Derelict: Destruction (Derelict Saga Book 3)

by Paul E. Cooley

  A file appeared in her queue. It was marked for her eyes only. If Black could have frowned, she would have. Thus far, all the on-board messages from the Trio, locked away in her subconscious, for lack of a better term, had been for Captain Dunn. She wasn’t even allowed to read their contents. This, however, was different.

  She applied her key and decrypted the message. Black read it, analyzed it, and determined the possible ramifications in the space of a human breath. She brought up all the available cam feeds and crafted another message to Mickey. The mission was in greater jeopardy than even she’d realized. Only now, she wasn’t sure there was a way to complete it. Much less survive.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The pain hadn’t lessened. If anything, his leg hurt more than ever. His ribs had joined the chorus and he knew he’d have to have another vape soon. In a way, the pain was good. The nannies were busy tearing apart the fracture, reconstituting bone fragments, and using the materials to put the bone back together. But, damn, it was painful.

  He stood against the bulkhead just beyond the cargo bay inner airlock. Copenhaver and Murdock stood less than two meters away, the two marines practically shoulder to shoulder, blank expressions on their faces.

  He was about to ask them how they liked repair work when his block received a message request from the captain. Nobel immediately answered. “Sir?”

  “Lieutenant,” Dunn said. His presence felt disconnected and Nobel immediately realized whatever he had to say, it was bad news. “Private Lyke is dead.”

  Nobel clenched his fingers into fists before spreading them out again to relieve the pressure. He repeated the process three times before taking a deep breath. “Acknowledged, sir.”

  “How long before the sled is ready?” Dunn asked, as though he’d never relayed the news that a member of the company had died.

  Nobel knew Dunn was merely being professional, updating a member of the command crew and then querying for status, just as they’d been taught to do. But that didn’t make it seem any less callous.

  Would he do the same thing if it was me that was dead? Nobel wondered.

  “Another twenty to thirty minutes,” Nobel said. “We’re making good time, considering we have to build it from scratch.”

  Dunn paused. Nobel’s frown deepened as the pause lingered.

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” the captain said. “Taulbee’s SV is damaged. Appears he lost pressure in the canopy.”

  “Damnit,” Nobel whispered.

  “You’ll need to fix his craft. I’ve ordered him to dock after he captures the body.”

  Nobel winced. Captures the body. Not “captures Lyke” or “brings the private home.” Just “captures the body.” A jet of acid released into his stomach.

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Gunny’s docking now. Taulbee should be a few minutes out.”

  “Aye, sir,” Nobel said.

  “Let me know if there are any problems. Dunn, out.” The captain disconnected.

  Nobel put a hand on the wall, suddenly unsure he could maintain his balance. Stress. It’s just stress.

  “Sir? You okay?” Copenhaver asked.

  He raised his eyes to hers and forced a smile. “Yes, Private. But we’re going to have to work fast once Gunny gets here. Even faster when Taulbee lands.”

  “Aye, sir,” Copenhaver said. Her face turned quizzical and eyes seemed to bore through him. “Is there anything else, sir?”

  Nobel opened his mouth to speak before realizing he didn’t know what to say. Technically, Taulbee or Gunny should tell them their squad-mate had died. Technically. But did that really matter anymore? Was there something he could tell them that would be different than “Lyke is dead. Now get to work.”

  No. They’d ask him questions. How did Lyke die? What happened? And those were questions he couldn’t possibly answer. Not until he got the debrief report. And considering they were going to have to focus on getting the beacon sled ready and repairing both the skiff and the SV-52, he doubted they’d get the official report on that incident until well after this shit was over. Assuming they were all still around to read a damned report.

  “I’m sure Gunny and Wendt will tell you,” he said softly.

  Copenhaver’s face dropped the slightest bit and Nobel wanted to kick himself. He hadn’t mentioned Lyke and she had immediately picked up on it. Murdock hadn’t noticed. Shit, he might not even be paying attention. But Copenhaver? She was sharp. She knew.

