The Eternity War: Pariah

by Jamie Sawyer

  “Right, right,” I said. “Someone get me local comms with the Santa Fe. Carmine needs to know what’s happened here.”

  Lopez shook her head. “No can do, ma’am.” She held up her blood-spattered arm, displaying her wrist-computer. The small screen was filled with a message: COMMUNICATIONS SYSTEMS OFFLINE. “Like Riggs said: local comms are down.”

  I activated my own comms unit, hoping to see a different result. Without comms, I couldn’t even access North Star’s mainframe, which meant no maps of the station. The same error message filled the screen.

  “Maybe we can get comms online from that box,” Riggs said. He pointed out a communications terminal attached to the wall further along the corridor. “We can call in the MPs. An escort off this coffin would be nice…”

  The Jackals surrounded the terminal. In that instant, the silence around us felt wrong. I just couldn’t explain why. I clutched the pistol tightly, scanning the empty corridor. No immediate threats—only trash collected in the corners, a couple of empty cargo crates stacked at the next junction—but something didn’t feel right…

  The comms terminal screen lit with an active connection.

  “This is Corporal Daneb Riggs,” Riggs said into the machine. “Alliance Army Sim Ops Programme. Requesting immediate support in sector T-89.”

  The comms unit hissed for a second. “Copy that. We see you on the grid.” I spied an old-style security camera attached to the deckhead above us, and its electronic eye whirred as it focused on our position. “Stay put.”

  “There’s a situation down here,” he said. “We’ve been—”

  Riggs’ words trailed off as the station lights went out.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  AMBUSHED

  With no external view-ports, or any other significant source of light, it was pitch black in the corridor. The only illumination came from the running lights on Novak’s drone, which continued to hover at his shoulder.

  This is a trap.

  I realised then what was happening. This sector was deserted, and deserted for a goddamn reason. It made perfect sense. What had happened in the bar hadn’t been a random shakedown at all. It had been a set-up, an ambush, and we had fallen right into it.

  We were in a stretch of corridor. One direction took us back into the bar, and the other led some way back to the docks. I heard noise from the junction, twenty metres in that direction.

  “You people okay in there?” came a voice, echoing down the corridor. “Alliance MP response team inbound—”

  “We’re here!” Riggs shouted again at the dark.

  “Down!” I yelled, dragging Riggs by the scruff of his neck behind an empty cargo crate.

  There was a loud hiss, then the crack of a discharging shockrifle. Blue lightning lanced the corridor, aimed exactly where Riggs had been standing.

  “What—?” Riggs managed.

  “Thank me later. Just stay in cover.”

  Had he been hit, he would’ve likely survived—shockrifles were mostly for non-lethal suppression—but he would’ve been out of the fight. Novak was already injured and I didn’t like our chances of getting another casualty off-station. In fact, as I saw the green glow of low-vis goggles at the end of the corridor—at least three Military Police in full vac-armour, carrying shockrifles—I was less than impressed with our chances of getting off at all.

  But Riggs couldn’t accept that the Mili-Pol weren’t on our side, and persisted in scrambling towards the junction mouth.

  “We’re here!” he shouted.

  “We see you,” one of the MPs called back. “Hold tight. Apologies about the misfire.”

  The shockrifle charged again, and once more I only just managed to drag Riggs into cover. In the dark, the flash of the discharging shockfrifle was dazzling: bright enough that an after-image was plastered across my retinas.

  “Cut that out!” I barked. “Just keep down!”

  I slammed my body to the wall, and the Jackals copied.

  More shockrifle fire.

  “Stay where you are!” someone yelled. “Security forces are inbound!”

  I slid my head over the lip of the cargo crate, weapon up. Fired several rounds, got lucky with one. An officer yelped and collapsed.

  “There’s more where that came from,” I shouted.

  “I’ll bet,” said a voice I recognised: Sergeant Byers.

  “They’re supposed to be helping us,” Riggs said. “This is insane! They’re supposed to be station security!”

