The Prisoner of Eldaron: Crimson Worlds Successors II

by Jay Allan

  Once Black Viper had taken out the enemy’s laser cannons, the rest of the space battle had been straightforward. As soon as they came in range, the needle guns made short work of the target’s weapons and engines. The Atlantian ship was a floating wreck now, with life support and a full cargo hold…but not much else. Except armed men, he reminded himself. Not that he expected any real trouble securing the prize. Black Viper’s crew were tough fighters, veterans of a dozens of boarding actions. They were more than a match for a freighter’s complement.

  But that doesn’t mean some crewman from a transport ship can’t put a bullet between your eyes.

  “Alright, boys, let’s stay sharp. These people managed to beat up the Viper pretty badly…don’t let them do the same to you. And remember, we need prisoners, at least until we’ve confirmed the cargo.”

  “Boarding teams ready. Breaching enemy hull in ten seconds. Good luck, boys.” The captain’s voice was loud on Treven’s helmet com. The first mate knew Viper’s commander was restless sitting on the bridge while his people boarded the target. Yulich had always accompanied his men when they swarmed aboard an enemy ship, at least until another of the Black Flag’s rules had changed his policy. The captain didn’t leave the ship, period. Not unless there was a true emergency.

  The Black Flag was strange for a criminal outfit, tightly organized and utterly intolerant of disobedience in some ways, yet very hands off in others. Treven had never served in a military organization, but he and Yulich had discussed it many times. The syndicate seemed in many ways to function more like a military organization than a loose confederation of pirates. Its ships went on assigned campaigns, chasing intel-derived targets; they didn’t prowl the transit lanes hoping to sight a prize. Its captains followed orders…or they got so large a bounty placed on their heads, their own crews climbed over each other to get to them first. Yet the pirates filling its ranks enjoyed significant freedom. If something wasn’t covered under the Black Flag codes, pretty much anything was allowed.

  Treven slipped to the side as the tube shook hard, and he grabbed onto one of the handholds. “Alright, boys, we’re breaching now.”

  The tube was designed to bore through the hull of a disabled freighter, providing a route for boarders to move in and seize the ship. Once the diamond-edged iridium cutting blades had penetrated the hull, a series of jets released a foam substance that quickly expanded and hardened around the new connection, maintaining or restoring atmospheric integrity.

  Treven checked his carbine, making sure the cartridge was firmly in place. It was the third time he’d done it, but he didn’t intend to end up dead because he’d been careless before a fight.

  The tube shook again as it pushed forward. A few seconds later the red warning light flashed. Then the hatch dropped and the first two rows of pirates swarmed onboard the freighter. An instant later Treven heard gunfire. He saw one of his people drop to the deck…then another. Then a dozen of his pirates opened up in response, riddling the three shooters with automatic fire.

  Treven sighed. There were two types of freighter crews. The first type—which accounted for about ninety percent of them—panicked at the thought of battle, thinking of nothing but surrendering or fleeing to an escape pod. Then there was the other kind, the ones with a good captain and a lot of esprit de corps, and probably more than one naval vet scattered around.

  Now he knew which kind he was facing.

  * * * * *

  Marne slipped down the corridor, moving quickly but carefully, paying attention to every sound. Deep down, he knew his ship was taken, that his crew didn’t have a chance to fight off the invaders. Freighters ran on a far different business model than pirates, one that required keeping costs down. No cargo run paid as well as piracy, and no transport vessel could support a pirate’s armament and crew size.

  Carlyle was strong as freighters went, powerful enough to chase off most small raiders. But this attacker was tougher than most, a big ship that almost certainly carried three or four times the crew Carlyle did. The laser cannons had been Carlyle’s best chance to repel the attacker, but the enemy ship had fired back with her own larger turrets, knocking out Marne’s big guns before finishing off Carlyle’s engines and defenses with her needlers. Marne would never surrender, but once the laser cannons went down, he knew the fight was hopeless.

