Honeywell decided Keeler did not need his help at the moment. He turned to the right and saw Dr. Skinner trying to protect Specialist Dallas from two sword-wielding attackers. He was fending off blows with only his medical kit. Honeywell made a running leap at one of the guardsmen and kicked him hard in the back. The force of the blow sent him headlong into the roots of a tree and crushed his face like a ripened melon. Honeywell threw his sword to Skinner. “Doctor!” he called out.
Skinner caught the sword and brandished hard at his opponent, meeting his blade and sending tiny sparks into the night. “This takes me back,” he said as the guardsman made a slash at his eyes that he only barely managed to deflect.
Honeywell swung his sword and struck a glancing blow to the back of the guardsman’s neck. The guardsman wielded. Slamming his sword at Skinner, the weaker, he freed one hand and drew a dagger from his belt and swung it into Honeywell’s chest. The blade snapped off against Honeywell’s breast-plate. Honeywell brought his own sword down against the guardsman’s forearm. It penetrated the armor sheathing and bore into the flesh to a depth half as thick as the blade. The guardsman howled, a sound like a screaming bull. He swung out, broadsword gripped in two of his enormous arms, caught Honeywell with the flat side and knocked him over. The guardsman abandoned the doctor and charged on Honeywell. He brought his sword up and smashed it down, aiming to split the Marine’s skull. Honeywell rolled and instead the sword slashed into the break between shoulder and upper arm. It did not break through the material, but the blow stung.
Honeywell saw another blow coming and raised his sword to fend it off. The guardsman knocked the sword from his hand. Honeywell scuttled backwards until his back was against a tree. The guardsman swung. Honeywell ducked. The sword connected with the tree and buried itself in the trunk. The guardsman tugged it almost free when Honeywell grabbed its blade and sent a massive charge through his buzz-knucks. It surged through the shaft and shocked the guardsman, who howled again. It was the largest charge Honeywell could deliver, but it stunned the guardsman only a little.
The Marine made the most of the small advantage. He kicked out hard, catching the guardsman in the stomach and sending him backward toward Skinner, who slammed his head with the backside of his sword. The guardsman collapsed to the ground, face first.
“Kill him!” Honeywell yelled.
“I am a healer, I can not kill.”
Honeywell grabbed his sword, found a spot between the armor plates on the guardsman’s shoulders and plunged deeply. He felt a slight click as the sword severed the guardsman’s spinal column. He twisted the sword to make sure the wound was deep.
“There, he’ll live.”
Keeler and one of the Marines had a guardsman cornered against a large tree. The guardsman was bleeding from a trio of head wounds, one of its four arms was hanging loose and useless. Every time Keeler thrust out, the beast attempted to grab the staff. The Marine, trying to get in close with his sword was having no better success. The hands of the low guardsmen were articulated like human hands, but covered in a thick bony plating and had become nicked and gouged fending off the blows.
“Captain!” Keeler heard Alkema calling. Keeler spared him a glance, enough to see Alkema holding a rock about twice as large as his head.
“Stand aside!” Alkema yelled.
Keeler and the other Marine dived to other side as Alkema tossed the rock in the air and Marine Buttercup spiked it like a volleyball. The rock smashed hard into the head of the guardsman, knocking him to the ground, mortally wounded.
Keeler and Alkema stared down at the fallen guardsmen. Marine Honeywell raised his sword defensively and looked for more opponents. The battlefield had grown preternaturally silent, the fury of a moment earlier gone away.
“Is that all of them?” Keeler whispered.
As if in answer, a shrieking came from the trees and a great, four-armed shape fell from the branches, directly toward the Captain, sword pointed straight down. Keeler pivoted, swung his battlestaff, raised the coefficient of force on the far end as high as he dared. The staff connected with the back of the guardsman, reversed his course and sent him into a high, narrow parabola, on a trajectory whose height and rapid descent would reduced him to a mass of broken bones and armor plating upon impact. The Captain watched the guardsman disappear over the cliff’s edge. A wet smack was heard a moment later. “And they say golf was a waste of time.”
