Thompson nods coarsely. “Make it quick.”
Beckert extends the lanyard of his HDI and jacks into a data port. The moment he connects, his goggles fill with streams of overlapping code. He twitches and drifts to his knees as his consciousness projects into the pathways of the machine.
Streams of chaotic light, fractal patterns, and code swirl before his eyes, then assemble into coherent structures. At his thought, they obediently shift and adapt to his preferences. In moments, a seemingly infinite landscape assembles in three virtual dimensions. It tantalizes him with its vulnerability.
Before the Geek can fully merge, virtual barricades assemble around him. He smirks, and his goggles burn with intensity.
Immediately, the hugeness of the landscape folds in on itself, collapsing into the new configuration. The way someone can look at a square, seeing all sides and the inside simultaneously, Beckert’s perspective becomes omnipresent, seeing all sides and the inside of the virtual structures at once.
“Interface achieved,” he drones.
Thompson flexes his jaw impatiently. “Keep those gray barriers in the corridor sealed, Geek. Then find us transport and a clear path to it.”
“Understood.”
The system attempts to resist Beckert’s intrusion at every turn and data gate. No matter how many blockades it erects, Beckert is already on all sides of it. The Geek breaks every disconnect and shutdown command, keeping all areas available to his whim.
“Corridor barriers sealed and isolated from external control,” he monotones. “Transports available…fourteen candidates.”
Thompson steals a glance at his young comrade, hanging on his words.
“Exit!” Argo announces on the opposite side of the room.
Thompson rushes across the room and finds Argo forcing open a small hatch way, just big enough for the Brick to squeeze through. He aims his rifle into the dimly lit crawlspace, expecting soldiers to pour through at any moment.
“Three of fourteen transports deep space capable,” Beckert drones. “In pre-flight, and taking fuel.”
“Show us the way, Geek.”
“Acknowledged…Gah!”
Thompson rises from his crouch, hurrying to the sounds of Beckert’s distress. Beckert’s face is scrunched, his eyes squinted, and a single drop of clear fluid rolls down his forehead. The goggles flare with intensity.
“Geek.”
The young operator’s face twitches randomly. A subsonic throb rolls through the deck plates. The ship is moving.
“Sergeant!”
Beckert’s goggles lose their radiant intensity. The Geek gasps suddenly and exhales with relief.
“Sorry, sir. Had to concentra…” He sways, blinking hard, and leans onto his fists. His stomach heaves. His mouth fills with salty saliva.
“Brick! Get over here!”
Beckert raises a hand. “I’m okay, sir.” The Geek gets to his knees and hiccoughs. He looks down at the terminal, admiring his handiwork. “They’ll be very busy.”
Argo tromps over and takes Beckert by the face. He lifts the Geek’s face mask, stretching a long trail of drool over Beckert’s head. Thompson gets out of Argo’s way and moves to the hatch, keeping watch.
Labset in hand, Argo takes a spare lanyard from Beckert’s HDI and plugs in. The device scrolls with diagnostics, halting suddenly and displaying, Intracranial pressure above normal. The big man grits his teeth.
“They’ll be very busy,” Beckert repeats.
Argo’s eyes flick up from the labset and study the Geek’s face.
“They’ll be very busy,” he says again.
Thompson stands and looks over the warm cubes.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m on it, Gun.” Argo answers.
“They’ll be very busy,” Beckert perseverates.
Argo’s big hands program a corrective serum. When complete, he fills an attached phial and plugs it into Beckert’s neck.
“He’s gonna be a little dopey for a few minutes,” the Brick explains.
Thompson stifles a remark, grunting to himself instead.
“Geek,” Argo asks, looking directly into Beckert’s face, “do we have transport?”
“Uh, yes sir.” His eyes blink hard. He looks down at the lanyard connecting him to the terminal, confused. “I lost the connection?”
“It’s all right. Do we have a path?”
Beckert disconnects the lanyard and allows it to retract. His eyes lose some of their dreaminess.
“Yes, sir. We make for the flight deck, just as before.” With each blink, his expression sharpens. “There are two vessels there that can serve us.”
“Send us the path, Geek,” Thompson orders.
Beckert nods and transmits the map. Argo’s and Thompson’s visors update with the information.
“All portals are open along the way, and I locked out the system,” Beckert explains. “They shouldn’t be able to trap us again.”
Thompson looks through the ragged archway to the bright white corridor beyond.
“Re-connect and kill the ship lighting. All of it if you can.”
“Yes, sir,” Beckert replies crisply.
Argo peers sternly at his patient and gives a tacit nod. He disconnects the lanyard from his labset and allows the Geek to work.
Beckert plugs in as before, his goggles streaming with copious data. In scant moments, he reconquers the digital domain and reroutes power from all illumination. The bright corridor and the dim hatchway lights fade to blackness.
