by David Weber
“Don’t get used to it,” Roger advised . . . just as the deceleration hit.
“Aaaaaaahhhh . . .”
“Colonel, we’re getting killed down here,” Beach said. “I’ve slipped a few people through to the Armory, but they’re just making up for our losses. We’re stalemated.”
She looked at her schematic and shook her head with an unheard snarl.
“And we’ve got somebody moving around. I just lost a team by Hold Three.”
“I know,” Giovannuci replied, watching his own displays. The internal systems hadn’t been designed to handle a pitched battle, but he’d been able to use the monitors to follow at least some of the action. Not that very many of them were left; the invaders had been systematically shooting them out. He could more or less tell where they’d been from the breadcrumb trail of smashed pickups in their wake, but not, generally, where they currently were.
“The bad news is that they’re about to receive reinforcements,” he told his executive officer. “We need to break the stalemate before that happens, or at least to get some mobility going for us.”
“Suggestions are welcome,” Beach said tartly.
“About the only thing that might work is hitting one of the defense points and breaking out,” the colonel said. “It will only take a couple of minutes to get set. We’ll hit them simultaneously in five minutes.”
“Works for me,” Beach agreed laconically. “And I hope to hell it works for all of us. If the Empies don’t kill us, the clerics will.”
Eva Kosutic slid along the passage, using her turned-up audio and movement sensors to search for hostiles . . . and trying very, very hard not to let anyone on the other side know where she was. The majority of the Saints were in light body armor and skin suits, so fairly light weaponry was capable of penetrating it with carefully aimed fire. In her case, she’d loaded one of her dual magazines with low-velocity penetrator rounds. Designed to avoid damage to important systems in shipboard actions, they left a very small hole in their victim and didn’t tumble or expand upon entry. But they were capable of defeating light armor points and portions of helmets. And for Eva Kosutic, that was all that was required.
Her sensors told her there was another group moving along the same passage, trying to infiltrate past the various Marine groups to the Armory. She looked around, and then lifted herself into an overhead position, holding herself in place against the deckhead with one hand and both legs planted.
“I’m going to send all these Pollution-damned Empies straight to Hell,” Sergeant Leustean said. The commando NCO twisted his hand on the foregrip of his bead rifle and snarled. “Straight to Hell.”
“Well, don’t get us all kilt doin’ it,” Corporal Muravyov replied.
“We’ll be doing the killing!” the sergeant snapped . . . just as the sergeant major opened fire.
The first three shots entered just below their targets’ helmets, penetrating the light armor on the relatively undefended patch at the top of the neck and severing the cervical vertebrae. But by the third shot, the team was reacting, the highly trained commandos spinning and diving for cover. But good as they were, they didn’t stand much of a chance up against a suit of combat armor, and an even more highly trained Imperial bodyguard who’d just gone through an advanced course in combat survival.
Kosutic dropped to the deck and walked over to prod the bodies.
“Not today, Sergeant.” She sighed, then glanced at her telltales. More movement. “Not today.”
Roger double-checked the seal, then hit the hatch release, letting Rastar and two other Vashin precede him through the still-smoking hole in the ship’s side.
Even freighters used ChromSten for their hulls. The material was expensive, making up a sizable fraction of the total cost of the ship. But given that it was proof against almost all varieties of space radiation, and an excellent system to protect against micro-meteor impacts, it was worth every credit.
Freighters did not, however, have warship-thickness ChromSten. The material on the outside of a freighter was generally less than two microns thick, whereas a warship’s might be up to a centimeter. And it was that difference which had permitted the thermal lances on the assault shuttles to eat through the hull in less than three seconds.
The point Roger had chosen for his hull breaching was one of the vessel’s innumerable holds, and its interior was filled with shipping canisters of every conceivable size and shape. Roger took a look around, shrugged, and waved the Vashin forward. Somewhere, there was a battle to be joined.
Rastar tapped the controls of the sealed portal, but it was clear that the hatch out of the hold was locked.
“I’ll fix that, Your Highness,” one of his Vashin said, lifting his plasma gun.
Rastar backpedaled furiously, but he still caught the fringes of the blast as the door shattered outwards.
“Watch those things!” he shouted, then keyed the radio to transmit as the luckless cavalryman flew back from the doorway, most of his mass converted to charcoal. “Watch those things. They’re not carbines, for Valan’s sake!” He looked around and then down at his suit. “Why is the suit hardening?”
“Damned scummies,” Dobrescu growled as he clambered past the prince. Roger could barely hear him over the shrill wail of escaping atmosphere. The blast from the plasma cannon and the resulting overpressure had popped part of the temporary seals between the shuttle’s hull and the hole blasted through Emerald Dawn’s skin.
“Watch your fire!” the warrant officer shouted over the Vashin frequency.
“Can we do anything about it?” Roger asked.
“Not unless I pull away and reseal,” Dobrescu replied sourly. “We might as well wait until we repair the hole.”
“Which brings up an interesting point. Do we have anyone who knows how to weld ChromSten?”
“Fine time to ask now, Your Highness,” Dobrescu said with a harsh laugh.
“We weren’t supposed to have been facing this much resistance,” the prince pointed out.
