This was no time for being chivalrous. I hacked any Weasel that even looked like it was twitching. As I was at it, a laser beam nearly fried my face. Again I was peering out from the cover of dead Weasels. Another shot, and the corpse which I was behind sizzled. I squeezed off a fast, three-round burst. There was a satisfying squealing sound, and the red pencil of light went out. To make certain, I threw a grenade in the direction of the enemy and followed it with a second. Animal-like choking noises indicated that the one I’d taken out had buddies, so I fired into the area blindly, then moved left and crouched. A pair of half-blinded Weasels came stumbling out of the smoke. One I shot; the other I cut down with my sword.
“We’re clear, Lieutenant,” Corporal Garza’s voice said clearly in my ear. “What orders now?”
“Get back to my position by the elevator,” I told him on fourth channel. “I found a whole den of these furry turds!”
“You in trouble?”
“Don’t know yet, Corporal. Took out a bunch of them, but if more come I might need help,” I answered.
“Be right there, sir.” I heard the squad coming toward me in less than a half a minute.
We worked aft, moving so quickly the Weasels didn’t have time to seal off the stern of the deck. Good thing. We had only two loads of nitroplast with us. It blew open the hatch at the portion of the deck where there was a steep ladder down. I was in the lead again, and I went down the steps two at a time. There wasn’t an alien in sight, but the companionway there was long, open, and headed straight back toward the bow again. It was quiet here, so I took a chance. “Listen up! We’re heading back to that elevator and going down to the hold of this tub!”
“Aye, aye, Lieutenant,” Corporal Garza said so all could hear. If he thought I’d lost it, he didn’t let on. We were bypassing a whole deck, and it could be crammed with Weasel troops for all I knew. I was the officer, so what I said went. Good NCO, Garza.
We double-timed down the companionway. There were some open hatches, some closed, but not a hint of a Khalian anywhere. When we came to the right place, I hit the panel with the angular marks on it, and in a few seconds the big metal slab slid open and we tumbled aboard the lift. This time Gigantos punched the lowest oval, and the thing hissed as it took us to the lowest deck of the alien spaceship. Three of the men went prone and the rest of us kneeled. Seven pistols were leveled as the bulkhead-like hatch moved aside. A group of Weasels assembling some sort of heavy weapon was even more surprised to see us than we were to catch them with their proverbial pants down ... if the furry buggers wore pants, that is. Everyone opened up at once, and the aliens went down, torn to bloody shreds by scores of the heavy little discs. A couple of the bastards were behind a metallic storage crate. One of them got away and must have pulled an alarm.
A klaxon began hooting mournfully, filling the hold with its horrid noise. At the same time, bluish-green gas began to spurt out of overhead vents. McDonnel shoved Corporal Garza back into the elevator, hit an oval, and jumped out before the hatch slid shut. Meantime, Bigfox had a patch out and over the place where the Weasel’s blade had pierced my combat armor. By this time the gas was obscuring everything above us and moving downward at about a meter a minute.
“Head aft,” I called over my helmet radio. “That lousy Weasel went that way, and we’re going to be on his ass like arrow-leeches on a behemoth!” I suited action to command, running towards the foreward portion of the big hold, crouching to keep my head below the cloud of gas above. “Spread out, and shoot anything that moves,” I growled over the radio. I caught glimpses of the squad fanning out to flank. Schmichael to the left, MacGregor to my right. I wasn’t sure where McDonnel, Bigfox, Gigantos, and Carp were, but I was sure they were with me. That’s what counted.
There was a fair amount of cargo stowed amidships, and we used the cover to work rapidly aft, trying to locate the enemy and find out what was going on in the hold before the gas made it impossible for us to see anything more than a couple of meters distant. A laser burned into a crate next to me, and I ducked back. There were soft coughing sounds audible over my speakers. Somebody was firing their cluster pistol.
“Blew his ass off!” That was Carp.
“I drilled one too!” That was McDonnel. “Position, Carp?”