  “Let’s go. Down to the cargo hold. We’ll have solid cover in there, and a good field of fire as they approach.” He gestured forward, turning for an instant, as if to confirm the five crewmembers he’d been leading were still with him. They didn’t have anywhere else to go, not really, but Marne knew fear worked in bizarre ways sometimes. He half expected them all to bolt for the escape pods.

  If they do, they’ll just get gunned down by the pirates. No one attacking this shipment is going to let anybody escape, and they all know that. But that doesn’t mean they won’t run for it anyway.

  He stopped abruptly at an intersection, peering cautiously around the corner. Then he pulled a small ‘pad from his belt. The main AI was tracking the invaders using the scanners and cameras situated around the ship.

  Good, he thought. They haven’t gotten this far yet. We’ll have time to set up a strong position.

  Good job, Cal. His first mate had taken command of the forward defenses. Durham wasn’t military, but Marne was sure his exec would fight to the end.

  Which will be soon. The men defending the boarding point will be the first to die. He sighed. Most of them are probably dead already. He knew he could check, his ‘pad would have updated data available. But he slipped it back in the pouch on his belt. He didn’t want to know.

  He turned toward his men and nodded. Then he swung around the corner—if he’d missed any enemies down the hall, he’d be the first one to find out—and raced toward the entrance to the cargo hold. “Open hatch 216,” he snapped into his com, directing the ship’s AI to allow entry to the storage area. He stood outside the door as it opened, and then he waved for his people to run inside. He took one last look down the hall after they’d all passed him…then he ducked in himself, ordering the AI to close and bolt the hatch as he did.

  “Let’s get ready.” He looked around the hold. It was only partially full, three long rows of large canisters, each filled with ore rich in the super-heavy transuranic element that was number 164 on the periodic table. The material represented six months of production from the mines on Glaciem, and when fully-refined—a process requiring equipment not yet possessed by Atlantia—it would produce in excess of five thousand kilograms of the precious metal.

  “Houk, Zabon…you two over there.” He pointed toward one of the large canisters. “One on each side, where you can get a good line of sight. He turned, waving toward another container on the other side of the entry. “Bliss, Wantague…behind that one, same thing. Whatever comes through that hatch, we need to take it down immediately. If they get in here, we’re done.”

  We’re done anyway…even if we beat them back, they’d blast the ship before they left the system. Still, better to die on our feet, fighting…

  “Sampson, you’re with me.” He walked up to the first canister directly in front of the hatch. “I’ll take the left, you take the right.” He moved around to the side of the three meter tall container and crouched down, just far enough back to give himself cover.

  “This ore is dense as hell…stay behind these canisters, and you’ll be fine. I doubt they’ve got anything that can blast through this stuff.

  He knelt down, leaning against the container and bringing his rifle to bear. One glance to each side confirmed his people had done the same thing. They were ready. Or whatever passed for ready right now…

  * * * * *

  “Fucking hell, it’s just a few freighter jockeys hiding in the hold! Clear them the hell out and let’s be done with this.” Yulich was usually calm, uncommonly so for men of his profession. But it was clear Black Viper’s captain was frustrated, all the more so because he was stuck on
the bridge while his people were being gunned down in one attack after another on the enemy cargo hold.

  “I know, Captain, but their fire has been accurate as hell…and whatever cargo they’ve got in those containers, it makes for great cover. I hope there’s nothing fragile in there, because we must have put five thousand rounds in those canisters.” Treven twitched as he spoke, wincing from the pain in his arm. He’d caught a round during the last firefight. He’d packed it with sterile foam and resealed his survival suit with the patch kit, but it still hurt like hell. Treven had been in over a dozen boarding actions, but this was the first time he’d been wounded, and he was finding it difficult to ignore the pain and focus on the battle.

  “Don’t worry about that, Lars, it’s fine. Just finish off those bastards holed up in there so we can load up this cargo and get the hell out of here.” A pause then: “And tell the boys…everybody’s bounty on this one is doubled if we get away with that cargo.”

