The Dotari Salvation (Terran Strike Marines Book 1)

by Richard Fox

  “Moz’in got confused. His memory isn’t what it used to be. Deck seventeen next to the tertiary stasis pods. That could be right. But nineteen keeps flashing in Moz’in’s memory.”

  Lo’thar raised a hand just high enough to draw Hoffman’s attention. “The coupling in the Canticle was on deck seventeen. I can find it.”

  Hoffman nodded, then met the gaze of each member in the team. “We will make an EVA to the deck, set the charge to blow five minutes after the attack on engineering. Any reinforcements the banshees send to engineering should be in the tubes by then.”

  “I’ve got three breach charges left, sir. Resupply is very far away,” Garrison said.

  “Should only need one for the power coupling. The next we’ll need to get into the bridge. Captain Bradford had a primary and secondary breach point. We’ll use the one he didn’t. Soon as we destroy the bridge and the drone, Moz’in can take control of the ship from engineering and signal the Breitenfeld.” Hoffman smiled at his cardboard-box and food-wrapper mock-up, then nodded.

  Duke spat a stream of tobacco juice into a floor drain. “Sir, the enemy gets a vote in all this. What if you can’t disable the tubes? Or we’re in danger of being overrun in engineering?”

  “Gunney King will abort if necessary. You’ll fall back here and we’ll come up with a new plan. The chain of command is clear if I don’t return. It’s a long shot. I know it. You know it. We don’t have the luxury of time and perfect knowledge of the enemy. What we have is a mission.”

  The ship groaned from unseen stress on the hull. Hoffman ignored it, despite hearing the echoes of banshee war cries and remembering the swarm of monstrosities that had almost wiped out his team.

  “We didn’t quit when everything went to hell on New Bastion. There’s one Xaros drone on this ship, a drone that doesn’t know what a mistake it made when it attacked us and the Dotari. If this really is the last one in the galaxy, then Strike Marines should be the ones to destroy it. We are Strike Marines. In the absence of orders, we attack.”

  “Oorah, sir,” Max said as other members of the team nodded.

  King stepped forward. “LT’s team needs all your spare air tanks for the EVA. Hand them over.”

  “We’re not going to be on internal air when we go through the sewers?” Booker asked.

  Garrison gathered the air tanks. “I’ll take banshees ready to rip me limb from limb over that stink pit any day.”

  Adams sauntered toward Garrison and then stopped, one hand on her hip, to observe his efforts. Long and lean, her form was stunning despite the circumstances. She smirked at him, then started to turn away. “You’re a decent Strike Marine, Garrison. I suppose you’ll probably live without me.”

  He looked up. “I might need my posterior attachment wiped later if you’re available. Keep an eye on Opal. He doesn’t seem happy about leaving the lieutenant.”

  Hoffman was done with his gear but watched everything his team was doing. He made a show of double-checking his rifle as he eavesdropped.

  “I didn’t think you liked the doughboy,” Adams said.

  “There’s nothing wrong with Opie. Well, maybe there is. Hell, I don’t know. Just keep an eye on him.”

  King grunted. “Don’t get soft on me, Garrison.”

  Moz’in looked around nervously as he weaved his way between the Strike Marines, going wide of Opal as the giant, mottle-faced doughboy glowered at the floor. Garrison bumped him accidentally. Duke stared at him until he sidestepped, muttering Dotari apologies. He stopped in front of Hoffman and looked up. “You want me to leave my room? You want me to go to where the noorla are waiting for me?”

  “We need you to run the ship. Lock down the banshees—the noorla—and keep them from damaging anything else,” Hoffman said.

  The faded and tattered quills on Moz’in’s head trembled and his eyes went wide.

  Hoffman put one hand on the Dotari’s shoulder. “I’m not sure how they’ll react once we destroy the drone.”

  Moz’in pointed at Max. “That one knows enough Dotari. I’ll write up the code inputs for him and stay here.”

  Hoffman squeezed the shoulder he was already holding and pulled Moz’in close to stare into his eyes. “The ship woke you up because it needed you to save it, to save everyone on board. You must have that skill set.”

  Moz’in tried to pull away but wasn’t strong enough. He gazed around the room. Second by second, he slowed his breathing and calmed himself. “Dotari is real? We have our home again?”