From far down the hatchway, Thompson hears muffled shouts. His lips twist with conditioned rage.
“Gimme a grenade.”
Argo palms a bulb from his waist and lobs it to the Gun. Thompson snatches it, arms it, and hurtles it past the hatch coaming.
“Cover!”
Beckert and Argo crouch behind the cubic processors. The hatchway flashes and thumps violently. Hot smoke gusts into the room.
“On me!” Thompson commands. “Move!” He ducks into the low crawlspace, his rifle level and ready.
Argo stows his labset and closes Beckert’s face plate. He collects his cannon and dives through the hatchway.
Beckert relocks the system and disconnects. Pulling his pistols, he dashes to the hatch and follows his team, keeping a watchful eye to their rear.
Thompson speeds through the smoke-filled crawlspace. Traces of heat shine in his visor, marking the edges of a spherical detonation. The crawlspace is forcibly expanded at the blast site in all directions. His eyes search hungrily for the enemy, the adrenaline-fired rage making him eager to kill.
The crawlspace turns left at the blast site, and the Gun pauses at the corner. He holds his rifle past the edge, streaming data from the scope. Far away, two scorched bodies slump together. Residual warmth glows faintly from their still forms.
Thompson slides onto the blasted flooring, and it gives way beneath him. He crashes down into a wide corridor, lit only by head lamps and the body heat from seven blueskin soldiers surrounding him. The soldiers shout and stumble backward.
The rifle’s bayonet shicks into place and the Gun slashes it across the throats of the closest two as enemy shots piff into the media sacks on his back. Continuing the circular motion, he slides behind the gargling victims, snatching one of them around the chest. Holding his dying shield close to him, he slides backwards and raises his rifle. Two soldiers turn and flee. The other three shout savagely and aim their weapons but will not fire through their dying comrade. Thompson clicks rapid head shots at the three then drops his shield, aims with both hands, and snipes the last two in the back.
The Gun pivots, rifle level, checking behind him. There is no other movement, only the beams of headlamps cast haphazardly at the corridor’s walls and reflections off minute shards of metalized plastic. He retracts the blue-smeared bayonet.
“Clear.”
“Coming down,” Argo announc
es, and Thompson steps away from the ceiling hole. The Brick punches a much wider opening and slams down onto his boots. Beckert drops through and lands with the poise of a cat. His goggles strobe momentarily.
“I’ve updated our path,” he explains. “Sending it to you now.”
Thompson’s and Argo’s visors overlay the virtual map onto the corridor walls around them. A red line paints on the floor and extends into the darkness.
“Tight formation,” Thompson orders. “Let’s move.”
The team races through the hallways, no longer pausing at intersections. In the total darkness, the sounds of their breathing, their hushed foot falls, the muffled rustle of media records, even the coursing of their blood seems excessively loud. The sounds are the only indication of their distance apart, however, as their dark armor makes them invisible to one another.
The deck plates, maintaining their subsonic throb, vibrate with a rising pitch. The air takes on an electrical charge, standing hairs on their arms and necks. In seconds, the vibration abates, leaving only the subsonic throb.
“What was that?” Argo whispers.
“I programmed the ship to make random short jumps,” Beckert explains. “If we’re to get away, we need some distance from those armed escorts.”
Thompson thinks about Beckert’s claim. The Geek was only plugged in for a minute…less than a minute.
Maiella was right. You ARE good.
Judicium Dei
Directly ahead, a long corridor stretches without intersection and bends out of sight. Faint rays of light occasionally spill from far around the corner, as of someone moving in front of a bright lamp. The Gun slows his pace and glides silently. Argo and Beckert take their cue, coasting to quiet steps.
Near the bend, Thompson’s fist flies up and his team halts. He slides to the corner, noting the stray light has the same hue as the headlamps other blueskins were wearing. The faintness tells him the beams are not aimed his way.
He nudges his weapon past the corner, looking wirelessly through the scope. Silhouetted against the dim light is a barricade, a meter and a half high. Random gaps betray its hasty construction. Twin box-like devices stand above the barricade, supported by stout poles. Light reflects from the ceiling behind them, turning and shifting with activity.
Just visible from the dim light behind him, Thompson hand signals, enemy sighted, obstacle, ten plus combatants, unknown devices. The Gun watches a moment longer and retreats from the corner. He reaches into the blackness, finding his invisible comrades by touch and pulling them close. In as low a voice as his helmet microphone will register, he gives his instruction.
“Geek, take a grenade and stealth approach that barricade. Brick, when Geek gets there, step out and put some shots into the barricade. Draw fire. Geek, when enemy commits to action, lob grenade and cover. I’ll provide fire support from here. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Understood, Major.”
Thompson pats his comrades gently.
“Now.”