  The private bit her lip, but it only lasted for a second. Nobel met her eyes. She didn’t look away, exactly, but her gaze swung past him just the slightest bit. Yeah, she knew all right, but didn’t say a thing. He thought he saw a sparkle in her left eye, the sign of a tear fighting to get down her cheek. But it never dropped, never appeared. Nobel wasn’t sure whether to respect her or be afraid of her.

  The airlock door beeped and Nobel jerked in surprise. Copenhaver’s glazed eyes shunted from him to the door next to him. “Green, sir. Cargo bay is pressurized.”

  Nobel flushed red and an embarrassed smile crossed his face. “Of course,” he said and pushed himself from the wall. With a grimace of pain, he turned and headed into the cargo bay, the two non-rates following a meter behind.

  The skiff sat in its cradle with Gunny still in the pilot seat and Wendt unhooking himself from the cannon. Wendt pulled off his helmet and closed his eyes as he breathed the ship’s air. He stayed like that for a moment as if trying to clear his mind of what had happened. It didn’t exactly give Nobel the warm and fuzzy. When Gunny pulled off his helmet, the haunted look on his face chilled Nobel to the bone.

  “Gunny?” Nobel said softly.

  The grizzled marine turned his head as though it were on rusty hinges. The look on his face was twice as bad as that of Wendt’s. Whatever had happened out there, it must have been bad. And then he noticed the skiff itself.

  One of the gunwales had a meter-long streak of burns scarring the Atmo-steel. Acid, Nobel thought. He suddenly realized what had happened to Lyke. Another victim of the alien liquid.

  “Sir,” Gunny said. He stepped out of the skiff, helmet dangling from his fingers. “Might need you to look at the skiff. Just to make sure it’s good to go.”

  Nobel nodded, but his eyes flipped back to Wendt. The LCpl hadn’t yet stepped out of the skiff and it appeared as though he wasn’t going to.

  “Gunny?” Copenhaver asked.

  The sergeant swung his head in her direction, his eyes suddenly focused. “Aye, Private?”

  She swallowed hard. “Where is Lyke?”

  Gunny exchanged a glance with Nobel before meeting her eyes. “Private Lyke gave his life in service,” Gunny said in a dead voice.

  Copenhaver swallowed hard again. “Aye, Gunny,” she said.

  Murdock made a noise that sounded like a choked sob. Nobel wondered how much longer the marine would be able to take the stress of this mission. Shit. How long for any of them?

  “Wendt?” Gunny said and turned around to face the skiff.

  Wendt stared at him, his expression blank and unfocused. “Aye?”

  “Get your ass out of my vehicle, marine.”

  Wendt nodded as though he’d barely heard and finally stepped out of the craft. He continued holding his helmet in both hands as he walked to stand beside Gunny.

  “If you’ll allow us a moment, sir, I think we’d like to get some water.”

  Nobel forced a smile. “Of course, Gunny. Dismissed.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said. “Wendt? You’re with me.”

  “Aye, Gunny.”

  The pair made their way past Nobel and headed to the cargo bay hatch. He watched them go and waited until the hatch closed before speaking. “Copenhaver. Diagnostics on the skiff ASAP.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Murdock? You’re with me,” Nobel said. “We’re going to get some patches ready for the SV-52. Don’t want Taulbee waiting on us.”

  “Aye, sir,” Murdock
managed. Nobel thought he sounded close to tears. He couldn’t blame the young marine.

  *****

  No pressure in the cabin. Damage to the hull, although he wasn’t certain how significant. And here he was, trying to aim the damned net at a corpse.

  Taulbee glared at the body floating above Mira’s hull. He’d seen what happened. The destruction of the starfish thing had loosed jets of that acid shit. Lyke didn’t get out of the way. Shit, maybe he couldn’t. Taulbee wouldn’t know the answer to that question until he studied the cam recordings. And even then, he could second guess Lyke’s actions, Gunny’s reaction, and even his own.

  When Niro had died, it was from ignorance. Ignorance and lack of vigilance. Lyke at least died in combat. It didn’t make it any better, not really. But at least it was something he understood, even if he didn’t quite understand the thing that had caused it.

  He’d already matched the SV-52’s speed with that of the floating corpse. Lining up the net shot was easy. He was about to activate the net and stopped. Something was wrong with Lyke’s suit. Metal fibers poked through holes in the composite fabric. The occasional puff of gas or vapor emanated from the damage.