  “Yes, sir,” Treven snapped back. Double bounty…that would be helpful at breathing some life into a crew that was quickly becoming demoralized. But what the hell could an Atlantian ship be carrying that was so valuable? What does the captain know that I don’t?

  “Alright, men, let’s get it together. These freighter jockeys have chased us back three times. I don’t want to see a fucking fourth, so I’m gonna shoot the first one of you who runs. You hear me?”

  He paused, listening to the ominous silence on the com line. He realized the threat had been a bit heavy handed considering the losses they had suffered. All it would take is one bullet in your back…

  “And listen to this. If you pull your heads out of your asses and get your jobs done, the captain just told me…double bounties for everyone.” That elicited a loud cheer over the main com line, and he saw the difference in the bearing of the men standing before him. Double bounty was a battle cry to Black Viper’s pirates, like an officer in some ancient army waving a tattered flag.

  He held up his assault rifle and popped out the almost-empty cartridge, quickly replacing it with a full one. He only had two left, but he was going in at the head of the men this time, and he knew the first few seconds would decide the fight. Either they’d follow him in quickly, getting past the enemy cover and wiping out the few holdouts still remaining, or he’d find himself in there alone…and get blown away almost immediately. In which case, none of this was his problem anymore.

  He had less than half the men he’d started with. They’d had a dozen casualties already, and he’d detached at least another ten men to ferry the wounded back to Black Viper. Pirates had a bloodthirsty reputation, but they were a brotherhood of sorts. He served with those men every day…they fought side by side. Besides, it did nothing for the morale of those still in the fight to see their wounded comrades ill-treated. Treven wasn’t a military veteran, but he knew that much of the motivations that made men fight.

  “Alright, boys…follow me.” He jumped off and ran down the short corridor, toward the blasted door of the cargo hold.

  Follow me…such powerful words. Why is it so much harder to lead, to be first and so comparatively easy to go on the heels of someone else?

  He scolded himself for letting his thoughts wander. It wasn’t the time. He could already hear his enemies firing as he approached the twisted wreckage of the door, and he leveled his rifle and opened up on full auto as he leapt through.

  * * * * *

  Marne propped himself up on the heavy canister…the farthest one from the door the enemy had used to force their way into the hold. He was alone, at least he thought so…though it was possible there were still survivors somewhere on Carlyle. Wherever they were, though, it wasn’t the hold. He’d seen each of his five comrades go down, the last two under the brutal blasts of the pirate leader’s shotgun. He was covered in blood, mostly Sampson’s. The last blast of that damned shotgun had blown off the crewman’s head and most of his chest. Marne knew he was damned lucky he wasn’t dead himself. He’d reacted quickly and managed to plant his survival knife in the pirate’s thigh before falling back to his current position. The last position. He glanced over his shoulder at the heavy plasti-steel doors of the cargo hatch. They were ten meters across and four high. But Carlyle was in deep space, not the hospitable confines of a loading dock. There was no escape that way, nowhere to go. Unless…

  What the hell does escape mean anyway? You’re dead where you sit…as soon as they get their wounded out of here and scour the hold they’ll find you. And you’re fresh out of ammo. You even left your knife behind, ten centimeters into that pirate’s thigh. But that doesn’t mean you have to let them win…

  He reached down to his belt, feeling a wave of pain as he moved his arm. He’d landed hard, and now he realized he’d injured himself worse than he’d thought. It was probably a break, but he put it out of his mind. It hurt like hell, but considering his situation it didn’t seem very important. He gritted his teeth and pulled the small ‘pad from its pocket, lifting it up where he could see it.

  He moved his finger across the screen, bringing up a login page. He didn’t see any way he could escape—and with his entire crew dead and his ship taken, he wasn’t even sure he should want to. But he wasn’t dead yet. He could deny the enemy the precious cargo Carlyle was carrying. One last bit of spite, the only vengeance he could exact for his slain crew.

