by M. D. Cooper
Sandra laughed, an awkward sound from the brittle AI. “I will come back in one piece, too,” she said. “We will all come back in one piece.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
STELLAR DATE: 10.03.2981 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: HMS Resolute Charity
REGION: Europa, Jupiter, Jovian Combine, OuterSol
With one arm around Gala, Cal worked his way down the corridor that led into the medical triage center. He gritted his teeth every time he thought about the pirate in power armor he’d left in the command section, deciding it was more important to get Gala to care. He’d wounded the man’s leg with a shot to a knee servo, a common weakness in that brand of armor, and had run for the lift with the idiot yelling curses Cal recognized from the Anderson Collective. If he was part of a bigger team, which he had to be, why would the Anderson Collective be trying to infiltrate a private ship so close to Europa and the Cho? He imagined blowing a hole through the man’s faceshield—another weak point on that brand—and demanding answers as he struggled in his metal prison.
They had picked up a security detail on level five, who were wearing the same emergency EV suits with bulky helmets but were better armed. The squad leader carried a kinetic shotgun good for clearing crowds out of corridors, while the others were armed with a mix of heavy automatic weapons, grenades and a missile launcher Cal hoped was designed not to blow a hole in the hull.
Cal and Gala had fallen in with the security team as they cleared rooms and sections, taking stock of unconscious crew and others who had wounded themselves while delirious. The captain of the Resolute Charity was still wandering near the ballroom, waving his arms and jabbering about attacking birds, while a commander of one of the administrative sections, the only officer with a functioning brain, directed the few security teams to get a ship’s status.
They hadn’t encountered anyone beyond the single fighter outside the command section, which also struck Cal as odd. If this was a pirate attack, they would have flooded as many crew areas as possible while everyone was still debilitated.
When they were attacked by a collection of utility drones, Cal immediately started to wonder if they would find a breaching team at all. The whole thing was starting to feel like a remote attack, with the old pirate as a decoy. Why else would they resort to environmental contamination?
The thing about messing with atmospheric controls was that the effects were never uniform, and never lasted as long as you hoped. It might sound like an easy way to take out a crew, but people were stubborn, like he and Gala had been. If there hadn’t also been a major party underway, combined with the general ignorance of the ship’s crew, such an attack would never have been successful. The question was: What did they want?
“Did I tell you what a good dancer you are?” Gala asked, gasping against the pain.
“I’m a terrible dancer. I’m all thumbs.”
“You don’t dance with your thumbs, dummy. Where did you hear that?”
“The last time I tried to dance.”
They entered the triage area, a collection of small rooms with examination beds and short desks. The displays were all dark.
The ship gave a slight shudder, and Cal realized it had begun to move.
Gala’s head fell against her chest, her body going limp, and Cal pulled her tighter against him. “Hey,” he said, jerking her. “Hey, what are you doing there? Wake up.”
She didn’t respond. He barked at one of the nearest security officers to help him, and they moved her onto one of the couches in the triage rooms. Cal pulled off her helmet and positioned her head over the pillow, then ripped his gloves off so he could operate the autodoc system.
The air tasted metallic so he took short breaths as the display woke and cycled through diagnostics. In a few more seconds, the bed scanned Gala’s body and showed its assessment in the air above her body. She had extensive augmentation, which had probably saved her life initially. However, the three bullet wounds to the chest had torn up her lungs, liver and upper intestines. She had been bleeding internally until the artificial systems had finally been overwhelmed.
“We need to get her into the surgery,” the lead security officer said. “It’s just through there. These hospital sections are all laid out the same. She’s going to be all right.”
Cal didn’t take his eyes off the heart rate monitor showing a severely weakened status. He swallowed. He had only come to know her since leaving Clinic 46 but she was a fighter, had a good smile and a quick wit and he didn’t fully understand why he cared if she lived or died. People died. That was one of the only facts about life and he was wasting time trying to make sure this one person survived whatever was happening on this showboat.
“We should clear that area,” he said, looking up at the officer. “Then we can move her in.”
Another member of the security detail shrugged. “There isn’t anything down here but people high as kites. We shouldn’t waste the time.”
