Sean Dalton - Operation StarHawks 03 - Beyond the Void

by Sean Dalton - [Operation StarHawks 03]

  “Holborn.”

  He flinched. The voice was mechanical, belonging to one of the carriers that would speak for its master.

  “Observe the shuttlecraft. This is an Earth-made ship?”

  Holborn faced the window, where he could observe the shuttle from a new angle. Beside him a squat, dome-shaped robot with ropelike appendages of flexible cable operated a console with elaborate data displays.

  “Holborn.”

  Holborn flinched again, cursing his wandering concentration. “Yes, it is of Earth configuration. Why do the readings not show clear life signs? Is the crew dead?”

  “Unknown. The internal scanning tells us they are wearing closed environment containers. What species is like us? What species must exist in sterile conditions? Explain?”

  “I can’t. I—I mean, they may be in space suits for other reasons. Was the ship damaged during capture? Was its atmosphere lost?”

  The communications robot snaked another appendage to a linkup. “Yes, atmosphere was lost. Just as we cannot control proper adhesion of our molecules without environment of certain weight and pressure, humans are also limited to specific atmospheric conditions.”

  It was not a question. Maon frequently thought aloud. Holborn shifted restlessly, wondering why he had been brought here.

  “Unlike all other captured vessels, this one attempted to enter the gate. We do not understand this behavior. Explain it.”

  Holborn blinked a moment. “Obviously they were searching for the others.”

  “Others?”

  “The captured ships.”

  “Specifics: equipment recovery?”

  “No,” said Holborn sharply. “People recovery. Humans value life over machinery.”

  “Peculiar. The units are armed. Five units are within the craft. Two units are outside. Explain.”

  Seven men, thought Holborn with an almost hysterical urge to laugh. “It’s a rescue mission,” he said. “Humans will fight to recover people. They want back all the humans you’ve captured.”

  “This is not possible.”

  “No, but they don’t understand that. All they know is that their ships have been disappearing in this sector.” Holborn saw movement on top of the shuttle and stepped closer to the window. “They must not be allowed to exchange fire with your fighters. No damage until I’ve collected my samples.”

  “Agreed.” Maon’s carrier stepped closer to the window. “Gas the units inside the shuttle. Leave the two units outside the shuttle unrestrained. We will observe their actions.”

  Binary commands flashed forth. Holborn continued to watch, forgetting his experiments waiting for him back in the lab. The ones who struggled were the most pathetic. After all, the Visci could not be beaten. The sooner his own species accepted fate, the more of them would survive. They would learn how to serve their new masters. They would adapt. He had.

  Yet his palms felt moist, and his heart was beating faster. He touched the ice-cold glass, making little mists of condensation spread out around his fingertips. Fight the machines, he thought. Beat them.

  Right now, however, Kelly lay pressed flat upon the top of the shuttle, his feet hooked to keep him from floating off in the zero gravity of the hangar. His half-baked plan to lead his squad in an assault had fallen apart the moment he saw the phalanx of nine black robots. Each was about three meters tall and a meter wide, possessing powerful batteries and chargers for guts. Their arms ended in muzzles, and they were undoubtedly armored. His squad was tough and game for just about anything, but exchanging fire with warbots was tantamount to quick suicide.

  He frowned behind his face plate, trying to find another option.

  “Stand by,” he tapped on the pulse code.

  But the warbots did not immediately enter the shuttle. An ambulatory canister rolled into sight. A metal hose snaked out from its side and hooked onto the air supply feeder.

  Alarmed, Kelly nearly shot to his knees. Beside him, 41 clamped a warning hand on his arm. Kelly flattened himself again, feeling sweat trickle along his hairline. They’d be safe enough in the suits.

  He tapped information to Caesar. One of the robots worked to break the security code on the airlock. But as the hatch opened, an explosion burst in the midst of the warbots with an intense, eye-searing fireball. Pieces of metal flew in all directions, and the concussion rocked the shuttle slightly.

