by Dana Kelly
“What are you planning to do about Blacktusk’s Buccaneers?” asked Mike. “His fleet, I mean.”
“I will be dispatching my own boarding party to breach the Excrucio, using their vessel against them. We must time everything perfectly, so they are completely unaware of our capabilities until we strike.”
She studied Mike and Torsha. “Actually, I could really use your help with the next part of this action. It’s certain they will scan the ships for personnel, and they almost certainly have a roster of the Fox Mendes crew complement. I can provide jamming fields for my marines to escape detection, but it will seem suspicious if no one at all is aboard. How would you feel about posing as the boarding sled’s pilot and copilot?”
“What would be involved?” asked Mike.
“First, you must borrow some clothes from the invaders,” said Izel. “Once you get close enough to the flagship, they will hail you. The actual copilot will send an automated response. If Excrucio is feeling chatty, you will take the comm and tell them you’re an inside man named Blackburn. Tell them the boarding action was successful, and that others will be coming over in the Fox Mendes Sunhawks. Then, you will board and follow the fireteams as they sweep the decks and take command of the flagship. How does that sound?”
Mike took a deep breath. “I’ll do it.”
Insistently, Torsha shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, but no.” She sniffed and wiped at her nose. “I can’t.”
“Please reconsider,” said Izel. “It will be very difficult for Mike to do this alone.”
Torsha looked at Mike.
“It’s up to you,” he said.
“You’re going no matter what, aren’t you?” asked Torsha.
“I am,” said Mike.
Torsha’s shoulders sank. “We’re doing this for Orin?”
Mike patted his shredded jacket, tapping the orb within. “And for Nimbus.”
Torsha stared at him awhile. “You suck,” she grumbled, and she put the tri-corner hat back on. “I want you to know that.” She stared flatly at Izel. “Yeah, sure. I’ll do it.”
Izel nodded in response. “You have my gratitude.”
◆◆◆
Dressed in a combat vac suit, Lance Corporal Bianca De Leon sat in the troop section of a Sunhawk armored transport, along with nineteen of her fellow marines. Dim lighting offered glimpses of the seats and cargo netting fastened to the bulkheads. Beyond the transport’s nose, the Fox Mendes launch bay hung wide open and completely dark.
Lieutenant Belmont sat within the cockpit, behind the pilot’s station. He listened intently to his captain as she spoke over the comm.
“I want you to take Blacktusk alive if you can,” said Izel. “I leave the fate of his associates to your discretion in the moment. However, you must not attack until their network is down, even if it means Orin’s death. We cannot risk exposing Fox Mendes to the coordinated firepower of Blacktusk’s flotilla.”
“Sí, capitán,” said Belmont. “I understand what’s at stake.”
“Wait for my signal,” said Izel. “Go now, and Godspeed!”
He signed off and gestured launch approval to the Sunhawk’s pilot.
She gripped the flight stick and the throttle, adjusting the transport’s attitude as she raced through the expanse. A twin transport launched immediately after, and they closed on the far side of the Rocksaugh mining complex. Both vessels slipped past the boundaries of a maintenance hangar and prepared to dock.
Belmont’s transport set down first, and Bianca rallied her fireteam as the ramp lowered. Along with the others, she filed out into the confines of the maintenance hangar.
Speaking from the boarding ramp, Belmont reviewed the action plan and issued orders. He sent five teams to sweep and clear the maintenance tunnels. Along with the remaining fireteams, he ordered Bianca’s group to move topside and assist in securing Blacktusk. “Do not attack him or his immediate personnel under any circumstances, until I give the order,” he said, and he explained the stakes. “Captain Aguirre will inform me as soon as Blacktusk’s fleet network is down.”
Squad leaders acknowledged Belmont’s orders and issued tactical directives to their fireteams. When they tapped Bianca’s unit, she confirmed receipt of her orders and saluted. “Echo Team, follow me. It’s time to avenge Carmina!”
“Oorah!” they responded, and they advanced along the halls.
She led her marines down a set of rocky stairs into the heart of the complex. They navigated the asteroid’s gravity inversion with confidence. Quickly reorienting themselves, they ascended the stairs on the other side, headed for the main hangar bay.
◆◆◆
Mike and Torsha sat across from each other, at the aft end of Blacktusk’s boarding sled. He wore buccaneer’s attire and a pair of heavy boots. Between them and the cockpit, a dozen Falcon marines occupied most of the chairs, clad in dark battle dress. They talked and laughed with weapons at rest.
The vessel fired reverse thrusters, retreating from Fox Mendes’s wounded upper deck. Through the virtual canopy, the flight crew saw a specialist in a vac suit cross the passageway to the breach and start spraying sealant foam. The pilot changed course, headed for Blacktusk’s flagship, and weightlessness took hold.
