“Get him,” shouted a gunner’s mate standing in the front of the crowd.
Absolon fired, his blaster pistol striking the gunner’s mate in the chest, knocking him to the floor.
There was a moment of shocked silence. Then servos whined as the Marine Jack who had been knocked to the floor started to get up.
The gun deck gave an outraged growl and a storm of thrown multi-tools and auto-wrenches erupted from the pack of ratings and warrants.
“Subdue the officers and stop those Jacks before they kill us all,” screamed Warrant Lesner, pointing to the man down on the floor with a smoking hole through his chest.
The marine, with a still smoking wreck of a hand, stopped clutching it and screaming, long enough to backhand the Assistant Deck Chief into the wall. As Lesner crumpled against the bulkhead, the tactical officer went down under the hail of hard metal objects thrown at them from not more than, in a few instances, a few feet away.
A swarm of ratings washed over the officers. The single, still fully functional Jack, brought his blaster rifle to bear. He quickly mowed down half a dozen soot-faced grease monkeys. The immediate area in front of him cleared, the Caprian Jack turning to lay down suppressing fire for the officer’s who’d just been swarmed over.
His compatriot once again let go of his shattered hand and fumbled for his sidearm, while his feet lashed out with power assist to break bones and smash bodies
Heirophant knew he had to get back into the fight and with one more mighty hop that didn’t quite get him close enough, but alerted the marine to his presence. This caused the marine to swing around, bringing his blaster rifle to bear, and the Tracto-an gunner fell to the floor rolling forward to clear the last remaining distance been his axe and striking range.
Not in the best position for combat, being half crouched on the floor, Heirophant nevertheless swung his legs one way, and ignoring the shooting agony as his broken leg flopped one way and then the other, swung his axe with all the heavily muscled strength in his upper body.
The force of his axe as it connected with the highest part of the Jack’s armored body he could reach — the joint of the knee — and its mono-molecular edge penetrated several inches into the servo, causing it to shoot sparks and lock up.
Between the force of the blow and the damage to his knee actuator, the Marine once again fell to the deck.
Heads on a level with each other, the Tracto-an could see the bare-teethed grimace of the fallen marine. Baring his own teeth in defiance, Heirophant pulled back on his axe, raising it above his head. With a growl, the heavily armored hand of the fallen marine grabbed hold of his axe, jerking it from his grip.
Sensing his doom, the Tracto-an lunged on top of the Jack. However, his attempt to wrestle the weapon free, and back into his control, failed. When the Jack slammed the arm still holding the blaster into his side, the Tracto-an once again went flying.
This time, instead of instantly jumping back up, the Tracto-an gunner coughed, and a coppery taste flooded his mouth. With a struggle wherein he instructed his bruised and battered muscles to obey him, he flipped back over onto his front and once again started to pick himself back upright.
Half expecting his head to be blown off at any moment, the oversized grease monkey finally picked his head back up in time to see a senior chief slam an ion spike into the side his the marine he just been battling and another senior rating rammed a grav-cart going full speed into the marine with a damaged hand, pinning the unarmed marine up against the wall while a horde of grease monkeys pounded on him with their multi-tools. An enterprising young crewman leveled one of the parliamentarian officer’s blaster pistols into the Jack’s face.
Seeing his Imperial boarding axe stuck in the chest of some hapless assistant gunner, the Tracto-an shook his head at the carnage that had descended on the portside gun deck.
Spitting blood on the floor, Heirophant slowly hopped over to his axe. Internal strife almost always caused more damage to a war-band than the enemy ever could.
Placing the foot with a broken leg on top of the dead gunnery assistant, he grabbed hold of his axe with both hands. Ignoring the agony shooting through his leg as he forced the body to stay still, he growled deep in his throat and with a wet sucking sound, pulled the axe free.
Chapter 31: Grease Monkey!
