by Jake Elwood
Because Stewart's just a kid, and even Chiweto's at least five years younger than me. And he's never been anywhere. And they both really want what I want. For someone else to take charge and tell them what to do.
She turned her back on them, looking north. Her heart thumped urgently, telling her to get moving, start running. But that heat beam, whatever it was, had come from a long way off. It would take time for the aliens to reach the hilltop. She could take a moment to figure out where the hell she was running to.
The ground before her fell away in wrinkles, as if one hill after another had been mashed together by the hand of an impatient giant. It made an endless expanse of crests and ridges, none of them very high. There was very little flat ground. Instead of orderly crops this side of the hill was planted with a lot of waist-high bushes, each decorated in tiny leaves.
They would make terrible cover.
On a knob of land surrounded by a rippling ravine she saw a farmyard. The house was made of timber, and she shivered as she imagined how it would burn when the heat weapon touched it.
The barn, though, was made of stone. It was squat and solid, with walls that looked reassuringly thick from Janice's vantage point on the hillside. The barn was small, too. Small enough that three people ought to be able to defend it.
There was no sign of life in the farmyard. No one to help them with their defense. No innocent civilians to be caught up in the coming battle.
"There," said Janice, pointing. "We'll hold them off in that barn." And she took her rifle in a two-handed grip and started to run.
CHAPTER 19 - HARDY
The Bumblebee plunged through the void, pursuing four Hive limpet ships toward the battered Tomahawk. The little fighter was moving in a straight line, and it would take at least a minute to close with the enemy, so Hardy unsealed his gloves one at a time.
His fingers shook, making the simple chore surprisingly difficult. Fear was getting to him, which surprised him. He thought he'd already accepted his death. One more dogfight—fought on borrowed time—should be nothing. But when he tilted his glove, a trickle of sweat poured out to pool on his thigh. He was sweating and panting for breath as if he'd been outside running alongside the Bumblebee instead of sitting in the cockpit.
"Knock it off, Hardy," he murmured, low enough that he hoped the microphone in his helmet wouldn't pick it up. "Fear's in your head. Fear's a choice. Set it aside and concentrate on shooting these yahoos."
Fear, however, declined to be set aside. His muscles kept locking up as some primitive corner of his brain told him to hide by freezing in place. Again and again he had to fight himself for control, calling on lessons he dimly recalled from his earliest days of pilot training. Focus on your breathing. In and out. Alter it slightly. Breathe in a bit slower, hold it for a second. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Since you can't help breathing anyway, it's the one part of you that won't freeze up.
It worked, but it took a ridiculous amount of mental energy. I'm a combat veteran, for the love of God. I'm supposed to be past things like this.
He wiped his hands on his thighs, leaving shiny streaks on the fabric of his vac suit, then pulled his gloves back on one at a time and re-sealed them. By the time he finished that chore, the Tomahawk and the four limpet ships loomed uncomfortably close.
The battle began while he was a kilometer out and braking hard. The Tomahawk twisted and dodged, and he saw streams of small rail gun rounds rebound from the hulls of the limpet ships. Again and again the four ships tried to dart in close enough to latch onto the corvette. Each time, the Tomahawk managed to evade.
A rail gun fired a stream of projectiles, and four shots smacked into a limpet ship racing in. The ship continued to close, then crashed into the hull of the Tomahawk and bounced away, a cloud of shattered Fourier metal filling the void around it. The limpet ship drifted off, disabled, and an enthusiastic laser gunner burned a deep trench in the side of the alien before the battle moved on and left the limpet ship behind.
And then Hardy was in the thick of it. He found himself rushing a limpet ship nose to nose, and his nerves betrayed him. He fired too soon, wasting a long stream of rail gun rounds before he found his target. A dozen or so rounds slammed into the nose of the alien ship, bouncing away in every direction. A spent round hit the steelglass canopy in front of Hardy's nose, and he flinched, hauling on the stick as he did so. He shot past the limpet ship, then veered sideways and curved around the stern of the Tomahawk.