“The longer we stand around debating it,” Cal said. “The more time we waste.”
The junior soldier shook his head and walked back into the corridor. Cal watched him wave at his comrades and walk toward the bulkhead door that lead into the other section. They didn’t have any particular spacing and only one walked with his weapon raised.
Cal was about to tell the leader standing next to him that he was in charge of a bunch of fools, when the sound of the doors sliding open was eclipsed by heavy weapons fire. The distinctive sound of a grenade hitting the deck just outside the triage bay registered in Cal’s brain and he had time to roll over the bed—grabbing Gala as he went—and huddle in the corner of the room before the explosion shattered the outside corridor.
Shaking his head, Cal waved at dust and got his rifle up, waiting for the follow-on fire after the grenade. There was a slight bit of movement in the hallway that turned out to be one of the security detail dragging themselves away from the interior doors. The heavy footfalls of power armor came from farther down the hallway, and Cal kept quiet as he watched another man walk quickly down the hallway with a rifle at his shoulder.
Cal recognized the armor from the attack on Clinic 46. It was Andy Sykes.
The freighter captain checked each of the four rooms off the corridor before entering the room where Cal crouched with Gala’s unconscious body. In the corner of Cal’s vision, he saw the former leader of the security detail hunched against the wall, blood had somehow splattered the inside of his helmet, maybe a concussive injury. Cal realized he was alone.
As Andy moved around the edge of the doorway, he spotted Cal and raised his rifle, Cal dropped his pistol and held up his hands. He was gambling that Sykes was a fool, but he knew he wasn’t going to win a fight in a closed space against an enemy in power armor. Not if he wanted to save Gala.
Sykes’ eyes widened in surprise. “Kraft,” he said.
“I’ve got wounded here,” Cal said, nodding toward Gala. “I was trying to get her into the surgery area. Will you help me?”
Sykes didn’t lower his rifle. “Like you helped my son?”
Behind Sykes, Petral Dulan walked down the corridor. She checked each of the dead security detail, and moved to stand beside Sykes.
“Holy shit,” Petral said. She raised a projectile pistol with a muzzle as big as her fist. “Step aside, Andy.”
“Wait,” Sykes said.
Cal could see it in their faces as they switched to Link communication. He sent a comm request that was immediately denied. For some reason Sykes didn’t want to kill him.
The scene in Clinic 46 flashed in Cal’s memory, when Brit had shot Farrel in cold blood. Andy Sykes hadn’t wanted her to do that. He had been listening when Cal said Farrel was the only one who could save Tim. Now Sykes was playing out the same scenario with Dulan. Of course she wanted to blow Cal’s head off, while Sykes thought he had information.
Cal smiled inwardly, knowing all this worked in his favor. However, it wasn’t going to help Gala. As he
watched Sykes and Dulan, he realized Gala’s condition might help him after all.
“Look,” he said. “You’re going to do with me what you want. I know that. But she’s still got a chance. I was trying to get her into one of the surgeries when you took out the security patrol. Will you let me take her inside?”
“We can do that,” Petral said. “You don’t need to be here to save her life.”
Sykes shook his head, and Cal knew exactly what he was going to say.
“Toss your weapon this way,” he said. “You stand and face the wall. We’ll get her out, then you’re coming with us.”
“You got handcuffs?” Cal asked.
“I’ve got plenty of steel and a tap welder,” Andy said. “Are you going to toss that weapon or should I just kill you now?”
“Now or later, what’s it matter?” Cal asked.
“That’s up to you.”
Cal stared up at the face watching him from the helmet. Sykes would kill him, he knew. But the desire for revenge didn’t outweigh the possibility of helping his son, who was probably still a vegetable. That would be Andy Sykes’ downfall, Cal thought. His damn kids.
Cal put his pistol on safe and tossed it against the wall near the dead squad leader. He eased himself out from under Gala and stood to face the wall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
STELLAR DATE: 10.03.2981 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: HMS Resolute Charity
REGION: Europa, Jupiter, Jovian Combine, OuterSol
“No,” Andy said. “We’ll help your friend but you’re carrying her.”