  “Fuck security,” Feng said.

  In the distance, echoing through North Star’s ageing air-recycling network, I strained to hear another noise. Kinetic gunfire. Maybe an assault rifle or machine pistol, followed by a short, piercing scream.

  “Something bigger is happening on this station,” I decided.

  Emergency lights began to power up overhead, providing just enough light to see by. Small mercy—at least we could see who was shooting at us, but also more than that…

  “Not again,” Lopez said.

  A crude infinity spiral had been painted onto the junction wall, the words REJECT THE LIE scrawled beneath. The black paint was still wet, dripping onto the deck.

  “The Black Spiral…” Feng said, under his breath. “They’re here.”

  I nodded. “I guess that they were waiting for the fight, using it as cover.”

  “How did they know that we were here?” Lopez asked. “We’re supposed to be working for Military Intelligence!”

  “Forget about all of that for now,” I ordered. “We need to get back to the Santa Fe.”

  The MPs shouted to one another, coordinating their attack. Another shockrifle fired, and I saw shapes moving up the corridor. The MPs were suppressing us, would swarm us when they got close enough.

  Novak’s wet growl drew my attention. “Drone,” he said. “I lose it.”

  I shook my head, angered at his timing. “Not this again!”

  “Do not understand,” Novak implored. “Drone is holding us back, yes?”

  Novak’s drone hovered at the edge of my vision. It had somehow escaped damage during the incident in the bar, and it was now bleating and whirring like crazy, attracting attention in our direction. Obviously didn’t like the idea of being caught in the middle of a gunfight. Although there was no time to discuss the detail, perhaps Novak had a point.

  “Fine,” I decided. “Drone: command pattern beta-charlie-six-three-nine.”

  The drone had been programmed to recognise my voice, and that recitation was an execution prompt. Its single activation light flashed once.

  “Confirm: offline command?” it said in a tinny voice.

  “Do you think that this is a good idea?” Riggs asked, grabbing my arm. “Just think about this for a moment—”

  “Confirm!”

  The drone’s anti-gravitic engine immediately went offline and it became an inert piece of machinery. Without the gravitic core to keep it aloft, the device fell to the deck with an empty thunk.

  My action had another consequence. Novak’s face was barely visible in the low light, but his expression shifted into a grin. Knife in hand, his uniform now saturated with blood, he looked positively feral.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said.

  Then, before I could properly consider what I’d just done, Novak was up and running back towards the bar. As a final insult he scooped up the drone as he went. The Jackals watched on in stunned amazement; no one even bothered to challenge him.

  “Novak!” I shouted. “What are you doing?”

  But my attention was diverted by a kinetic round slamming into the wall beside me. The MPs were advancing on us from one direction, and the only route out was back towards the bar, the way that Novak had run. That was no kind of option.

  “He’s gone,” Riggs said, shaking his head. “The Russian’s gone. I tried to say.”

  “Bastard was probably planning this all along,” Lopez said.

  “Damn,” I spat.

&
nbsp; Now he was off the lead. Armed with a knife, just as he liked, and caught on a space station in the midst of some sort of rebellion. Shit, he would probably get the next transport off-base, get a new ID and make a fast buck as a mercenary…

  “Forget Novak,” I said. “We need to move.”

  I checked Lopez’s pistol. It was a short-nosed semi-automatic, carrying sixteen rounds per magazine. The display indicated that I’d already used six of those. How many targets were there out there? I scanned the junction ahead. Popped another couple of rounds at the MPs, trying to keep them in check, then bolted from behind the crate.

  “This way,” I ordered.

  The Jackals doubletimed it across the intersection, chased by shockrifle fire, MPs yelling commands to stop. No casualties, although I felt the prickle of shock-fire discharge way too close to my neck. We ran without any military discipline at all.

  I thought that I recognised this location. I knew where we were! Internally, I began to plot the route we’d need to take. Through the next junction, then into a concourse. Then the arrivals hall, and beyond that the docks. The Santa Fe was barely half a klick from our position…

  “They’re here!” came another voice.