Another limpet ship—or possibly the same one; it was hard to keep oriented among the constantly shifting ships—loomed before him, and he braked, trying to line up a careful shot. Very little ammo remained in the Bumblebee's magazines. The alien was tail-on, and he was staring into the glow of the engines, finger tightening on the trigger attached to the control stick, when the ship jerked sideways. A chunk of hull burst outward and a rail gun round from the Tomahawk came sailing out, having gone right through the alien ship.
Hardy swore and hauled sideways on the stick, realizing too late that the Tomahawk's gunners were unlikely to fire again. After all, they'd destroyed the alien utterly. Besides, the Tomahawk had already turned. Her rail guns were no longer pointed at him.
Hands shaking, he turned the Bumblebee, hating the jerky way the fighter moved. He was flying like a novice, like an amateur on the edge of panic. He sneered at himself, trying to find the calm that had enveloped him in the last battle.
It helped that the limpet ships were ignoring him, except to dodge his shots. Their attacks focused entirely on the Tomahawk. Of course, they'd turn on him next, once they'd dealt with the corvette. All he had to do was keep the corvette alive and he'd be fine.
Except that he'd die anyway. He was lost in enemy space with a damaged corvette and nowhere to run. He was going to die soon, and the weight of that knowledge was finally becoming more than he could bear.
A limpet ship darted in and pressed itself to the steelglass window on the port side of the Tomahawk's bridge. Vapor puffed out as the alien breached the window, and Hardy screamed, a raw sound of frustration and terror and fury. He pointed the nose of the Bumblebee at the alien and dove in, doing his best to hold the fighter steady, pouring rail gun rounds and firing his laser, focusing both weapons on one spot in the middle of the limpet ship.
The Bumblebee was no more than a dozen meters out when the rail gun hit empty. He inhaled and screamed again, determined to ram the fighter into the side of the enemy ship, steering straight for the bright red glow of his laser on the alien hull.
At the last possible instant the side of the limpet ship crumpled inward. Something burst inside the alien ship, chunks of hull burst outward, and Hardy stomped on the center pedal in the cockpit. Nav thrusters on the underside of the Bumblebee kicked the fighter upward, and he felt a shock of impact as he bumped the limpet ship in passing.
He brought the fighter around in a broad turn. The Tomahawk, he was relieved to see, was still moving, twisting and dodging to avoid the remaining limpet ship. The limpet from the side of the bridge was drifting away, trailing bits of wreckage. The port bridge window was a blackened mess, most of the steelglass gone, and Hardy saw a spiky shape go floating off into the void.
An alien commando.
The remaining alien made a run at the belly of the corvette. The Tomahawk spun along its axis, and the hull banged into the limpet ship in the last instant before it would have landed. More Fourier metal shattered and flew off, and the alien tumbled for a moment, then steadied itself.
It quickly moved in for another attack.
And Hardy's fear vanished. He experienced a glorious moment of clarity where the adrenalin in his blood sped up his thoughts, his reflexes, without overwhelming him. He could see exactly what was about to happen.
And he could see exactly how to prevent it.
He pointed the nose of the Bumblebee at a spot between the limpet ship and the hull of the Tomahawk. His instincts told him he'd get there just before the
two ships came together, so he aimed the fighter at just the right spot, and then he accelerated hard.
The Bumblebee shot forward, gaining speed with every split second, racing toward the hull of the corvette. Just when he thought he'd miscalculated and he was going to slam into the Tomahawk, the limpet ship dropped into place in front of him.
He didn't even feel the impact.
CHAPTER 20 - HAMMETT
The cargo hold of the Theseus was an absolute mess.
Hammett sat on the staircase that led up to the bridge. He was about three meters above the deck, high enough to see over the heads of the crowd that jammed the converted freighter. People had climbed onto the rail gun tubes to escape the crush, and sat along the top three gun barrels. Now, the gaps between the barrels were rapidly filling with supplies from the Sgian Dubh.