Moment by moment, they drew closer, and the copilot soon appeared at the cockpit doorway. He looked at Mike and Torsha. “It’s time,” he said, and he waved them over.
They unfastened their harnesses and clumsily pulled themselves along the overhead rails. Torsha fought waves of dizziness as she progressed. Her feet bumped into Mike when she stopped, and he braced himself against the bulkhead firmly enough for them both. “How are you still awake?” she asked. “You were wiped out, like ten minutes ago.”
“Second wind, I suppose,” said Mike.
She regarded him skeptically. “It must be one hell of a wind.”
“This way,” said the copilot, and he guided Mike and Torsha to their stations. The cockpit resembled a crash cage, with sturdy chairs and layers of impact netting. Images played across the inside of the nose, a virtual canopy and heads-up display. At the center of the screen, the starship Excrucio appeared.
Backswept arches and serrated edges lined the vessel’s lengthy hull, reflecting the asteroid’s red rust. Rear- and forward-facing thrusters sat within lengthy nacelles, protected by armored plates. Extending beyond both sides of the hull, cylindrical auxiliary thrusters faintly glowed. A central tower rose from the hull, and similar towers descended in line behind it. She wore a bare coat of polished steel, dotted with essential decals and placards.
The sled’s comm interface flashed, and the pilot opened the incoming message. “‘Tarantula juice,’” said the pilot as he read the message aloud. He glanced at the copilot. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a password,” said Torsha. “Like, ‘The crow flies at midnight.’ That kind of thing.”
“What do we write back?” asked the pilot.
Torsha shrugged. “New Falkirk clam chowder? I don’t know.”
“I’ll try that,” said the pilot, and he faced the console.
After a moment, the comm flashed with an incoming video request. The pilot and copilot yielded their chairs to Mike and Torsha, and the copilot sealed the cockpit. Along with the pilot, he ducked low, keeping out of sight.
Mike pushed the virtual button, and Bloodtusk appeared onscreen. Like his older brother, Blacktusk, three of his four tusks had an ivory appearance. His fourth tusk was crimson, however, covered in intricate ruby inlays. “Who the hell are you?” asked Bloodtusk.
“Blackburn,” said Mike. “Fox Mendes is overrun. The command crew is down for the count, and we let the air out of the lower decks, if you get me.”
“How much air?” asked Bloodtusk.
“All of it,” said Mike.
Bloodtusk looked shocked. “Oh man, my brother’s going to be pissed. What happened?”
Mike quietly coughed. “It was kill-or-be-killed.”
“Well, that’s a first,” said Bloodtusk. “Loyal crew, I guess.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll need an after-action report. Where’s McKinley?”
“I think he’s coming over in one of the Sunhawks,” said Mike.
Bloodtusk laughed. “Yeah, right.” He glanced at Torsha. “He never lets that stupid hat out of his sight. Tell him to stop avoiding me and put him on.”
“He’s passed out in the back,” said Torsha. “You really want me to wake him up?”
“No, but I need a proper password response,” said Bloodtusk. “One of you jokers sent me ‘New Falkirk clam chowder.’”
Mike raised his hand.
“Not funny, Blackburn.”
“Be right back,” said Torsha. She took a deep breath and nodded. Drifting to the door, she disengaged it and disappeared through the gap. She closed it behind her and stared at the Falcon marines seated in their harnesses. Their lively conversations stalled.
“Quick question, guys,” she said. “If someone told you ‘tarantula juice,’ what would you say in response? First thing that comes to mind.”
“I’ll take two,” said one of the marines with a laugh.
“Spider sauce?” said another.
“Why?” asked a third. “What’s going on in there?”
Torsha shook her head. “Thanks. I think I’ll go with the first one.” She vanished beyond the door and sealed it shut.
Bloodtusk regarded her expectantly. “What did McKinley say?”
Torsha chuckled and rolled her eyes. “I’ll take two! Of course.”
Bloodtusk guffawed. “Of course! Unbelievable, that guy. Can’t be serious for even one minute. All right, transmitting the handshake now. See you guys for chow.” He terminated the call, and they all shared a sigh of relief.
The copilot opened the door. “Great job, you two. You can head back to your seats, now.” Mike and Torsha thanked him and pulled their way awkwardly along the handrails. They settled in and buckled up as the sled pitched and rolled to align with Excrucio’s launch bay.
In time, the sled docked, and passenger warning lights flashed within as the cockpit door and bulkheads folded against the inner hull. An instant later, the armored nose opened like a clamshell, and the first fireteam moved forward. As the second team readied to mobilize, Mike and Torsha heard quick bursts of gunfire.
The second fireteam advanced, and the remainder of the marines stood up. “You’re with us,” said Montaña, a colossus of a man. He hoisted a massive gun and set it upon a harness-mounted swivel arm. “Stay behind me, and you’ll be just fine.”