  The passage ahead was blocked by two more MPs in full armour. They stood at a door-control panel, ready to shut us in. As we approached, one trooper slammed a hand to the control, while the other brought his rifle to bear and began to fire.

  There was no cover in the corridor at all. This was it: we had nowhere to go.

  A shock-bolt hit Feng in the shoulder. He bawled in agony, was flung back against the wall. His body twitched with blue fire, and the scent of burning meat and melted plastic filled my nose.

  “Someone get Feng!” I said. “Fall back!”

  I fired Lopez’s Revtech again and again. It bucked in my hands, unaimed and imprecise. No targeting software, no HUD—just me and the gun. The glass fragments in my chest stung like crazy each time I fired.

  “We can’t go back that way,” Riggs said.

  Of course, he was right. There were more troops closing from the other direction, their boots hammering against the deck.

  We were trapped.

  I raised the gun and fired.

  Heard a sickening beep: the gun warning me that the magazine was empty.

  The MPs stopped firing and advanced on us with weapons raised, the door still open behind them.

  “They’re contained,” said one. He had a Spiral insignia on the chest of his armoured suit, black sprayed on grey, only visible as he came towards us. “We’ve got them—”

  There was a flurry of motion somewhere above. The hatch of an airshaft fell loose from the ceiling, almost directly above the officers’ position.

  The Jackals closed ranks, back to back.

  “Who’s there?” the closest officer managed, just as something landed on top of him.

  Novak.

  Even if the MP was armoured, Novak was bigger and a lot heavier. His boots came down hard on both shoulders, and his weight knocked the man to the ground. The first MP just crumpled, his suit producing a startling clatter as it connected with the deck.

  The second trooper brought his rifle up, cursing, going to fire.

  Novak rolled off his victim, stamping down on the soldier’s back. Then he landed on both feet. Let his legs take his weight, despite the injury to his thigh. He was carrying something, holding it in front of him like a shield.

  The drone.

  Shock-fire hit the machine, sent sparks across the corridor. It did nothing to slow the Russian down though. With a bear’s bellow, he hurled the drone. It hit the officer squarely in the chest, and hard: with enough force to shatter his sternum. That accounted for the sickening crack as the man collapsed backwards.

  The officer Novak had jumped was back on his feet now, stumbling away, shocked and surprised by the assault.

  But Novak hadn’t finished yet.

  He flipped the knife, blade-down, and stabbed. And stabbed. And stabbed.

  Military Police armour wasn’t direct-combat rated, but it was heavy enough to withstand most small arms fire. Right now, Novak was a heavy weapon. He directed each stab of the blade with frightening precision, to where the armour joins were weakest, putting his considerable strength behind every blow. The MP gave a distorted groan—air escaping from a punctured lung, perhaps—and then he, too, slumped to the ground.

  Novak wasn’t done. He lurched over the trooper he’d caught with his drone. His knife punched into the MP again and again.

  There had been two MPs there one minute, wearing full armour, and the next there were none. A thief in the night had replaced them with sacks of inert meat, their suits pierced at the neck, shoulder, wherever there was a weakness in the armour.

  “Was that necessary?” Lopez said, trying to avoid looking at the dead bodies.

  Novak shrugged. “We go now. Is this way.”

  Just a short while ago, the arrivals hall had been a bustling hub of commerce, but now we found it utterly deserted. Stalls and shops had been sealed up for the fight, no one risking exposure to whatever was happening on North Star. The arrivals gate was abandoned.

  “What the fuck was that back there?” I asked Novak, as we ran.

  “Seemed best thing to do,” he said. “No time to explain plan. Do you have any bullets left in gun?”

  “No,” I confessed. “I don’t.”

  “Then I was right,” he grunted. “We would all be dead if I had stayed put.”

  “He’s probably right,” Feng said, gasping out the words. “Thanks for the assist.”