They were abandoning the corvette. The Sgian Dubh had taken terrible damage in the last few moments before she darted through the Gate. Her crew were stripping the ship, removing everything that could be of use. That included every scrap of food and drop of water. It could be a very long trip home, after all.
A weary lieutenant in a Spacecom uniform came plodding up the steps. He leaned against the railing beside Hammett and said, "We've got a little bit of ballistic ammunition for you. We've fired all the explosive stuff."
"All right," said Hammett.
"The captain wants me to ask you for more storage space." By the embarrassed look on the lieutenant's face, he already knew it was a ridiculous request.
"We aren't hiding any empty cupboards, Lieutenant. You'll have to do the best you can."
The lieutenant nodded and straightened up. He started to turn away, then paused. "Thanks for taking us on board."
"Sure."
"Whatever happens …" The lieutenant hesitated, then shook his head and returned to the teeming chaos below.
Whatever happens? That means he thinks something might happen. Something I'll find unpleasant. Hammett stood and leaned over the railing, searching the throng below for a familiar face. All he could see was helmets, some blue, some green. Finally he just shouted, "Hey, you!"
A figure in a green helmet looked all around.
"Up here," said Hammett, and she tilted her head back. He recognized a young colonist named O'Reilly, her pale face framed by red hair. "Come up to the bridge. Bring three or four people with you. Colonists only," he added.
O'Reilly nodded, then tapped a couple of people on the shoulder. She spoke with them briefly, then pushed herself into the crowd, trying to work her way to the bottom of the staircase.
"O'Reilly!" Hammett shouted. When she looked up he said, "Climb straight up. It'll be faster."
She nodded, made her way to a support post holding up the staircase, and swarmed her way upward, clumsy in her vac suit. Hammett helped her over the railing, and she turned to help the men who climbed up behind her. Five colonists in total made the climb.
"Does everyone have a sidearm?" Hammett said, and they all nodded. "Good. You're in charge of bridge security. Hold the staircase as long as you can, but if you start taking serious fire, retreat into the bridge and lock the door."
O'Reilly stared at him, wide-eyed. "Are you expecting trouble from the other crews?"
"I think it's a good possibility," Hammett told her. "We'll try negotiation first. Don't be in too much of a hurry to draw a gun. But we'll hold the bridge, no matter what. Understood?"
Five people nodded solemnly.
"Good." He jerked a thumb toward the top of the staircase. "Your post is up there."
They clomped up the steps, and he turned back to the crowded deck. Where there had been a chaotic sea of milling bodies, patterns were emerging. He could see clusters of color, blue and green helmets clumping together as people joined their crewmates. They were segregating themselves instinctively, which was a crying shame.
A ripple of motion caught his eye, a knot of three or four people forcing its way through the crowd, moving toward him. The knot was blue and red, an EDF officer with some Spacecom personnel. The knot grew as two more people joined the group, one in a blue helmet and one in red. After that they formed a triangle, the Spacecom personnel in a wedge with the EDF officers behind them.
Hammett watched as the wedge drove its way forward, people cursing or grunting as they were forced aside, others creating a swirl of motion as they filled the empty space behind the wedge.
By the time the group reached the base of the stairs, Hammett could make out rank markings. All the Spacecom personnel were officers. He couldn't read the EDF rank markings, and he didn't care. The EDF officers would be full of importance and low on competence.
They climbed toward Hammett, and he moved to the middle of the staircase, planting his hands on his hips. They would have to stand a couple of steps down and look up at him if they wanted to talk to him. It was a petty psychological advantage, but he would take what he could get.
He recognized some of the Spacecom officers. The woman on the left was Commander Lauren Fortescue. She had "Cassandra" stenciled on her shoulder. The others were from the Sgian Dubh. There was a very young lieutenant who looked familiar, though Hammett couldn't remember his name. The craggy blond man almost Hammett's age was Max Steinfeld, captain of the Sgian Dubh. Another lieutenant stood beside Steinfeld, a petite black woman Hammett had never seen before.