  Kelly and 41 rose to their knees and opened fire on the three remaining warbots that had been toppled but not destroyed by Caesar’s little greeting. Kelly’s shot scored harmlessly off the central casing of his target. He raised his aim and hit the scarlet lamps in the thing’s head. It exploded, and Kelly grinned in satisfaction. He nudged his helmet comm with his chin to activate it, since there was no point in trying to hide now.

  “Aim for their eyes, 41.”

  “No good,” said 41 with a grunt. He threw himself flat to dodge a return bolt of energy that shattered the top hull fin. Metal fragments pelted Kelly, and a sudden drop in internal pressure told him that his suit had been penetrated.

  “I’m losing air!”

  41 rolled to him, grabbed him by the arm, and threw open the top hatch. Another bolt of energy slagged the hatch into a fused lump. Kelly fired back, taking the head off another bot, only to stare in dismay as it rose to its feet and continued to fire. The only difference was that its aim was more erratic.

  “Damn!” said Kelly, ducking again. He scrambled through the hatch headfirst, cursing the tight fit and beginning to cough for air.

  The inner hatch was shut. Kelly stamped the control with his heel. It opened beneath him and he dropped into the shuttle with 41 landing on top of him.

  The impact stunned him and drove from his lungs what little air remained. He tried to sit up, wheezing frantically. 41 yanked open his face plate, but the only air in the shuttle was the scant trickle coming in from the open airlock. That wasn’t enough. Kelly’s lungs labored, heaving so hard his nostrils seemed to collapse. Little black spots danced in his vision, blurring the sight of 41 bending over him. His arms flailed as his whole body fought suffocation. But there was no air, no ...

  Something closed over his nose and mouth. Sweet, cold air rushed into his lungs. He clung to the emergency mask, sucking in the air with a frenzy he could not control. 41 gave him a pat and moved away. Kelly heard the scream of shooting still going on around the main hatch. He tried to sit up, but Beaulieu took 41’s place beside him, holding him where he was. She handed him a small tank with a hose and nostril clamp. It was gear designed for low-oxygen conditions.

  “Put this on,” she said over the comm. “I hope it works.”

  “We blew them to bits, but the damned things won’t die!” shouted Caesar over the comm. “Doc, get over here! Phila’s—”

  Beaulieu scrambled away. Kelly sat up, keeping to the scant cover provided by the seats. Drawing off his helmet, he fitted the nostril clamp into place. For a moment the sensation of suffocating returned, but he fought it off. He didn’t have enough air, but he could stay alive on this for a short time.

  Grasping his pistol, he crawled around the base of the seats and scrambled to the wall where his squad was taking cover. Two headless bots stood shoulder to shoulder, firing all four arms in blasts of energy that had the hatch rim dripping metal. One side of the hatch was on fire that kept sputtering with fitful pops.

  Not enough air for it either, thought Kelly. He felt as though he might pass out.

  A hand patted his knee. The person he was crammed against twisted to face him, and he saw Serula’s face through the plate of her helmet. “You all right?” she mouthed.

  He lifted his thumb. Without his helmet, he had no comm to use. She smiled at him through her face plate, then flung herself past 41 to squeeze off several rounds before retreating.

  On Kelly’s other side, Beaulieu bent over Phila, who looked small and crumpled upon the floor. Her suit looked intact. Kelly wondered what she’d been hit with.

  In any cas
e, they had to do something and fast. They were outgunned all the way around and trapped here like bugs in a bottle.

  Do something.

  He glanced out quickly and noted that the bots seemed fused in the same firing position. Maybe they had deliberately locked themselves into place, or maybe something had shorted. Any risk was worth sitting here until the air tanks and ammo charges ran dry.

  On his stomach Kelly squirmed down the wall, flinching as an energy bolt ricocheted about the interior of the shuttle, striking the seats inches from Beaulieu and knocking charred stuffing everywhere. Kelly went up the rungs and back through the emergency hatch, wheezing for air, his head aching from lack of sufficient oxygen.