“Begging your pardon, Prince Roger,” one of the Vashin said as he trotted over through the increasing vacuum. “Prince Rastar’s compliments, and we have no idea which way to go.”
Roger chuckled and gestured at Dobrescu.
“Get going, Doc. Raise as much hell as you can while doing the minimum damage. Keep them from reinforcing the Bridge, Engineering, and the Armory. Pay attention to the shuttle bays, especially.”
“Got it,” Dobrescu acknowledged, adjusting his carbine sling. “Where are you going?”
“Bridge,” Roger replied as four Vashin fell in with him. He arranged them so that the sole plasma gunner was in front of him. The others’ bead cannons were loaded with shot rounds and couldn’t penetrate his armor.
“Now we find out if I’m a genius, or an idiot.”
Giovannuci flipped through screens, trying to get a handle on the battle. He was sure all four of the shuttles had managed to breach and board, and one was visible on an exterior monitor. Unfortunately, the holds were poorly covered at the best of times, and so far he hadn’t been able to find out how many of the Marine reinforcements had come aboard.
He touched another control, then looked up as he heard Lieutenant Anders Cellini, his tactical officer, gasp.
“Sir,” the tac officer said in a strangled voice. “Screen four-one-four.”
Giovannuci keyed the monitor for Hold Three and froze in shock.
“Are those what I think they are, Sir?” Cellini asked with a pronounced edge of disbelief.
“They’re scummies,” Giovannuci replied in a voice of deadly calm. “With plasma and bead cannons. That resource-sucking, inbred cretin gave scummies plasma cannon. And he brought them aboard my ship!”
“Well, at least it’s not more Empie Marines.” The tac officer sounded as if he were trying very hard to find a bright side to look upon, and Giovannuci barked a harsh, humorless almost-laugh.
“You’re joking, right?” he snapped.
“Empie Marines would at least know not to blow holes in the side of the ship; that hold is depressurized.”
When Harvard saw the yellow light above the hatch, he knew that volunteering to “help out” had been a bad idea. Not that he’d had a lot of choice. There were so few Marines left that, in the end, the prince had shanghaied every human he thought he could trust to assist the Mardukans. Now technicians from the port, and even complete civilians like Mansul, were running around the interior of a Saint Q-ship, trying to keep the scummies from killing themselves.
It was turning out to be a difficult assignment.
“The button won’t open the door,” Honal snarled, hitting the circuit again.
“Uh . . .”
For entirely understandable safety considerations, Harvard had wedged himself into the middle of the scummies’ formation. Unfortunately, this meant he couldn’t reach the Vashin nobleman before the light dawned.
“Aha!” Honal said. “The emergency release.”
“Honaaalll!”
It was too late. Before the human could get the Vashin’s attention, Honal had flipped out the emergency unlock lever and thrown it over.
As Honal would have realized, had he been able actually to read the information displayed on the lock-assembly, the far compartment wasn’t totally depressurized. It was, however, at a much lower atmospheric pressure than the near side of the hatch. The result was a rather strong suction.
Honal was unable to let go of the hatch before it flew backwards, dragging him with it. However, the physics of its opening, rather than spinning him to slam into the bulkhead, combined with the blast of wind at his back to pick him up and pitch him violently down the passage.
All that Mansul could hear was a short, cut-off cry, the clang of the hatch hitting the stops, and a crunching sound. Then he was carried along by the stampede as the Therdan contingent rushed to the aid of its commander.
Harvard found him lying against a piece of radiometric monitoring gear, crumpled and twisted like a pretzel. His head was tucked under one armpit, and one of his legs was thrown over backwards, touching the deck.
“So, Harvard Mansul,” he croaked. “What does a yellow light mean?”
“You’re joking, right?” Beach had lost contact with Ucelli and was trying to round up more stragglers to feed into the cauldron around the Armory. She was also hunting Empies. A team had been ambushed somewhere around here, and she was determined to track down the Marines responsible. She’d sent Ucelli to block the passage leading up from Cargo Main, but now she wished she’d kept him around. The little gunslinger would’ve been good backup for facing down scummies. Although . . . maybe not scummies armed with plasma cannon.
“No, we’re down to the wire, here,” the colonel said. “If we can’t get more people armed up and armored, I’m going to have to punch the ship.”
“I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t do that,” Beach said. “I know we’ve had our differences over the One Faith, but you have to admit that suicide generally isn’t a good thing. Think of the resource waste.”
Giovannuci smiled thinly at her over the monitor.
“No, Beach, we are different. You see, I believe, and you don’t. That’s why I’m in command, and you’re not. If you can’t break the deadlock at the Armory, I’ll have to set the scuttling charges.”
“Oh, grand,” she whispered, after she’d cut the circuit. She thought furiously for a moment, but she couldn’t really see a way out. The tactical officer had a second key for the self-destruct mechanism, so she was unnecessary; her absence from the Bridge wouldn’t keep Giovannuci from doing exactly what he’d just said he would.
“Oh, Pollution,” she whispered again . . . then slammed into the bulkhead as her uniform hardened under a savage kinetic impact.