As soon as the Spacecom officers stopped, a couple of EDF officers pushed their way through the line. Vac suits tended to make every body look the same, but both of them were clearly overweight. The man opened his mouth, then glanced uncertainly at the woman and closed it.
She had none of his diffidence. She stopped one step below Hammett, glared up at him, and said, "I expect full cooperation, do you understand me?"
"I'm Admiral Richard Hammett," he said mildly. "Welcome aboard the Theseus. Who might you be?"
She stared at him, flustered, then said, "I'm General Friesen of the EDF. I'm in charge here. Now, I expect you to-"
"Who are they?" Hammett interrupted, gesturing at the other officers. He didn't care overmuch. He just wanted to interrupt the obnoxious woman.
She froze with her mouth open. Finally she indicated the man beside her. "This is Colonel Fuller." She turned, pointed at Steinfeld, and said, "This is, ah …"
"Captain Steinfeld," Steinfeld said, sounding amused. "The Admiral and I are acquainted." He nodded to the black woman beside him. "Lieutenant Da Costa is my second in command. That's Lieutenant Remington, and Commander Fortescue, who commanded the Cassandra."
Hammett nodded politely.
"We'll be taking command of your ship," Friesen said. She pointed up the stairs. "Is the bridge this way?"
"My crew is under orders to shoot any non-colonial personnel who try to force their way onto the bridge," Hammett said. He kept his voice mild and his posture relaxed.
"Well, order them to stand down," Friesen snapped.
Hammett ignored her.
"Didn't you hear what I said?"
Behind her, the Spacecom officers looked distinctly embarrassed. They would back her play if they had to, Hammett decided. The key was not to force them into a corner. "We're allies," he said. "Being allies has worked out well so far, don't you think? After all, I've now rescued the personnel from two different Spacecom vessels." Friesen opened her mouth to speak, and he interrupted her again. "We have all the enemies we need. I don't think we really need to fight among ourselves."
"There are lines of authority that need to be established first," she said. "The EDF has authority over all Spacecom vessels."
Hammett sighed. "Where do you think you are?" He gestured around him. "Does this look like a Spacecom vessel?"
By the look on her face, the thought hadn't even occurred to her. She looked left and right, then said, "It's a vessel."
"A Colonial Forces vessel," Hammett said. "If you insist on being in charge, you'll have to go back onboard the Sgian Dubh."
She scowled, standing there with
her mouth open and her head tilted back, clearly searching for just the right scathing response.
"I'm glad you've all come to speak with me," Hammett said. "We need to discuss strategy. It's a conversation every experienced naval officer should participate in."
He couldn't tell if Friesen recognized the snub, but Colonel Fuller flushed.
"We'll decide what to do," said Friesen. "We don't need your input."
"He's the commander of the ship we're on," Steinfeld said, sounding a mite impatient. "He's also got experience fighting the Hive. We could use his input."
Friesen whirled to face him, but didn't seem to know what to say.
"As I see it," said Hammett, "the first order of business is to figure out where we are. How far are we from Earth, or any point on the Gate network?" He gestured behind him at the bridge. "Our scanners and navigation software aren't the best. This ship was designed as a short-haul freighter." He looked at Steinfeld. "Have you been able to get our location?"
The captain shook his head. "We were working on it when we lost power to the ship's computer."
Hammett whistled. The corvette was in desperate straits indeed if the main computer had lost power. "Okay, I guess we're doing it the hard way."
"We're going to head immediately for Earth," Friesen announced. She pointed a stubby gloved finger at Hammett. "You will comply immediately, or you will be placed in the brig."
The Theseus, of course, had no brig. Nor did it have a wormhole generator, which meant the trip home would take decades at least. He mentioned neither of these facts. "Would you like to tell me which direction Earth is?" he said.
Friesen gaped at him.
"Why don't we go up to the bridge," he said, keeping exasperation from his voice with a mammoth act of will. "We'll figure out where we are. Then, when you actually know what direction you want to go, you can make all the silly ultimatums you want." He leaned toward her, not quite hiding a sneer. "Okay?"
When she didn't respond he straightened, turned, and said, "This way, if you please."