PFC Carp’s voice came back instantly. “Left flank, Lieutenant—and there’s movement just ahead of me.”
“McDonnel?”
He too replied quickly. “Right flank, sir, and I see at least three Weasels makin’ a stand,” he added with a grim satisfaction in his voice.
“The gas bothering them?” I asked the question to the squad at large, for the vapors were now down to about two meters above the deck.
“They got masks over their muzzles, Lieutenant,” Gigantos called, “but they’re crouchin’ down too! I think they’ll pull back when the stuff gets near to ‘em—the one I can see keeps lookin’ up at the gas overhead.”
“Fire only if you have a good target,” I ordered.
“MacGregor and Schmichael, I’m moving up. Cover me, and when I stop, you two follow, and I’ll cover you. Clear?”
“Yessir!” Both men spoke in unison.
I made my move, keeping really low and moving evasively.
After covering about ten meters, I stopped and looked for Weasels. One almost burned my head off, but my own fire drove the alien to concealment. “Move up,” I ordered. “There’s one just ahead of my position.”
Thump! Thump! Whump, whump, whump! Grenades and pistol fire from both flanks. I should have been more careful. The whole squad was advancing as ordered, not just Schmichael and McDonnel. I was about to shout for the men to halt when the Weasel in front of me came out into the open and began humping away on all fours. In my excitement, I forgot to say anything except, “UP YOURS!” as I sent a three-round burst into the creature’s retreating rump.
There was excited babble similar to mine. “Runnin’ like rabbits!” and “Blasted the bugger!” or “Lookout! Weasels movin’ left!” All the while, the sound of cluster pistols chuffing out their deadly little discs could be heard, and I was suddenly overcome with elation. Without thinking I stood up, fired off every last round in my weapon in the general direction of the enemy, and waved my cutlass.
“CHARGE!” Then I ran in stooped position, my head just below the swirling layer of gas. There were shouts and cries from the men. They were moving ahead on the run too, intent on closing with the Weasels. The Khalia might simply have been pulling back to get out of their own cloud of gas, or perhaps they had been ordered back to a new defense line. Fast as they were, they weren’t able to outrun our fire, and we left a litter of kicking, jerking casualties behind us as the seven of us charged like crazed berserkers. When we arrived at a cleared space before the forward most bulkhead, there were only five of us left, but there wasn’t one Weasel to contest our right to be there.
I pointed to a closed hatch. “Nitroplast?” Gigantos nodded, unwound a thick rope of the explosive, and had it in place in a jiffy. Then he stuck the little detonator into the stuff and we all dropped flat. BANG! The hatch fell inward with an even louder clang. Beyond was a companionway and an area which must have been for secured cargo of a special sort. Very special. I could see something resembling a brig and hear faint cries for help coming from that direction. Trouble was, the gas was now beginning to seep into the heretofore clear area we had just gained entry to.
“Croaker,” I said, using Gigantos’ nickname, “go and get those prisoners out of the cage—and tell them to lay flat so’s to stay clear of the gas!” As he hurried ahead to handle it, I waved to the other three. “MacGregor, come with me. You two go back and see if you can find our wounded. Be quick!” Bigfox and Carp—I knew them by sight, but they had their names blazoned on their armor too, of course—went to find the missing McDonnel and Private Schmichael. Freeborn Marines would not leave wounded or dead,
behind. Finally: “Come on, Red; you and I have to find a way up and out of this stinking hold!”
“Aye, aye, Lieutenant!” Somehow I thought I detected a lot of admiration in MacGregor’s gravelly voice. The dumb grunt must have thought I actually knew what I was doing! Well, I wouldn’t disillusion him just now. Not when we had so much to do ... like saving our asses.
I located a small elevator, but MacGregor found a ladder.
Red went up to make sure there were no Weasels waiting overhead, and when he radioed the all clear, I began sending the prisoners up as fast as they could run. For civilians they were a tough lot. Never even screamed when that damned gas blistered their skins. Freeborn. Some had to be helped. The Weasels had already begun to bleed them—food source maybe. It wouldn’t be proper to describe what had happened to some of the captives. Suffice to say we discovered a laboratory in the course of locating an escape route. The Khalia had used their time to open up a handful of their prisoners. Fortunately, none of them were still alive.