  Lo’thar stepped forward and handed Moz’in the repaired vac suit, which looked too big for the old creature. “I’ve walked Cashava city. I’ve seen the sun rise over the Princess’ Brow Mountains, dipped my feet in Reach Bay where Yiir reached the sea. Our people, on this ship and our home, need you.”

  Moz’in looked at his feet and shook his head several times. He started speaking, even as he raised his gaze to meet Hoffman’s and then Lo’thar’s. “Moz’in is ready to go. I won’t let that braggart say I shirked when there was work to be done.”

  “Strike Marines, we fight for the Breitenfeld. She is the ship of miracles, of victory against impossible odds. Gott Mit Uns. Move out.”

  Chapter 13

  Lieutenant Hoffman faced forward in the air lock, grateful that the helmet visors offered a certain degree of privacy. The plan was as complete as he could make it. His team was thoroughly briefed and competent, if a bit tired and broken down from the long mission. He tried not to think about the implications of failure. The Kid’ran’s Gift was packed full of monsters and their ride back to the Breitenfeld had been destroyed. If this plan failed, they ran a good chance of becoming Moz’in’s roommates…or dead.

  Garrison, Max, and Lo’thar stood behind him, waiting for the air lock to finish pressurizing. A series of dark amber—not green—lights came on above the doorway. Hoffman looked over his shoulder at Lo’thar, who nodded.

  “There’s no time like the present,” Hoffman said. When nothing happened, he again looked at the Dotari pilot. “Open the door. Let’s get this done.”

  “Oh, that’s what you meant. No time like the present,” Lo’thar said.

  Hoffman moved through the door as soon as it opened, then stepped to the left with his rifle up and ready. His shooting stance reflected years of practice—knees flexible and slightly bent, his center of gravity balanced above the middle of his feet. He looked through his rifle’s sights as he swept it left to right, then right to left.

  Garrison mirrored his movements on the right and Max came up the middle with Lo’thar beside him.

  “Clear, nothing seen,” Garrison said.

  “Clear, nothing seen,” Hoffman said. He signaled Garrison forward and fell in on his left. “Staggered column. Max, you have rearguard.”

  They moved forward to the next door, then paused for a security check. Hoffman and each member of his team scanned for threats. Quiet, empty-looking hallways could hide nasty surprises.

  “This is my favorite hallway so far,” Garrison said. “I think we’re actually leaving footprints in the dust.”

  “There shouldn’t be dust,” Lo’thar said. He moved to a control panel and started to work on it. “It looks like the bridge lacks control of this area. Whatever Moz’in did seems to be working. Still working.”

  “How would you know if these mysterious countermeasures stop working?” Max asked.

  “That’s easy,” Garrison said. “We can just ask the banshees while they’re ripping us limb from limb.”

  Max looked at Hoffman, alarmed. Hoffman shrugged.

  “I have a high degree of confidence the noorla don’t know we’re here,” Lo’thar said. “Once we go through this door, we will be in the pod bay. Things can change very rapidly.”

  “Story of my life,” Garrison said.

  “All right, let’s move.” Hoffman took the lead. In a team this small, the idea of a point man was very fluid. He went to the door, up the catwalk, and reposted at the top, rifle r
eady. Garrison and Lo’thar came up next, followed by Max. They spread out, trying not to make noise. He wanted to curse each time the boots of his armor touched the metal deck. Soft, impact-resistant soles still made ten times the amount of noise he was comfortable with.

  Hoffman held up one fist for everybody to stop moving, then opened his hand and lowered his palm toward the floor, kneeling as he gave the signal.

  “Right out of a horror movie,” Garrison whispered.

  “I always hated horror movies,” Max said. “What’s wrong with a little action adventure? All I wanted when I joined up was to save the princess and steal back the plans to the enemy’s secret super weapon.”

  Hoffman held up one finger for silence but agreed with Max’s assessment. Below them were hundreds of banshee pods. Four or five opened at a time, the lids slowly lifting as they depressurized and the cryo sleep wore off the altered Dotari.

  Two dozen brutes trembled on the floor, naked except for the torn remnants of silver body gloves. Slick from their recent hibernation, their bodies had grown unnatural muscle mass.