  Growling, he focused the cams and looked closely at the suit. The acid was still on the corpse, still burning or disintegrating the remains. Taulbee smashed his gloved fist on the console. He couldn’t bring Lyke home. The body would have to stay out here, floating through space. Taulbee allowed the SV-52 to continue floating just above the body. When he thought he’d regained control of his emotions, he gave a quick salute and hit the thrusters.

  Chasing down the body hadn’t taken him far from S&R Black; the return journey for repairs would take less than a minute. He checked his O2 supply. He still had plenty of air left in his suit. He wanted to jet back toward the line Gunny’s squad had been checking and blast to shit anything that popped out. Payback, he thought. I need some fucking payback.

  But that was something he couldn’t afford at the moment. He had to get the SV-52 fixed. Another surprise attack by one of the large starfish things and he’d be in deep shit. Besides, Dunn had ordered him back to the ship. Taulbee sighed as he stared in the direction of Mira’s starboard-side. “I’m going to dance when you’re nothing but debris,” he said to the giant ship. “With any luck, I’ll be the one to blow you to pieces.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The cam feeds from the cargo bay were depressing. The SV-52 had returned, Nobel and his two helpers vacating the area once again as Taulbee docked. The moment Taulbee exited the canopy, he flung his helmet into the wall and walked past Nobel and the marines without a word.

  Dunn turned off the feed and leaned back in his chair. Taulbee was either headed to the showers, his quarters, or the mess. Dunn bet on the mess. He’d seen Taulbee angry before. Hell, he’d been responsible for it more than once in their command relationship. But this was different.

  During the Satellite War, anger hadn’t been a luxury anyone could afford. Watching your squad-mates die from shredded suits, destroyed by friendly munitions, and constantly maneuvering a skiff through the wreckage that circled Mars had been a mental meat-grinder. Taulbee had handled it the same way Dunn had—by pushing it down so far, it nearly killed them both when the war was over.

  Back in the Common Era, the terms “shellshock,” “battle fatigue,” and “PTSD” had been used to describe psychological trauma from both combat and non-combat encounters. After the Satellite War, SFMC and SFN shrinks, both AI and human, had struggled to find treatments for most of the soldiers returning from the conflict. Returning. Shit, more than half of the SFMC marines that entered combat had been killed. Every marine that wasn’t “in the rear with the gear” had lost someone they knew. Squad-mates, commanding officers, engineers, anyone that had a job in space was affected. Yet another reason Dunn had chosen to join S&R at Trident rather than remain with the ghosts of his dead comrades.

  Dunn turned to drinking. And then Trident specials, a narcotic as deadly as it was blissful. For a while, it helped make the staticky screams of memory fade. The images of shredded suits, crimson ropes of frozen blood floating through space, torn limbs, and hollowed-out abdomens never went away. Never ceased. Not really. But the drugs, the drink, every substance he could put in his body dulled it all.

  Then it began to destroy his career and finally left him a dried-out husk in a treatment center. He’d kicked it all and pulled himself back together, but it had taken months of shrinks, and months of sheer will. And the only part of him that wanted to give it all up was the knowledge that he could keep another company from dying out in space for no good goddamned reason.

  Taulbee, on the other hand, took a different path. The second lieutenant, an ace SV-52 pilot, good squad leader, and a hell of a shot with a flechette rifle, hadn’t come back damaged. Not at first. Instead of exploding in a bright flash of rage or simply coming apart, he’d suffered in silence and isolation. Until, of course, he finally cracked.

  He’d stopped eating. He’d stopped talking. He’d stopped leaving his quarters. He’d stopped doing anything at all. The Schiaparelli AI had alerted Taulbee’s commanding officer that the man was no longer cogent, no longer responsive. An intervention ensued that left Taulbee in the mental ward for a week. He recovered quickly, but Dunn knew his friend still lived his days in fear of the nightmares that came looking for him when the lights went out. The ghosts of those he’d killed, and those he couldn’t save.