There was a riot of screaming, shouting and blaster fire, but it wasn’t until someone rammed their knee into the duralloy-jawed freak Bernard on their way to the main battle, that Bogart managed to regain the upper hand.
A broken bone in your good hand becomes less of an issue when your opponent is already stunned. A good wallop to the side of his head with an auto-wrench, followed by a choke-hold, would do it to them every time. Ignoring the feet that stomped on them, or people falling on and around them, the Chief Gunner spat out the mangled ear as he bucked around until he got his hold sunk in good and hard. Bernard flailed around a bit, even trying for a fish hook towards the end, but Bogart now had his back to the deck. Bernard was positioned on top, where he would take any blows from the herd of grease monkeys trampling all around them, so it was all over but the flailing.
Soon, even that was over as Bernard lost consciousness, and the Chief Gunner hauled himself back up to his feet by virtue of pulling down a black faced grease monkey and using him for a climbing board.
Stuck in the middle of the pack, there was little he could do but push forward. By the time he got front and center, the fight had been knocked out of the parliamentarians.
Taking in the two suits locked up from electrical overloads and the other two with holes in their face plates, Bogart stopped and absently patted his burned and grease-stained work suit for a cigar, before pulling up short.
This was no time for a smoke he thought, slamming a cigar into the side of his mouth and chomping down but failing to light it. His mind quickly moved on to more important matters, like the bunch of crewmen in gunnery patches milling around aimlessly or beating on fallen parliamentary officers.
That wouldn’t do at all, as it was hardly professional or in keeping with the best traditions of the gunnery service. But what could you expect from a bunch of amateurs? No doubt, they were amateurs willing and eager to learn, but amateurs all the same.
“Knock it off,” he growled, leading with his boots and kicking a number of red-faced gunners and gunner’s mates away from the battered and bloody tactical officers.
“They came down here to kill us Chief and—” started a furious rating, shoving a finger in Bogart’s face and shouting.
Hauling back with his left fist, the Chief of the Gun Deck landed his patented Iron Hand on the loud mouth’s jaw, which knocked him on his hind end.
“Stick a finger in my face again laddy and I’ll cut it off,” roared Bogart, turning and glaring at the other men surrounding the fallen officers.
The others stared at him sullenly as they backed off, and he could feel more than see the rest of the gun deck looking at him in growing disbelief.
“Did you pack of green-eyed blighters think a passel of officers and a quad of marine jacks is the worst they’re going to throw at us?” he snarled, sweeping the gaze around the deck.
Surprise started to replace disbelief and sullenness as he swept the deck around him with his stormy gaze.
“Heppner’s decided he’s no longer content playing second fiddle to the Little Admiral and is making his move for the ship,” Bogart roared, deciding it was best to play off this mutiny as a case of the Captain against the Admiral, at least for the moment. “He’s decided to wait until our boys in the Lancer contingent are good and dug in over there on those pirate battleships before making his move.”
All around him, members of the gun deck stared in disbelief. A growl started to grow amongst the gun crews.
“We can’t just go easy on these traitors, Chief,” barked a Gunner with heavy laser battery patches, “they killed more of our boys than the pirates did!”
Bogart nodded in agre
ement, although cynically he figured that counter battery fire had actually killed more of his men on the gun deck than the handful he could see cut down by blaster fire.
He gave a sharp nod. “We don’t have time to waste around beating on a bunch of mutineers,” he said harshly.
“What are we supposed to do then,” demanded the same idiot he’d just knocked on his tail for sticking a finger in Chief Bogart’s face.
His lip twitched and the Chief of the Gun Deck manfully resisted the urge to talk with his boots, at least as it regarded the finger pointer.
“Space 'em,” he said decisively.
The loud mouthed finger pointer looked taken aback, “What?” he said sounding dumbfounded.
Bogart pulled his unlit cigar out of his mouth and shoved it in the finger pointer’s face, causing him to take a step back in surprise.