  “Those are not my people,” Lo’thar said. “The drone has made them abominations.”

  Not all the new banshees had the weapons and armor of the horde they had faced outside the shuttle bay. Some wielded tools with the precision only their Xaros drone master could have given them. One banshee, quills missing on one side of his head, pushed himself into a shaky stance and looked at his hands. He shook his head, slowly at first, then with violence that looked painful. A scream grew from his throat that sent a chill up Hoffman’s spine.

  One of the senior banshees strode up to the newly aware creature, summoning a rough-handed crew of monsters to assist him. Together, they forced the protesting banshee onto his back and screwed goggles over his eyes. Without hesitation or sedation, they began bolting on armor and weapons.

  “Busy little worker bees, aren’t they?” Garrison said. “Reminds me of in-processing at MEPS. Granted, only my beautifully long hair was mutilated.”

  Hoffman, Max, and Lo’thar stared at the breacher.

  “Right,” he said. “This is horrible. We need to stop it.”

  Another banshee was dragged from a tube and beaten until he was motionless. This one received only goggles, brain cables, and a spinning blade in place of her left hand.

  “That is from the workshop on the other side of this level. Emergency saw,” Lo’thar said, his voice as flat as his gaze. “The drone has been pumping growth hormones into the cryo pods while they sleep. Look closely at the other tubes. The occupants are awake but still trapped inside. They are suffering in a living tomb until the drone pulls them out. They are already in the throes of insanity.”

  Another group of new banshees were beaten into submission and slaved to the drone with Xaros technology. Cables ran to the backs of their necks, plugging in just below the skull.

  Hoffman felt bad for the Dotari war hero as they watched banshees remake Dotari into more banshees. He watched a new group shaking violently as the drone’s commands overrode their broken minds. One by one, they looked at their weapons, aiming them or practicing swinging the blades, saws, and modified hammers.

  “They’re prepping for an attack,” Hoffman said.

  Lo’thar pulled back his head in surprise. “Not all the tubes have begun the process. There are unaltered Dotari in that far bank of tubes!”

  “Oh, shit,” Garrison said. “Time to be heroes?”

  “I thought only officers were supposed to get visited by the ‘good idea’ fairy,” Max said.

  “Everyone they turn is lost to us. We have to hurry,” Lo’thar said.

  “King is going to launch his attack in…” Hoffman looked at the digital readout on his gauntlet. “Nineteen minutes.”

  “These banshees are too close. They won’t take the tubes, so we can’t stop them that way. Can Gunney King kill that many?” Lo’thar asked.

  “Gunney’d beat them to death with his fists one by one if he had to,” Max said. “They all show up at once, the situation will…be in doubt.”

  “We must save all my unchanged Dotari people while we can,” Lo’thar said.

  “Mission first,” Hoffman said. “We sabotage the tube system, none of them will reach engineering. Don’t forget why we’re here.”

  No one spoke as, below them, a new banshee let loose a mournful wail that turned into confused rage.

  Lo’thar pointed to a door adjacent to the catwalk. “There is the power coupling.”

  Hoffman stood, looked around, then chopped his hand twice in the air toward their objective. “Light feet, Marines.” He led the way, with Lo’thar close behind. “Keep an eye on those pods for as long as you can, Max,” Hoffman said.

  “No problem, sir. Can’t really look away. Creepy.”

  One slow step at a time, Hoffman and Lo’thar crept to the door. Lo’thar activated the pad and read something on the small screen several times.

  “Problem?” Hoffman asked.

  “No. Why would there be a problem?” Lo’thar shifted his weight side to side. “Don’t rush me. Something is different.”

  He punched in a code and answered several prompts that came up on the screen in abbreviated Dotari words. The door slid open to reveal an armored plate around the coupling. Lo’thar and Hoffman bent forward to look through a small viewport.

  “That’s new,” Lo’thar said.

  “Garrison?” Hoffman asked.

  The breacher examined the plate, cleared his throat, and spat into the corner. “If I cut through with burn cord, they’ll notice. The composition of this alloy is different from our hulls. I don’t know if I can set up a shaped charge to cut through it all…but if I use all our denethrite, it’ll do the job for sure. Aren’t many problems that can’t be solved with enough explosives.”