Honeywell and the other two Marines were frantically scanning the surrounding woods and trail. “Anything?” Honeywell called out.
“Negative.”
“I detect no movement, no heat signatures, no life signs.”
Honeywell put down his hands. “How many?”
“Counting the one the Captain just took out, ten.”
“A nice round number. That’s probably all of them.”
“All dead and/or disabled.”
Honeywell nodded. “Assess our own casualties.” He crossed to where Keeler was kneeling over one of the bodies. “Looks like our friend the Scion changed his mind about us.”
Alkema lifted up a corner of a Guardsman’s tunic. “These creatures aren’t wearing the same colors as the ones in his court. Look at the sigil on his breastplate. It’s different.”
“A different unit, maybe.”
“Possibly, or maybe the guardsman of another Scion. We can’t know.”
“If it is the Scion, we underestimated him.”
“And he underestimated us,” Keeler said grimly. “He is unlikely to do so again, at least not as badly. We know we’ll have to be on our guard from here on in.”
“Captain,” Alkema asked quietly. He jerked his head toward the recumbent boy, lying on the ground under a pile of landing packs. “What about him? Where did he come from?”
“He tried to kill me a few minutes before all this Hell broke loose.”
“Do you think they’re together?” Honeywell asked.
Keeler shook his head. “Neg, I think he just came back for his weapons. Why send a scrawny little kid to take me out when one of those four-armed storm-troopers could do it?”
One of the Marines returned. “Goodyear and Hastings are dead, sir.”
“Goodyear and Hastings?”
“Two technicians from Yorick, ” Alkema explained to Keeler.
“They probably died just before the attack. Their throats were slit while they slept. It’s a bloody mess over there.”
Keeler was enraged. “Death?! On my landing mission! They weren’t even armed!”
He looked from one Marine to another, to Alkema, to Skinner, off tending to the wounded in one corner of the camp, wanting to demand that one of them explain this barbarity to him. He came from a world on which violent death was something you heard about most in cautionary tales about humanity’s violent past. What kind of monster would steal a life in such a way, would cut short the mortal path, would slice the throats of sleeping innocents and drench the ground in their blood.
He looked around the camp once again. The eyeball trees no longer seemed the most horrible things in it. He looked at where the guardsman had fallen and felt no remorse for them. His anger roared up inside him again like a fire receiving fresh fuel. How dare these monsters come into his camp and kill his people. He wished they had all died more horribly, and the Scion he hoped would burn in the flames of Hell.
It was Alkema who broke the silence, with a tentative voice, asking, “Orders, Captain?”
Keeler allowed himself a deep, steadying breath. “Help Skinner and Bihari tend to the wounded. We can’t remain here long, we’ve got to find a better shelter. Strip these… things, of all the weapons you can find, anything useful.”
He paused, bit his lip. “Prepare the bodies of Goodyear and Hastings. We’ll bury them here, for now, to protect them from scavengers. We’ll come back later and… we’ll make sure they receive an honorable … funeral. Salvage what you can from their supplies.”
Alkema nodded, and slowly backed aw
ay to carry out his orders. Keeler turned away from the Marines, and crossed to where the boy he had been carrying at the last moment in time when the universe had seemed to make any sort of sense was lying on the ground. Aside from the purple bruise on his temple, he looked remarkably peaceful, a savage angel in repose. Keeler turned and shouted. “Skinner” he called out. “When you get a chance, take a look at our little friend, here.”
Pegasus – Main Bridge/Primary Command
“Alpha Landing Party is under attack,” reported Specialist Shayne American from her station. The other two landing team monitors, a middle-aged man and a tiger cat, immediately brought the seen of the campsite on their displays.