“I said space ‘em, you motherless cur,” he snarled, ramming his cigar into the other man’s chest and grinding it until it frayed and split in half.
“Me?” gulped the suddenly white faced crewman.
“You’d rather beat on them all day, when we’ve got a battleship to save,” barked Bogart incredulously, turning to sweep the deck with his hot, angry gaze.
In front of , the former finger pointer gulped.
“You, you and you,” Bogart said, first indicating the finger pointer, and then several of his buddies who liked to beat on a man when he was down. “Haul these mutineers to the nearest airlock and let them walk the last plank that is every mutineer’s Murphy-given right to experience, and then get back here on the double!”
He watched for a few seconds as the now dumbfounded ratings started picking up and hauling away the tactical officers. He glared around at anyone who looked like they were about to protest. Because just as soon as those parliamentary officers were shoved out the nearest airlock without a suit, the entire gunnery department — regardless of royal or parliamentary sympathies — would be in the same boat.
“What about the rest of us, Chief,” wheezed Lesner, moving to the front of the group with the assistance of a pair of helpers.
Bogart jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Haul that gum-chewing son of a leaky hose into the nearest supply closet,” he instructed when the ratings began to collect the fallen mutineers. “I’ll deal with him later.”
Lesner leaned against the wall, struggling to catch his breath.
“You look in a bad way, Warrant,” Bogart growled.
“I’ve still got some fight left in me,” Lesner replied, baring his teeth and then scowling, probably at the pain.
Bogart looked in his eyes searchingly, and saw what he had hoped to see. Giving Lesner a thumbs up, he turned back to the deck.
“The Assistant Deck Chief’s got some fight left in him, after tangling with a quad of Marine Jacks, how about the rest of you?” he challenged thunderously.
Several of the ratings looked at each other questioningly but the majority of the men near him made a harsh angry sound.
“Alright then,” he shouted, “Every gunner on this deck is to stay at his post and keep firing on those pirate ships until they stop firing back! I want you to smite out of cold space with Murphy’s wrath anything and everything that even look like it’s going to take a shot at us,” he said turning back to look at Lesner.
“All Assistant Gunners are to assemble on the Assistant Deck Chief here,” pointing at Warrant Officer Lesner. “He’s going to lead you in dismounting a point defense array and aiming it at the main blast doors that access this deck,” he roared. “We'll also isolate ourselves from the ship’s main air supply, and lock down every blast door and maintenance hatch on the portside!”
He stopped to catch his breath.
One crewman, in heavily grease stained utilities, looking like he was afraid of being left out, interjected "What about the rest of us, Chef?"
As for the rest of you,” Board's face hardened, “GREASE MONKEYS,” he yelled at the top of his lungs, “I want every hard hitting crewman, and rating, who can swing a pipe, or run a grav-cart, to assemble on my position, NOW.” he finished in a raised voice, as every grease monkey on the deck, not currently surrounding him, made for his position at top speed.
It took a few moments for the group of grease monkeys to assemble, and the Chief took those minutes to catch his breath and do more than just run on instinct. He didn’t like what his brain was coming up with, but that’s why he was the Chief Gunner. Not to like what he had to do, but do his darnedest to make sure it got done.
“What do you want us to do,” Asked Heirophant, his eyes hard, despite the fact one of his legs was hanging uselessly and the foot on that leg pointed at an unnatural angle. The mono-Locsium boarding axe he was using as a crutch only added to his general aura of intimidation.
Bogart grinned savagely, “We’re going to take back this ship from those parliamentary swine,” he replied, “now start getting into that power armor, since its current operator no longer needs it and you’re no use to me if you can’t move.”
Heirophant just smiled as if this insane plan was exactly what he’d been hoping to hear while the less insane members of the human race standing all around him looking more than a little uncertain.
Bogart raised his voice, “Cower in the maintenance lockers if you want,” he said scornfully, “But know this: anyone who does will look back on this day and hold his honor cheap. To have been here and not be able to say,” he paused, letting the tension of the moment drag out.