She bounced back and spun in place, raising her bead rifle, but a whirl of silver smashed into the breech, crushed her left hand, and pitched the weapon from her grasp. She started to drop into a crouch, but the backswing caught her on the side of the helmet, and she rebounded off the bulkhead again, then slumped to the deck.
Poertena used the wrench to smash out the monitor, then dragged the unconscious officer into a nearby supply cabinet. Assuming they survived this goat-pock, they might need her, so he pulled off her communicator and weapons, then welded the door shut. The door had an air seal and was marked as an emergency life-support shelter, so as long as the ship didn’t explode, she should be fine.
Rastar looked down the seemingly endless passageway, and then glanced at the human pilot.
“You’re sure it’s this way?”
“That’s what the schematic said,” Dobrescu replied shortly. “It’s a ways yet.”
“Very well.” The Vashin prince lifted his arm into the air in a broad and a dramatic gesture. “To the shuttle bays!”
He continued down the high, wide passage. It was the first thing they’d found on the ship that wasn’t made for midgets, and it was a vast relief. He and Honal had divided their forces in order to approach the shuttle bays from different directions in the hope that one of them might get through unintercepted. So far, neither of them had encountered any actual resistance, and that made Rastar very, very nervous. It was also one reason he was so glad to see this spacious corridor. All the Mardukans found the normal short, narrow passages, and the strangely close “horizon” caused by the curvature of the ship, very odd and alien, but his concern was much more basic. The farther ahead he could see, the less likely he was to walk into an ambush.
After about five minutes, they reached a “T” intersection, with signs leading to the Bridge and the shuttle bays. The Vashin noble waved to the left, then watched as the plasma gunner on point flew backwards with the entire back of his head blown out.
Rastar didn’t even think about his response. He simply drew all four bead pistols and leapt across the relatively narrow intersection, guns blazing. He was surprised, however, to see only a single human figure in the passage. The human was standing with pistols in each hand, and they flashed upward like lightning as Rastar leapt. Despite the fact that the human couldn’t possibly have known exactly where and when Rastar would appear, four rounds cracked into the Vashin’s suit before he landed on the far side of the intersection.
Fortunately, none of them penetrated, and Rastar slammed to the deck. He raised his hands to the group on the far side, motioning for them to stay put. Then he popped his head out and back, quickly, followed by a hand in a “wait a moment” gesture that was nearly as universal among Mardukans as it was among humans.
When that didn’t draw any fire, he poked his head out into the corridor, as close to the deck as he could get it. This time the response was immediate and vigorous, and Rastar swore as he jerked back. One of the incoming rounds had missed completely, but the other had plowed a groove in the side of his helmet. Another half-centimeter to the side, and it would have plowed a hole clear through the helmet, which would have been most unpleasant.
The Prince of Therdan sat back, considering what he’d seen in his single, brief glance. The Saint was short, even for a basik—not much taller than Poertena. But the speed and lethal accuracy he’d already demonstrated told the prince that here was an opponent worthy of him. It wasn’t as good as swords or knives, but it would have to do.
He thought for a few more moments, then grinned in the human fashion as he saw the sign on the bulkhead beside him. He didn’t know where the passage the human was in actually led, but it didn’t lead to the shuttle bays, assuming the bulkhead sign was correct. The little gunman must have chosen his position to take anyone headed for the shuttle bays in the flank as they passed.
“Dobrescu?” he said over the radio.
“Yes?”
“Go back the way we came. Link up with Honal.”
“What about you?”
“I think this fellow is good enough that we’d all like him kept right where he is,” Rastar replied.
As he spoke, he eased a bit
closer to the intersection, then leaned out, spotted the human—half-concealed now behind what looked like a ripped-out hatch—and fired four rounds rapid-fire. His opponent ducked, but only for an instant, and then it was Rastar’s turn to roll hastily further into cover as beads screamed lethally past.
“You go find Honal,” he told the human healer cheerfully. “I’ll stay here and play for a while.”
“We’ve got to go,” Giovannuci said, and sealed his uniform jacket. The material wouldn’t be proof against the plasma and bead cannon of the Empie Marines, but it would at least give some protection from flashback and spalling.
“What about Beach, Sir?” Cellini asked.
Giovannuci only shrugged and gestured at the hatch, but as the armored commando keyed the opening, he wondered himself. The first officer was one of only four people who could disarm the scuttling charges, after all.
“Captain Pahner, we’ve got a counterattack going!” Despreaux called. “They’re attempting to break out from the Armory!”
“How are you doing?” Pahner asked. Captain Fain had been held up by a small group of wandering commandos, but he was nearly to the sergeant’s position—no more than a minute out. Of course, in combat, a minute was a long time.
“Kyrou and Birkendal are dead, Sir,” the sergeant replied. Pahner could hear the thump of fire in the background over her voice. Given that she was inside armor, that meant some heavy impacts. “Clarke’s hit, but still fighting, and the St. Johns are out on the hull. I’m down to four people, Sir.”
“Just hold out for another minute, Sergeant,” the captain replied calmly. “Just one minute. Fain’s nearly there.”
“We’ll try, Sir,” she said. “I’m—”