  Topside, he poked his head out very, very cautiously until he could just glimpse the bots, still firing. The energy bolts filling the shuttle weren’t scoring any direct hits, but the interior temperature was climbing. The squad couldn’t endure the heat residues forever.

  Kelly rested himself for a few seconds despite the urgency gripping him. When his vision cleared, he rested the butt of his pistol upon the scarred hull and aimed with extreme care. The bot closest to him swung its right firing arm in his direction. Kelly squeezed off a shot, and the firing arm shattered right at the joint.

  Elation swelled in his throat, but he forced himself to concentrate. When another firing arm swung in his direction, Kelly shattered it as well. That left one armed bot, and following Kelly’s lead, someone inside the shuttle began shooting at its firing arms. They got one, and Kelly took care of the other.

  Quiet drifted over them. Feeling weary, Kelly dropped down the rung ladder. The squad was dancing around, slapping hands and shoulders. Kelly waved his arms and gestured for them to move.

  41 scooped Phila’s slight body effortlessly over one shoulder. With Kelly in the lead, they ducked out of the shuttle and hurried warily past the two standing, but disarmed bots, their boots crunching on the shattered pieces of the others.

  A blast of Caesar’s weapon upon the controls opened the door leading from the hangar. They stepped inside a world of black. Ceilings, walls, floor, all were black metal. Scant illumination was provided.

  But there was air. Kelly took great delicious gulps of it, not caring that it smelled faintly of molded apples, ozone, and lubricant. He glanced over his shoulder at Beaulieu. She opened her face plate, and he said, “Is this air safe, or does it have gas?”

  “Safe,” she said.

  He unhooked his nostril clamp, and the others opened their face plates.

  “Well, we’re in,” said Kelly, not sure that was a good thing. “We can’t just stand here and wait for the next batch of reinforcements. We need to clear this corridor, then we’ve got to locate the crews of those—”

  “Whoa, boss,” said Caesar, pointing down the corridor. “Here comes trouble.”

  They turned, and Kelly saw another phalanx of warbots coming. Metal feet rang upon metal floor in perfect cadence. His heart sank. Last time was mostly luck. This time they were bunched up in this corridor with nowhere to go and not nine warbots coming at them, but twelve.

  “Surrender,” said a synthesized voice. “Put down all weapons.”

  “Then what?” muttered Caesar. “They blow us away without any resistance? To hell with this.”

  Kelly looked at the squad’s faces and saw the same thing: anger, resentment, and a gritty determination to resist. He looked at the approaching warbots and saw their firing arms locking into position.

  “Right,” he said. “To hell with it.”

  And he opened fire.

  * * *

  7

  It wasn’t suicide. Just as the squad opened fire, a forcefield shimmered across the corridor between them and the approaching warbots. It didn’t reflect the squad’s shots; instead it absorbed them.

  “Cease fire!” said Kelly.

  They obeyed, and stood there tensely to see what the warbots would do. Probably the forcefield would drop to allow the warbots to slaughter them.

  “Move,” said Kelly, gesturing behind him. “Down the corridor.”

  “Boss, it ain’t going to do no good—”

  “Do it.”

  Cautiously Caesar stepped back, as did 41, still hampered by carrying Phila. Beaulieu and Serula moved closer to the walls. Siggerson hovered near Kelly.

  The warbots halted on the other side of the forcefield. Kelly frowned as he took a step back, then another. This was as weird as hell. He had the certain feeling that he was being watched, perhaps even toyed with.

  Kelly glanced around and up at the ceiling. Beams of light came on there, dazzling him. They played over him and the others.

  “My pistol!” said Siggerson, throwing his upon the floor.

  About then Kelly’s grew so hot to the touch he could no longer hold it. He tried to master instinct, telling himself that it was just a mind trick, but failed. His weapon went clattering to the floor as well. His palm stung, and the skin turned red and looked slightly blistered. No mind trick, after all. The pistol had really been hot.