There was a hatch at the top of the ladder, and the second deck was secure enough for our purposes. When Bigfox came back he was crawling, dragging Schmichael. A second later, Carp came stumbling into the companionway, McDonnel over his big shoulders. “Get the hell out of here!” I ordered, helping Joe to get Schmichael on his back. It was easy covering the rear of the movement, for there wasn’t a Weasel to be seen.
After dogging the hatch closed, we moved out. I didn’t like escorting the gaggle of civilians, but everyone of them was in rough shape and needed medical treatment now—or as soon as we could get them aboard Retaliation. I was beginning to wonder why I hadn’t heard from Captain Downing, so I tried to raise him on my communicator. All channels were dead except fourth band. That near-miss must have screwed up my radio. We managed to get one of the alien hatches open manually, and I saw clouds of smoke beyond. I jumped through, and the men slammed it shut. The stuff would be too much for our folks to withstand in their condition. Then I shouted as loudly as I could, my voice sounding muffled even to me, enclosed as I was in armor and helmet.
Some ensign finally figured out that he should try all the Marine communication bands. He heard me yelling into my throat mike like a madman and managed to ask, “Is anyone in Fourth Squad still alive?”
“Goddamned right, boy! This is Lieutenant Franz Hohenstein, you asshole! I’m leading Fourth Squad, we’re alive, and we have the captives with us!” I was screaming at the last, because somebody, certainly not a marine, was still firing blindly through the smoke in my general direction. “Order your goddamned swabbies to cease firing at me!”
“Ahh—” That’s all the ensign managed to say before being interrupted.
“Lieutenant Hohenstein! Commander Fitzosbourne here.”
The voice was chill. “If you will cease your profanities and report your location, I will order any Naval personnel in your vicinity to withhold their fire. Then give me a report on the freed prisoners, Lieutenant, and do it in military manner!”
“Yessir!” I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “My unit is one deck below point of entry, sir! We’re forward, and everyone except me is safe behind a secured hatch, sir! We’re midships, but otherwise uncertain of exact location, sir. The civilians are in rough shape, and all have been exposed to a slight degree to the Khalia’s gas—”
“Explain,” the crusty starman ordered.
Before I could speak, I heard another voice in the background, wherever that might be, but presumably the Retaliation’s bridge, ordering the spacers in my area to cease all fire. It worked. As I replied, not one weapon was discharged down the companionway. “About ninety survivors, sir. The Weasels cut up four, but the rest are alive. Some are pretty weak from being bled, and the alien gas has blistered them all, so I’m not sure how long they can survive without attention. That’s it, sir. “
“Thank you, Lieutenant Hohenstein. I’d give you a well done, but your breach of discipline in communications is a serious matter. As soon as we have countered the CS fog in your area, you will lead your unit back to Retaliation. Report to me on the bridge, Lieutenant, after seeing that the civilians are safely aboard.”
“Aye, aye, Commander.” There wasn’t anything more to be said.
A shadowy form loomed suddenly out of the smoke. I could hear it hissing from where I lay crouched on the metal deck amidst a scattering of bent and distorted discs—some flattened from impacting on my own nylosteel body armor. Reflexes almost won over rational thought, but I didn’t leap up and hew the figure down with my cutlass. It was a spacer, decontaminating the air with a spray from a bulky canister affixed to his back. In a minute, only a yellowish residue remained to mark where the gas from our grenades had filled the atmosphere.
With the help of the crew of Retaliation, we managed to get our civilians aboard the frigate and into the hands of the surgeon and his mates quickly enough. Better rephrase that. It took only a little while, and as a result no more than a score of them died from exposure to the Khalian poison gas, although it was touch-and-go for three times that number for a while. Senior Lieutenant Zumkher, the frigate’s surgeon, commended me personally for fast action and exceptional conduct in locating and freeing the prisoners—and getting them out, naturally. He also must have mentioned it to Commander Fitzosbourne, because the Old Man didn’t have me court-martialed.