  “And kill all the Dotari still in the tubes,” Lo’thar said.

  “Depends on the overpressure and several other factors. Fine, I will work my magic and save your people. Why don’t you all just stand around while I pull another miracle out of my pocket?” Garrison ran his hands along the edges of the plate. “Hinges and screws. Didn’t see that with the frost. Hmm. Here we go.” He snapped his wrist, extending a multitool from his left gauntlet. Before long, he had the first screw twisted out.

  He held it up for Hoffman and the others to examine. “About as long as this glorious finger and twice as thick.” He started on the second screw, which was unexpectedly shorter. It fell free before he could catch it and rolled across the catwalk.

  Hoffman watched in helpless horror as it wiggled through the grate and plummeted downward before anyone could react. It rotated as it fell through the air, then struck a banshee on the shoulder.

  The banshee looked up.

  Hoffman met its yellow-eyed gaze through the metal-framed goggles it wore.

  “Well, shit,” Garrison said.

  “Set the charge!” Hoffman ordered.

  As banshees raced up the tiered levels toward the stairs leading up to the catwalk, Hoffman and Max opened fire.

  “I’ll take the big ones on the left,” Hoffman said.

  “Shooting cyborg monsters on the right,” Max said.

  Garrison ripped his last block of denethrite from his pack. He pulled detonation cord out and plugged it into the denethrite as he placed the charge. “Skipping some safety protocols.”

  “Less talking, more exploding.” Hoffman fired a shot through a banshee’s chest, then dropped the empty magazine out of his rifle. It bounced off the walkway and spun through the air. He pulled a fresh magazine off his armor.

  “Should I lay down covering fire while you reload?” Lo’thar asked.

  Hoffman slapped ammo into his weapon and began firing as an answer.

  “Reloading,” Max said.

  “Start shooting, Lo’thar,” Hoffman grunted as he fired on one target after another.

  Lo’thar aimed his pistol and fired into the mass of charging banshees. “
I am sorry, brothers.”

  Max completed his reload, then shifted his full magazines toward the front of his armor for easier access while the expended mags went in a pouch. He picked his shots and fired in a steady cadence.

  “How long for the detonator?” Garrison asked.

  The catwalk vibrated from the banshees clambering onto the stairs. Hoffman aimed, then squeezed the trigger, sending a burst of rounds into the strut connecting the catwalk to the bulkhead. The entire catwalk shook and wobbled.

  “Ninety seconds,” Hoffman yelled.

  Garrison punched in numbers and a confirmation code. “Set.”

  “Fall back the way we came,” Hoffman ordered.

  Garrison slung his demo kit across his back and aimed his rifle. “Covering.” He squeezed off several shots.

  “Moving,” Hoffman said, grabbing Lo’thar and dragging him away. Max ran with them, but fired from the hip at the banshees racing up the stairwells.

  “Garrison, catch up!” Max said.

  “Moving,” Garrison said. He turned and sprinted to catch up with Hoffman and Lo’thar.

  Hoffman fired at a heavily armored banshee and froze as the bullet bounced off the onyx metal covering one shoulder. The strike managed to slow the alien to a stop, then it continued its charge, angrier than before.

  “Low-power shots won’t cut it on the big ones,” Hoffman said. He shifted fire to those with the lighter armor where he could—getting kills instead of wasting ammunition.

  Banshees scrambled over their dead comrades. When they reached the top catwalk, they ran toward the emplaced bomb instead of the Strike Marines. One ripped the bomb off the capacitor.

  “No you don’t!” Garrison shouted as he aimed and fired.

  The gauss shell struck the bomb and it exploded in the banshee’s hands, the catwalk twisting and bucking from the ensuing blast. Banshees were thrown over the edge, smashing into cryo tubes.

  The catwalk beneath Hoffman and his team fell, swinging by the hinges still attached to the exit.

  Hoffman grabbed the floor and bent it with the augmented strength of his suit, slapping his rifle onto the mag locks on his back just as the catwalk struck the wall. Lo’thar gave off a plaintive wail and fell free. Hoffman caught the Dotari by the wrist and dangled him over the long drop to the cryo chamber below.