Thompson resumes his crouch at the corner and leans with his rifle around it, peering through his scope at the distant barricade. Argo cycles his breath, preparing for an intense firefight. He pulls a bulb from his waist and presses it against the invisible Geek. Beckert takes it and clips it to his waist. Pistols ready, the young operator slips around the corner, and hunches in his run.
In the faint light, Thompson can just see the Geek’s black armor against the light corridor wall, a shadow among shadows.
Beckert is half-way to the barricade when the rectangular devices click and bloom with stellar luminance. Thompson’s dark-adapted eyes wash out from the glare, and he recoils from the painful brilliance.
Terrified shouts and barks fill the hallway. Beckert’s pistols roar. Enemy fire answers back.
Argo, hidden from the direct radiance and his visor fully compensating, darts past Thompson into the blinding light. He sees Beckert twisting and staggering under a coordinated barrage.
Bellowing madly, the Brick triggers quick streams into the barricade, knocking it back with each hit. The streams perforate the thick blockade, exploding through it; but the weapon fire is undiminished. Mixed ordinance batters him from high and far beyond the barricade, scorching deep pockmarks into his armor.
Panging rifle shots streak past Argo, connecting with the rectangular lamps and exploding them in an dazzling shower of sparks. Shrill cries intersperse the weapon fire as the exploded lamps fade. Without light, enemy fire turns random and sporadic.
Argo’s armor, glowing from overlapping hits, quickly cools to black. His visor adapts to the sudden darkness, and he recovers his balance. Shots streak by, glancing off walls and ceiling.
The barricade ahead is seething with heat, a shining bonfire in his infrared vision. Argo thumbs up his weapon’s output and leans forward. A violet aura surrounds him.
The cannon launches a punishing stream into the barricade, blasting it to oblivion. The shockwave levels a row of retreating soldiers. Enemy fire ends abruptly.
To Argo’s right, copious dents and perforations mar the wall. Within them, a Beckert-sized patch is nearly free of hits. Below it, Beckert’s slumping outline is traced by myriad hot spots on his armor.
Argo tromps to his fallen comrade and takes the Geek by the arm, steadying him.
“Sergeant, look at me.”
Beckert faces the big man, eyes dazed and rolling.
“How is he?” Thompson asks.
Argo spins about, surprised to see Thompson standing behind him. The Gun’s weapon is aimed far down the corridor, sweeping side to side.
“Took the wind outta me, Major.” Beckert blinks hard “But I’m ok.”
The Geek spins his pistols around his fingers, deftly emphasizing his point.
“How far from the flight deck?” Thompson asks, already striding forward.
Argo and Beckert take formation behind their leader.
“Close, Major,” the Geek answers. “About a hundred meters.”
“They must know where we’re headed,” Argo states gravely.
Thompson pauses, looks over his shoulder at Argo, and nods. He faces front and resumes his stride.
“Sound off, ammunition status.”
“Current module’s near empty,” Argo reports. “Got one in reserve.”
“Change it out. If there’s an undrained cell in your current module, give it to me.”
Beckert drops the spent clips from his pistols and looks down at his thighs. Many of the clips are shot away, leaving three. His head spins back and forth, searching the ground around him.
“No, no, no!”
“What’s wrong?” Thompson asks.
Beckert slides the pistol grips over two of the remaining magazines. “Current load plus one clip reserve,” he replies dejectedly.
Argo pulls the module from his cannon and offers it to Thompson. Inside it, a row of dark gray cells ends at one glowing a mild green. He plucks the green cell and exchanges it with the one in his rifle.
Argo jams his fresh module into the cannon. It seats with a clunk and locks in tight. He takes the old module from Thompson’s outstretched hand and stows it in his rack.
Thompson looks at the corridor ahead. “We’re in for a bad fight,” he says to the air. “Best get it over with.”
Thompson passes the blasted remains of the barricade and breaks into a jog. The corridor beyond is unbroken until it turns sharply to the right. He reaches the corner and kneels, sighting with his rifle again. Argo steals up behind him. As the big man waits for his orders, he sees Thompson’s raised leg bouncing on its toes.
Thompson turns to address the Brick and notices the big man staring at his anxious leg. He grabs his knee and shifts weight onto it. The bouncing stops.
“Corridor is empty,” Thompson reports, “wide intersection sixty meters ahead, entrance to flight deck on right.” The Gun leans out for another peek. Brilliant light shines from the entrance. Industrious shad
ows play across the intersection floor.
Two thin figures run across the intersection toward the light with diaphanous gowns flowing behind them. An entourage of porters and aides, burdened with luggage, hurries after them.
Another group, armed and armored, hustles into the intersection. They halt, forming a line between the operators and the entrance. With a staccato bark from the lead soldier, they take a knee and aim their weapons down the hall.
Black Hawks From a Blue Sun Page 29