“Lieutenant,” he said to me quietly, “you were speaking under the heat of fire, so I’ll forget what you said over the communications system of the whole vessel. Ensign O’Malley is quite willing to drop the whole matter too, although he could demand satisfaction for your insults on the field of honor. The whole thing is to be forgotten, understood?”
“Aye, aye, Commander,” I replied softly.
He eyed me strangely. “Your father is a friend of mine, you know ...”
“Sir?”
“Well, Lieutenant, you did lose your head and totally breach all courtesy in your communication with an officer of the Freeborn Navy!”
I wasn’t quite sure what to say about this chickenshit lecture from an officer who was supposed to be the toughest and ablest starman in or out of the service. Fitzosbourne didn’t allow me to make any response at all. He winked. “Relax, son. If this were the Fleet, they’d probably bust you for what you did, but we’re Freeborn, and as far as any of us are concerned, you deserve a medal for your bravery and conduct under fire. In fact, I’m recommending you for battlefield promotion and whatever medal they decide is appropriate next time the government gets around to holding a formal session back in Patrick Henry!”
I was stunned. The old fart had been having me on. I wasn’t so sure about his sense of humor, but I did like what I’d heard.
“Thank you, sir,” was all I could think of.
“You’re welcome—Captain Hohenstein. Captain Downing is in sick bay. Weasels burned him and punctured him pretty good, but he’s too tough and mean to let that kill him. While he’s on R & R, however, you’re brevetted to captain and in command of the company—what’s left of it. Now get your young butt down to sick bay yourself and get that stab wound taken care of!”
“Aye, aye, SIR!”
The Old Man looked stern again. “Dismissed!” I got off the bridge and back to sick bay pronto.
An injection and a piece of synthskin slapped on the hole and I was pronounced fit for duty—after a reprimand for allowing the wound to go unreported for a day. Explaining that I simply forgot about it would have been looked on as an attempt to excuse my conduct, so I took it like a Marine. After sleeping about twelve hours, I climbed out of the sack and felt as good as new. In all we lost ten men and suffered fifteen wounded, seven seriously. The spacers took it on the chin too, having seven dead and nineteen wounded by the time the action concluded. Did I say we took a pounding? Let me rephrase that. In kicking the Weasels’ asses from here to Sirius we suffered losses but just about wip
ed out the whole of the Khalian crew. Two surrendered unharmed, another dozen were taken wounded and unable to resist. The rest, and that’s well over two hundred, were consigned to space without honors. Even so, the crew quarters were pretty glum when I showed up. I gave the men congratulations, assured them they’d all be in for commendations, and then began the tedious process of debriefing them, one by one, with Retaliation’s Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander Bainbridge.
The story that emerged was so filled with skill, courage, and the most incredible luck that it left me shaking my head. I hoped that I’d never have to try to do what we—and I mean Marines and Spacemen alike—managed to pull off in taking the alien raider and destroying its crew! I can’t talk about most of it—top secret material and all that. I can say flatly, though, that the Weasels plain underestimated us. If they would have concentrated their troops and hit us immediately, Freeborn’s only warship would be a Khalian prize instead of vice versa. That brings up the sore point.
We’re proud folks, we Freeborn. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’ll give credit to the Fleet where it’s due to them. Their ships have tractors and pressors which are so much superior to ours that I’d trade one of their auxiliary units for any of our main beams and kiss ‘em in the bargain. I mention this because by the time we’d taken the enemy vessel and sorted things out, Retaliation was a million and a quarter kilometers away from Brigit and moving outward rapidly. Retaliation maneuvered in a broad arc, the enemy prize in tow, but we had to move slowly and carefully in order to avoid breaking the fragile tractor beam linking it to our frigate. No one aboard knew how to operate the Khalian controls, so the ship was a lifeless hulk tugged after us as we curved around and set course to intersect Freeborn’s orbit.
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