commander buckled and snapped it up the front, then sighed and rolled his head, loosening up his neck.
“Do it.”
Doc nodded and placed a hand on Nathen's shoulder, using his other hand to switch on the power near the base of the neck. The vest stiffened, making Nathen inhale as it pressed in against him, then slowly relaxed as the vest automatically fell into synchronization with his heartbeat, filling his body with healthy resonance. Nathen's arm stopped itching so badly under the flexicast, and he felt his wind returning. Even his headache receded a few notches as the medivest measured and regulated his wounds. Nathen let loose a relaxed sigh as he felt some of his strength return. To the side, Doc lifted a hand in question.
“How do you feel?”
Nathen looked at Doc and arched an eye. “A little less like crap. Thanks.”
Doc stood up from beside the cot and lowered a hand to help Nathen stand up. “Thank this new medical technology. We're lucky I found these when I went scavenging. I didn't even know they were manufacturing these for the Infantry yet.”
Nathen took the hand and hauled himself up, feeling his chest tingle slightly as the medivest compensated for the action. “It works. For what it’s worth, it takes the edge off.”
“Yeah,” Doc said, checking the power on the vest. “Well, don't do anything too dangerous while wearing this thing. It’s not armor. It won't hold up under gunfire, and I can't guarantee it will withstand heavy shock, either. Best take it easy until we can get you on Doctor Cray's table.”
Nathen nodded and walked away from the cot, stepping out into the milling crowd of Central Control. Helen was over by a customs bench, going through the weaponry she'd liberated from the armory. Calico was standing nearby, silently learning as her superior went through the weapons checks before handing them off to select Infantry. On Nathen's left, Sergeant Donal was on a radio unit, which was active now that the station had full power. The Sergeant was speaking enthusiastically to someone, and as Nathen walked up beside him, he hurriedly wrapped it up.
“Right, roger that. We'll be ready for you.”
Donal clicked the receiver off and tossed it at the private holding the radio before spinning toward Nathen.
“I don't know whether to thank you or slug you,” he said, speaking his mind. “Every time I turn around, something new and bad happens near you. I don't know if that means you're lucky... or really unluck
y.”
Nathen stopped in front of the sergeant and held out his right hand.
Donal looked down at it, paused, then sharply shook his head like he got slapped by an invisible hand.
“Ah, what the hell,” he said, clasping Nathen's hand. “Welcome back, Bracken.”
Nathen gripped the embrace and nodded toward the radio. “What's the word, Sergeant?”
Donal let go of Nathen's hand and held up a finger. “Good news, for once. First, we've got power again. Dunno why it went off, or why it came back on, but it’s here now, and it’s helping. The Yew were about to break through to Central Command when something stopped them cold, and then they just backed off. We got our defense sentries back online. For the real good news, the battle’s all downhill from here, from the looks of it. We got reinforcements spilling in from the top decks. Doggone Marines, am I right?”
Nathen gave a little shrug. Donal, grinning to himself, gave a sigh like he could almost relax. “Looks like we slowed them down just long enough. The Yew should be beginning their retreat process any minute.”
Nathen looked about the room. The Infantry were passing around their fresh weapons and gear that Helen had acquired, but nobody seemed to be preparing to move out.
“You're not going to counter-attack?” he asked, curiously.
Donal drew a blank for a moment, then sheepishly scratched his head.
“Ah, that thought hadn't crossed my mind, honestly. I didn't think we'd last this long on the defense. Offense was not my priority. I figured we'd wait for the Marines to float in before deciding where to go next.”
Prime Alpha (Planetary Powers Book 1) Page 63