  The big man had his arm around Feng, and was helping him keep pace. The shock-bolt to Feng’s shoulder had seared a ragged hole through his uniform, exposing a patch of blackened flesh. That Feng was still walking was something; maybe all of his talk about improved clone physiology had some truth to it after all. The pair made an unlikely team: the Russian and the Chino clone.

  “Just tell me what you’re doing, next time,” I said to Novak. “I thought that you were deserting.”

  Novak grinned. “Maybe was. Maybe was not.”

  The Santa Fe sat in the berth, her running lights flashing, the thrum of an active starship engine filling the chamber.

  “Isn’t that just the sweetest sight,” Lopez exclaimed, rushing ahead and into the docking bay. “Friendlies inbound!”

  The corvette’s rear cargo hatch had been deployed, ramp touching the deck. Captain Carmine stood there, grim-faced, surrounded by a dozen fresh corpses. She had a carbine at her hip, but she raised the weapon when she saw us. Waved down three other sailors who were manning the hatch. They were armed with shotguns.

  “What the hell’s happening, Jenkins?” Carmine shouted. Sounded like she was maybe over-compensating as a result of close-range gunfire.

  “We’re under attack,” I said, scrambling up the ramp. “Jackals, get inside!”

  “Where’s Zero?” Feng asked Carmine. “Has she made it back yet?”

  “No,” she said. “You’re the first. Comms are down.”

  “We noticed. You saw some action too?” Riggs said.

  Carmine nodded. “These brutes tried to get onto my ship without permission. Killing them seemed the only option.” She patted the carbine. “Feels just like old times.”

  I noticed that Carmine had broken out her antique carbine: the weapon that had last seen action on New Ohio. She handled it expertly, and I could see from the nature of their injuries that several of the casualties had been her doing.

  “You lost anyone?” Carmine asked.

  “Not yet, but Novak is hit, and Feng took a shock-bolt.”

  The Russian grinned. “Is flesh wound.”

  Gunfire started across the station’s dock. Rounds sparked against the Santa Fe’s exposed cargo hold, spanked the ramp.

  “Get down!” Carmine ordered. She returned fire, the entire area turning into a criss-cross of kinetics. “This is no longer a safe place to dock,�
�� she said, “and as such we are leaving! Hatch, now!”

  “Aye, ma’am,” an officer said.

  “Not without Zero!” Feng argued.

  “For all we know,” Riggs said, “she could be dead already, and you’re not in a fit state to go anywhere.”

  The cargo ramp started to close. I could see figures advancing now—could see them running for us. Carrying heavier weapons, by the look of things. All of them wearing the same model of suit. Old friends. I immediately recognised the armour from the troops we’d seen at Daktar.

  The Black Spiral hadn’t just infiltrated the Alliance security contingent on North Star; they had come in force. It would probably have been easy enough to do. Civilian ships came and went out here all the time, and security was lax. How many of those civilian ships that we had seen on the way in had actually been Spiral transports? There could be hundreds of tangos on-station…

  “We need to pull out!” Carmine said. “Get to the bridge! We can breach the station’s defences and—”

  “We’re not going anywhere,” I said. “Not until we have our people.” I tossed the Revtech pistol to Lopez, and she caught it awkwardly. “Get that loaded and stay sharp.”

  Carmine turned to me with a harsh scowl. “This place is a warzone! You can’t seriously be thinking of going back out there?”

  “We’re not going without Zero,” I said. “She’s Sim Ops, and she’s a Jackal. Feng, with me!”

  Simulant Operations Centre.

  I slipped into the still blue fluid, and felt the sting of the amniotic against the open wounds on my ribs. There was probably still glass in there, but I had far bigger problems to worry about. Things that wouldn’t immediately kill me? They would have to wait.

  “You read me, Feng?” I asked, into my communicator.

  “Copy that, Lieutenant,” he said. “All your readings look good—so far as I can tell … Pulse is a little elevated.”

  I gave a bittersweet smile behind the respirator. “That’s normal for an operator, Feng.”

  “Whatever you say.”