“That he stood there beside his brothers and sisters for the Last Charge of the Grease Monkeys!”
The vast majority of the crewmen looked at him like he’d gone crazy.
“For the Clover,” he yelled and heads started nodding.
“For the Little Admiral,” he screamed, pointing at the door, and this time more heads started to nod and feet moved as people started shifting towards the main blast doors leading to the rest of the ship.
“For the Gun Deck,” he shrieked, and not bothering to see how many grease monkeys had the courage to follow him, started running toward the blast doors. Using his crystal he savagely slotted it in and unlocked the door.
“Don’t stop until we’ve freed out brothers on the starboard side and then secured Engineering,” he roared, charging down the corridor surrounded by a number of poorly armed grease monkeys.
Someone jostled him on his injured side, and he turned with a growl.
“Warrant Lesner said you might need this,” said the slender looking grease monkey beside him, proffering an officer’s sidearm, complete with belt and holster.
Bogart’s scowl turned into a grin. Scooping up the blast pistol, he jacked the slide and checked the power charge. More than half charged, for a charge he hoped had more than half a chance.
There was never a better time to have been a Royal Gunner than when you got the chance for a little parliamentary payback. It was time to show how a democracy really worked.
Chapter 32: The Armor Prince!
Despite blowing a super-sized hole in the blast doors leading into main engineering, the Pirates inside were putting up one Hades of a fight and unfortunately, the same blast that disabled the main doors leading in also discombobulated the squad of marines behind him.
Combined with the fact that Wainwright been unable to communicate beforehand what he was going to do or coordinate things under his direct authority meant that his one man charge had stalled out just inside the Main Engineering compartment.
He was pinned down under a hail of blaster fire from a pair of crew-served blaster mounts set up specifically by these pirates to defend Main Engineering from borders exactly such as himself.
Whoever had designed the defenses on this ship knew his business, which was a very unfortunate fact for Wainwright and his men. Still, it was unlikely to slow down his Marines for very much longer. Blast this lack of a reliable communicator, he thought to himself.
They’d been on the go ever since boarding t
he old Armor Prince, and his few attempts to get one of the other marine’s communicators had failed due to the fact that in his standard issue marine armor, he looked just like any other low ranking marine. And no marine liked to just give away critical pieces of equipment, especially to someone like himself, who was stuck in a damaged power suit which might not work if said communicator was jacked in.
Another storm of blaster fire crashed into the metal workstation he was crouched behind. This was growing intolerable. Either the squad of jacks out there was going to have to force its way in, despite those two crew-served, floor mounted tripods, or else he was just going to have to take matters into his own hands and force the issue himself.
For a moment he shook his head in disbelief. He’d always espoused leading your men personally instead of from behind a computer screen (or worse yet, a desk), but this was taking it to an insane extreme. Wainwright was a full bird Colonel for Murphy’s own desperate sake; he should be leading his men and sharing in their dangers, yes. But not leading literally so far out ahead that his personal tip of the spear was so far in the lead that no other marine was even within spitting distance was unreasonable.
The second tripod opened up on his position and the second desk he’d taken cover behind in as many minutes started to melt into slag.
That’s it, he decided. He was through dinking around waiting for reinforcements to come barreling through that door, and to Hades with whatever damage the ion cannon did to Main Engineering. He had a crew-served weapon of his own to rain some pain with. Sure, it was a bit unwieldy with only one good hand, but a physically fit man in power armor was just about strong enough to wield such a weapon effectively, at least in close quarters. He was about to teach these metal-headed yahoo pirates that very lesson in just a moment.
Taking a pair of rapid, deep breaths, he pulled the portable ion cannon close to his body. When an ion bolt blasted through a part of the table right next to his shoulder, he knew he’d waited almost too long.
Spineward Sectors 03 Admiral's Tribulation Page 20