The images came from the Zeta-class micro-probes hovering in the vicinity. The 3-D
resolution was not good, attackers and defenders alike appeared as ghostly-white outlines, but the pitch of the battle was obvious. Alpha landing party were fighting for their lives. Lt. Windjammer had the duty watch. “Flight Core, stand by to launch Aves for immediate Evac of Alpha landing party. Stand-by for coordinates.”
“22 degrees 14 minutes fifty three seconds north latitude by 40 degree 50 minutes eleven seconds east longitude. Grid location 9 by 473,” Shane read off.
“Received,” Flight Core responded.
“They’ll never make it in time,” said Queequeg.
Windjammer examined the feed in time to see Keeler strike down a guardsman with some kind of … the scanners picked up nothing. It was as though the Captain were fighting with an invisible iron bar. “Neg, they won’t.”
He turned to the full bridge. “Options?”
Queequeg had one. “If we can get within weapons range, we can set the ship’s weapons to stum everyone in the area.”
American had a better one. “Send down a squadron of Shrieks. On remote pilot, they can get there faster than the Aves can.”
Windjammer topped them. “Stand-by to launch Shrieks. Helm, take the ship into firing position. Tactical, set the forward long range cannons for wide-area stun as soon as we get into range. Flight Core, launch Aves when ready.”
He called up a monitor to follow the launch in Flight Core, and was surprised to see them standing down from Launch Ready. “Flight Core, status?”
“Command Center, the Launch Order has been countermanded.”
“On whose orders?”
“Executive Commander Goneril Lear.”
Surprise read on the faces of Windjammer, American, the entire command crew, and the cat. The command officer slammed the comm-link panel. “Lt. Windjammer to Exec. Commander Lear.”
Lear appeared on the console next to the Second-in-Command’s chair. “I’ve countermanded your launch order.”
“Why?”
“Captain Keeler’s last transmission specifically forbade interference from the ship.”
“The Landing Party is under attack, commander.”
“They are capable of self-defense against this level of assault.”
“You have no authority. You were relieved.”
“Only of ship functions, I am still have authority over the mission in the absence of Captain Keeler. Landing Party Alpha is on their own, unless the Captain explicitly calls for assistance. His comm-link is still functional, as are those of Marine Lieutenant Honeywell and the rest of the Landing Party. If they call for assistance then, and only then, are you authorized to respond. Am I absolutely clear?”
Windjammer stared at the screen for a moment.
“Am I absolutely clear?” Lear repeated.
“As glass,” Windjammer responded, with a tight jaw.
“Lear out.” She vanished.
Everyone on the bridge was staring at him. Everyone wanted to see what he would do next. He turned to the primary viewscreen on the bridge, where the battle was displayed almost life-size. The Landing Party, at least, seemed to be getting the better of their opponents. Two of the Marines had a four-armed guardsman pinned against a tree. One beat away at his arms with a sword he had acquired from one of the fallen. This enabled the second to bring his hands together in a rock-hard, slamming clap to the guardsmen’s head. He fell limp to the ground.
He turned back to American. “Prepare the Shrieks for launch. Over-ride any lock-outs from Flight Core. Authorization Windjammer, Shining-Path-eight-four-two.”
“That won’t over-ride a command lock-out from Lear,” American told him, but she turned to her station any way. A moment later she reported, with distinct surprise. “Shriek launchers enabled.”
Windjammer’s relief was so great he actually felt able to breathe again. Executive Commander Lear had probably only ordered the Aves launch over-ridden and Flight Core, bless their hearts and good sense, had neither told her about the Shrieks nor extended her over-ride to them. He had time to launch one, maybe two flights.
“Launch,” he ordered.
There was a woman at Flight Control Station. “Flight One launched.”
“Ready a second.”
American reported. “Second flight ready.”
That was fast. “Launch.”
“Flight two launched.”
“Shriek launch over-rides engaged,” American reported.
“What about second flight.”
“Too late… second flight is clear of the ship.”
Lear re-appeared. “Lt. Windjammer. You are disobeying a direct order. Stand down those vehicles or you’ll be relieved.”