Kraft turned his head to look at Andy out of one eye. He smirked. “Ironic, isn’t it? You kill all these innocent people and then decide to help one just because I ask?”
Andy squeezed the grip of his rifle, his HUD noting a rise in his heart rate. “You want her to live or not?”
“I do,” Kraft said. “For some reason I do.” Keeping his hands near his head, he turned slowly and bent to reach for his friend.
“Wait,” Petral said, taking a step forward. “She’s got a pistol on her belt. Toss that over here, too.”
“You’d like it if I tried something, wouldn’t you, Dulan?” Kraft asked. “How’s my friend Kylan doing?”
Petral released a scream of rage. For a second, Andy was certain she was going to kill Kraft. Instead, she aimed just above his head and melted a section of the wall.
Kraft didn’t flinch. “Poor trigger discipline among your troops, Captain Sykes,” he said.
“Toss the pistol,” Andy said.
Kraft rolled his friend to the side and reached slowly for the butt of the pistol. He carefully pulled the weapon from its holster without getting a finger near the trigger guard, and tossed it where he had sent his other sidearm. He waved a hand at the wounded woman’s exposed side, and then his own utility harness, before shifting so he could pick her up slowly and position her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
Andy backed out of the triage room’s doorway and into the corridor. Petral stepped to the side, allowing Kraft to walk past her as she maintained her aim with the pistol. Kraft stared resolutely ahead as he walked, turning immediately to face the doorway into the surgery section. Kraft walked steadily, keeping his hands on his friend where they could be seen.
“Take that bay right there,” Andy told him, pointing at a bed directly across from Brit’s. Kraft’s head didn’t turn to look at Brit’s station as he passed the closed surgery cocoon. He seemed focused on getting his friend into the empty bed as soon as possible.
In the bay, Kraft lay his friend on the surgery bed and moved to pull the helmet of their EV suit. With the helmet gone, Andy could see the round face of a woman with dark eyebrows. Her eyes were closed and her mouth hung open slightly.
With his friend in position on the bed, Kraft moved to the surgery’s control panel.
“No,” Petral said, pointing her pistol at his chest. “You stand over there.” She nodded toward the corner of the bay, away from the exit. “I’ll handle that.”
“I don’t trust you,” Kraft said.
“Of course not. You can watch everything I’m doing from there.”
“And if you kill her?”
“That will be too bad, won’t it?”
Kraft pressed his lips together but didn’t respond. He moved to the corner of the bay and stood with his hands crossed in front of his belt. Petral activated the surgery and the table automatically shifted to encase the woman. The holographic model of her body appeared above the cocoon, showing a mix of augmentations and natural bones, organs and muscles. Her chest was marred by three large bullet holes, with bleeding filling her body cavity.
A connection request from Sunny Skies hit Andy’s Link.
he said.
Andy frowned.
Fran’s sarcastic grin crossed the Link.
Andy blew out an angry breath, knowing she was right. He told Petral he was going to check on Brit and walked heavily across the room to the other surgery bay. The display on her cocoon estimated another ten minutes before her initial treatment would complete.
Andy glanced at Kraft, still facing the wall in the other surgery bay. Petral had set her pistol on top of the display at the foot of the cocoon.
Andy said.
Fran laughed.
Andy enjoyed the sound of her voice for a moment, appreciating the way she mixed humor with fatalism. There was still a warmth in her voice, making it obvious she was trying to help him feel better.
Andy let out a slow breath.
Any wondered when the game of twenty questions would end.
Andy walked over to Kraft and ordered him to put his hands behind his back with his fingers interlaced, just as he had learned to do while running smuggling interdiction in the TSF.
“You going to buy me dinner first?” Kraft asked.
Andy shoved him in the wall—harder than he’d intended with the power armor—and Kraft’s head bounced off the ceramic material. He stumbled and Andy wrapped the steel cuffs around his wrists and crimped then into place.
Behind him, the surgery cocoon holding Brit released a series of three tones and split open, pulling away from the bed in its middle. Brit lay blinking at the ceiling. She rubbed her face and turned to look at Andy and Petral.