  He punched in the access code, the one that identified him to Carlyle’s AI as the ship’s captain, empowered to issue any order. The screen went blank, and a single line appeared. Identification acknowledged, awaiting command-level order. There was a row of icons below the sentence, each one representing an order only Carlyle’s commander was authorized to issue. He blinked, running his eyes over the ‘pad before taking another look around, checking for any enemy activity. Nothing yet…

  He moved his hand, slowly, painfully, across the pad, his gloved finger settling on one of the icons. “Prepare to launch all escape pods,” he said into his com as he pressed the glowing button on the ‘pad. His com was still connected to the AI, and the pirates had not destroyed Carlyle’s main computer yet.

  They will regret that bit of carelessness…

  “Ready to launch upon command,” came the reply.

  He punched another icon on the ‘pad. “I want the cargo doors opened simultaneously with the launch of the escape pods.” Between the confusion of the pods and trying to retrieve their men who would be blasted out into space, he doubted the pirates would have time to try to recover the cargo…at least not before the fine ore was hopelessly scattered through space. It wouldn’t save him…it wouldn’t save his ship. But it was the only way he had to strike back. He could at least deny his murderers the riches his ship held.

  “The ship is currently in a vacuum environment. Opening doors will cause immediate decompression in the cargo hold, and in the adjoining corridors, as the cargo hold door is no longer an airtight seal.”

  Damned right it’s not airtight.

  The enemy had blown their way into the hold, and the door was a twisted heap of wreckage. “Acknowledged. My orders are to be obeyed nevertheless. And detach all magnetic cargo cradles five seconds before opening doors.”

  “Acknowledged. Awaiting order to commence.”

  Marne took a deep breath. He found himself shaking, fighting off a wave of panic. It was one thing to plan a suicidal action, but quite another to actually do it. He knew intellectually he had no chance…and after the losses his people had inflicted on the pirates, he was damned sure he didn’t want to be taken alive. But still, he found it difficult to proceed, and the order stuck in his throat for a few seconds. Finally, he balled his hands into fists, feeling a wave of pain shoot up the injured arm as he did.

  “Execute,” he said softly, coldly.

  He heard a loud crash. Then another. Ore bins tipping over as their magnetic locks disengaged. He heard shouting too, the surprised yells of the pirates on the other side of the hold, taken by surprise as th
e massive canisters tipped over in Carlyle’s 1g of simulated gravity.

  Five seconds, he thought. Such a short time, yet it can seem like so long…

  His thought hung there for a time that seemed almost indeterminate. Then the doors opened, and he felt himself being sucked out into space. There were canisters, and clouds of loose ore flying out of the hold as well, drifting into space, dispersing, just as he’d hoped.

  They’ll never manage to collect all that, he thought as he turned his head and looked at the mass of his ship, slowing receding behind him. He felt a sudden pang of sadness. Not because he was going to die, but because he knew he’d never set foot on Carlyle again. She was badly damaged, and the pirates would almost certainly blow her to atoms before they left. But even if they didn’t, he was moving away from her at 40 meters per second, and his survival suit had ten minutes of life support.

  Will I suffocate or freeze first? The thought was odd, strangely detached emotionally, as if how he would die was an academic question of no particular consequence. Neither way sounded particularly pleasant, and he found himself wishing he’d saved his pistol and one last round. But he hadn’t, so he just leaned back and looked out at the stars.

  Chapter 4

  “The Nest” – Black Eagles Base

  Second Moon of Eos, Eta Cassiopeiae VII

  Earthdate: 2318 AD (34 Years After the Fall)

  “Nice!” Darius Cain kept his eyes focused on his opponent, even as he rolled to dodge the savage swing of the pugil stick. He’d never been truly convinced the primitive weapons had any real place in modern training programs, but the Marines had used them—his father had used them—and that was enough for him. Besides, even without any direct correlation to modern fighting techniques, a bout with the sticks was damned fine physical training.