Windjammer held up his hands in a gesture of obsequiousness. “Executive Commander, those vehicles will not interfere with the Landing Party. They are only going to take high-altitude positions above them for observations and for immediate response … only upon a request from the landing party.”
Lear eyed him suspiciously. “I will be monitoring them.”
“By all means,” Windjammer re-assured her. She vanished.
“Status of Landing Team.”
“I think they’re going to make it,” the Alpha Landing Team monitor said, with only a little hesitation. Queequeg directed one of the probes in closer to the camp, shut down all sensors except for one and maximized its gain. “I am only detecting three active heartbeats among the attackers, and those appear come from unconscious men.”
“Two of the landing party are dead,” the monitor added.
Every man and woman on the bridge shared in a single emotion: astonishment.
“Confirm that.” Windjammer whispered.
“All sensors functioning normally. I detect minor injuries in four other members of the party, and of course, Specialist Dallas.”
“Comm. Units?”
“Functioning normally.”
Why don’t they call for help? Windjammer asked himself. He looked around the bridge, his eyes falling on Queequeg. “Cat,” he said. “With me.” He walked toward the conference room where the Captain met with senior staff. Queequeg followed.
When the door had close behind them, he leaned across the table and fixed the cat at eye level. “You are not an authorized member of the bridge command, correct?”
“You got it, chief.”
“Rumor has it you have a lot of talent with systems.”
Queequeg flicked his tail. “Rumor greatly underestimates me.”
Windjammer almost smiled at that, but the situation was too serious. “Can you make sure I have a back door to those Aves? If the situation gets desperate, I don’t want Lear to lock me out again.”
“Is that all?” Queequeg asked.
Windjammer stared, suppressed the urge to rub the feline’s ears. “For now,” he answered.
“Carry on.”
The cat jumped off the table and trotted through the doors.
Humans, Windjammer reflected, had used genetic engineering and nano-technology to give speech and thought to several animal species … cats, dogs, apes, even pigs. Only cats had ever really taken to it, though. He wondered why that was.
The comm unit issued an alert. “Lt. Windjammer, come to the bridge. Alpha Landin
g Party is under attack … again.”
Chapter Thirteen
Pegasus – The UnderDecks
Centurion Bellisarius and his lieutenant, Tyro Centurion Constantine, exited the transport pod at the same station where they had had their previous encounter with the renegade, John Hunter. They drew their weapons and inspected the vicinity carefully, but the station was quite deserted.
The platform overlooks a large expanse of the UnderDecks, Bellisarius surveyed the environs. “Minimal sensors, command-only intruder counter-measures, a million square meters of hiding places… it’s as if they were begging for stowaways.”
“Why would anyone want to live down here?” Constantine muttered. He was in his late thirties, young for a centurion, lean, dark-skinned, with a high forehead and deep frown lines between his eyes and around his mouth.
His question had been intended as rhetorical, but a half-distracted Bellisarius answered it anyway. “Insane, desperate people who saw this is as their only chance to be part of ‘The Greatest Journey of All Time.’” He all but spat the Odyssey Project slogan. “Sapphireans, who thought the lottery process was unfair, and the crews should have been determined by merit. Citizens of Republic, who thought the selection process was unfair, and there should have been a lottery. Then, there’s the Isolationists, of course, who would sabotage this ship and the mission, given a chance, but they are few.”
Anger seethed in his tone. He took the presence of these undocumented and unwanted passengers personally. Each and every one of them represented a lapse in the security protocols
– a shuttle that had not been properly inspected, a forged ID Sliver that had not been detected, a work detail that had not been sufficiently monitored. In the sixteen years that it had taken to construct Pegasus, fifteen hundred and fifty-three people had been caught trying to smuggle themselves on board. The Mining Guild, who cared for nothing but a quick credit, was known to offer passage to the Odyssey Shipyards. The Sapphireans were inclined, in their libertine manner, to look the other way. Only he and the Centurion Guard stood between Order and Anarchy, so had it been since the founding of the Great Republic.
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