  And here we are again, Dunn thought. Lyke. Niro. Kali’s squad. All casualties he couldn’t control. At least there was still a shot, albeit a small one, to rescue Kali and her squad. Dunn knew Taulbee would make that his highest priority now. Dunn couldn’t blame him.

  He stood from the command chair and stretched. “You have the bridge,” he said to Oakes. “Need a coffee?”

  “That would be great. Thank you, sir.”

  Dunn nodded to his pilot and made his way to the mess.

  He’d shut down his feeds, opting to live in reality for a few minutes. Since all the marines were aboard, apart from Kali and her squad, of course, he could relax a little. If a new threat emerged, Oakes and Black would let him know. Although that was cold comfort. The KBO was coming. And when it arrived, they’d finally find out what it was.

  As expected, Taulbee stood next to the drink dispenser. The support craft pilot stood with his face pointed directly at the polished aluminum housing, his shoulders slumped with fatigue or depression. Likely both.

  “James?” Dunn said quietly. Taulbee stiffened slightly before turning to face his CO. He raised a hand to salute, but Dunn shook his head and waved him off. “More damage to the SV-52?”

  “Aye, sir,” Taulbee said. He lifted the mag-can of water to his lips and drank deeply. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead although he’d taken off his helmet several minutes ago. “Popped the hell out of the hull.”

  “Another patch,” Dunn said, more a statement than a question.

  “Aye, sir,” Taulbee said and finished the mag-can. He tossed it in the recycler, relishing the tinny clang as metal struck metal. The can disappeared into the machine’s yawning mouth. A brief buzz and the machine went silent. “We’ll have to refill the air tanks too.” Dunn said nothing. Taulbee dropped his gaze to his boots as though waiting for something.

  Dunn took pity on him and broke the silence. “We have two dead marines,” he said. Taulbee’s eyes immediately flicked upward to regard the captain. “And neither of those casualties are your fault, James.”

  Taulbee’s lip quivered for an instant and then his stony expression returned. “Aye, sir,” he said quietly

  “You believe me?”

  “Aye, sir,” Taulbee said again, his voice devoid of anything save submission. “What are my new orders? Since we’re not going to try and tow this fucking hulk out of here.”

  Dunn winced. Without saying it, Taulbee was essentially asking why the fuck he’d sacrificed one of his marines for a scrubbed mi
ssion. Also, why had they risked themselves for nothing.

  “Your orders,” Dunn said, “will be coming shortly. We now know the ship won’t hold together. If I’d known that earlier, I wouldn’t have sent marines out there.”

  Taulbee nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  “The plan now,” Dunn said, “is to get the beacon off Mira and send it to Pluto.”

  The lieutenant raised an eyebrow. “Pluto?”

  “Yes,” Dunn said.

  “Nobel and the two privates. They building something to send it on?”

  “Yes.” Dunn walked to the drink machine and made two coffees. “A skiff, of sorts. Something small with a lot of speed.”

  “Great,” Taulbee said. “So how are we getting the beacon out of Mira?”

  Dunn fought the urge to shrug. “We’re going to need a little recon. I’ll need you to fly to Mira’s aft, fire a couple of nanoprobes in, and see what we can see.”

  “Aye, sir,” Taulbee said. “May I ask a favor, sir?”

  “What’s that?”

  Taulbee’s placid burned. “Let me blow the bitch up when we’re done?”

  Dunn smiled. “I think you and Gunny should have the honors. Certainly.”

  Taulbee sneered. “Thank you, sir.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Full O2 tanks, emergency ration pouches injected and flowing through his bloodstream along with analgesics and CBD. This was about as close as he was going to get to being okay without a visit to the auto-doc, fresh nannies, and a fuck-ton of sleep.

  Dickerson mag-walked down the corridor back the way they’d come. Kalimura, Elliot, and Carb were still in the safe room, resting, although he had no doubt Kalimura was watching his camera feeds. He bet Carb was too. He’d never admit it, but knowing they were there made him feel less alone.

  While they were getting fresh O2 and injecting rations into their suits, he’d volunteered to scout so the rest of the squad could get some rest. When Kalimura balked, he convinced her they needed to be sure the phenomenon hadn’t spread throughout the ship. She’d reluctantly agreed.