  The forcefield dropped. The warbots stepped forward. Kelly felt a jerk of fear. He turned to give fresh orders to his squad and saw a forcefield shimmering behind them.

  “We’re trapped!” said Caesar.

  “Maybe we’d better surrender,” said Siggerson.

  “It won’t help,” said Kelly. “Either way they mean to kill us.”

  In perfect step the warbots drew close enough for Kelly to hear the low whirs as their firing arms flared muzzles, revealing long, wickedly barbed darts perhaps the length of Kelly’s hand, fitted on spring launchers. His mouth dried out, and his heart began to wham hard against his ribs. There was something primitive and cruel about those darts. He imagined one of them embedded in his chest, filling him with agony while he died slowly and horribly of blood loss. He’d rather be slagged.

  A wave of malevolence from something washed over him. For a moment he thought only of the hopelessness of their situation. It would be better to stand quietly and accept their fate.

  A hoarse cry from 41 behind him snapped Kelly from his momentary trance. He glanced at Siggerson and saw him staring glassy-eyed at nothing. The others were likewise frozen, except for 41 who shrugged Phila to the ground and came running forward like a wild thing. At the same time the warbots halted less than two meters away. Kelly heard a hissing sound and hastily held his breath.

  He grabbed Siggerson and shook him hard, but the pilot didn’t snap out of it. Beaulieu didn’t respond either. Kelly gave up on the others. 41 passed him and ran between two of the warbots, dodging his way through the others that could not turn to get a clear shot at him in those close quarters. Kelly started after him in the same way, pushing himself to move faster and faster, praying his feet wouldn’t tangle as he dodged and twisted and ducked his way through the gigantic robots. One firing arm swung down across his shoulders, driving him to his knees.

  Gasping and stunned, Kelly tried to pull himself up and get going but his legs were rubber. His mind and body seemed totally disconnected. He fought not to pass out.

  By the time his mind cleared, it was too late for him. A cable had been wound around his ankles, and he was tied to a warbot. It turned slowly, dragging him on the floor.

  Ahead, 41 had almost cleared the last row of warbots. He ran with an agility remarkable in someone of his height, his blond hair streaming from his shoulders.

  Kelly sat up, straining to see through the forest of metal legs. “Go for it! You can do it, 41!” he yelled.

  But the gas was everywhere, hissing louder from invisible vents as it filled the corridor with a milky fog. Kelly saw 41 make it beyond the warbots, then abruptly stumble. A warbot shot a cable from its side, and the cable snaked deftly about 41’s legs, yanking him off his feet. 41 yelled something in his own language, which never translated no matter how often the lab boys tinkered with the Hawk translator implants. He fought like a wild thing, twisting about and using his prong to hack at t
he cable. But before he could cut himself free, the warbot that had captured him struck him with its firing arm. 41 crumpled and lay still.

  “No!” said Kelly.

  He flailed about, but the gas sapped his strength. It smelled of apples, with a sour bite of something unpleasant underneath. Kelly coughed, foggily wondering how aliens from another dimension could know about apples. He sank down, winded and weak. His head thudded upon the polished black floor, but he scarcely felt the impact.

  A voice blared over a speaker, and the warbots parted in half to move against the wall in rows facing each other. Kelly was aware of this on only the dimmest level. He wanted to stay awake, wanted to see the chief bug coming to gloat over them. But his eyes were leaden and his head roared as though it had been submerged in water. He slid deep into darkness.

  He awakened with a start, dreaming that something had him by the throat. He wanted desperately to be sick. He found himself strapped on his back on a steel table that felt icy cold through his tunic. A restraint strap circled his throat and more straps held his wrists and ankles. He swallowed hard, forcing down his gorge, and waited for the clammy sweats to leave him.

  The throat restraint was loose enough to permit him to turn his head. In one direction he saw what was obviously a laboratory. It was fitted with microscopes, lasers, biocom-puters, data sorters, miniature cryogenic chambers, and other pieces of equipment that Kelly could not identify. In the other direction he saw an unconscious 41 lying strapped upon a steel table as he was.