A reedy fellow named Mastegar disengaged and reengaged his magazine. He grinned as he chewed a stick of gum. “Welcome to Harriet’s!”
“They ain’t actually part of the team,” said Fiedler, a man with a persistently dour expression. He readied his grenade launcher and re-checked the explosives hanging from his belt and vest. He glared at Mike and Torsha. “You ain’t actually part of the team, comprende?”
“Yeah, we know,” said Mike. They heard another burst of gunfire.
Bainbert completed the fireteam, a sturdy man with broad shoulders. He donned a massive backpack and clipped a ring of cards to his belt. With a playful wink, he glanced at Mike and Torsha as he adjusted one of his straps. “You’ll have to forgive our Lance Coolie, here. Fiedler was born in fire and ice, straight out of his mama’s asshole!”
“Eat shit, Stainbert,” said Fiedler. A green light flashed on his wrist device. “Our turn.” They hustled from the vessel, moving quickly across the launch bay. The flight crew joined Mike and Torsha as they hurried after.
Thick frames reinforced the hangar bay, and sloped boots joined the frames to the deck. Chutes, vents, and bundles of conduit lined the bulkheads. Red lane lights glowed alongside magnetic landing rails that spanned the length of a two-way launch tunnel, and ruby LEDs blinked in sequence along the tunnel’s length. Stacked crates and boxes cluttered the gaps between overfilled shelves.
“This ship is huge,” whispered Torsha.
“Good thing she’s running artificial gravity,” said Mike. “I don’t see any tethers anywhere.”
“They’re pirates,” said the pilot. “I don’t think they’re too concerned with OSHA violations.”
“Good point,” said Mike.
“What kind of ship is that?” asked Torsha, and she pointed to a neighboring bay.
Painted blood red and standing two decks high, her cockpit anchored the nose on the lower deck. Her gentle dorsal arc swooped back until it dropped away upon joining a recessed cargo ramp. The vessel’s crystal canopy enclosed the upper deck, offering a panoramic view from within, and scores of tiny, disk-shaped thrusters lay dormant throughout her avian wings.
“That’s a Starwind LX-9,” said the copilot. “It’s a civvie ship. High-end luxury shuttle. Either someone out there is very sad, or someone in here is very rich.”
“Either way, I’m starting to think she’s part of our exit strategy,” said the pilot, and they bumped fists.
They soon reached the far side of the launch bay, where they rejoined the other fireteams. Gathered near a lift entrance, they discussed tactics, while Bainbert slapped one of his cards on the lift’s data reader. “What does that do?” asked Torsha.
“It’s a tommyknocker,” said Bainbert. “Aggressive netjacker that hardcodes these readers to our biosignatures. Each one we place joins our little network, making a path for us and locking everyone else out.” He bowed slightly toward Mike and offered his hand. “Falcon Prince Miguel Santos, it’s an absolute honor to meet you, sir. I’m Private Raul Bainbert. My mom served under your dad for a couple tours during the Pegasi War.”
“Well met.” Somewhat embarrassed, he shook Bainbert’s hand. “Please call me Mike. Only Nimbus calls me Miguel.”
“Who’s Nimbus?”
Mike tapped his chest, reminding himself he had left the dull orb behind in his quarters. “A very dear friend.”
“Nimbus is,” said Torsha, but her voice caught in her throat. She forced a deep breath as she fought the urge to cry. “He’s gone.”
Bainbert nodded and placed his hand upon her shoulder. “But never forgotten. I’ve lost a few brothers and sisters myself. What’s your name?”
“Torsha,” she said. “Torsha Madagan.”
“Well, Torsha, I’m guessing you must’ve done something right to get lumped in with such fine leathernecks as us, huh?”
She smiled slightly. “I guess so.”
The lift chime clanked, and the first two fireteams stepped inside. As they ascended and advanced, squad leaders communicated with Fiedler. He responded with a mix of nods and single-syllable confirmations. When the lift returned, they all boarded.
Fiedler’s fireteam took position on both sides of the doors. Torsha, Mike and the flight crew split up and did the same. “Alpha Team’s encountered some resistance,” said Fiedler. “Nothing serious, but we’ve got a heroes’ parade waiting for us.”
Bainbert leaned closer to Torsha. “That means there’s dead bodies visible.”
“Great,” she said, and she sighed.
The lift slowed, and the doors slid open. Red lights flashed silently, and rows of doorway access pads blinked a sea of error codes. With his rifle at the ready, Mastegar kept to the left side of the passageway as he led the team forward. Montaña stayed to the right, with Bainbert at his back. Fielder brought up the rear.
Along the way, they passed several pirates’ corpses, their bodies slumped and contorted as they lay in pools of their own blood.
“I can’t look at this,” whispered Torsha, and she clung to Mike’s arm.
He squeezed her hand reassuringly.
“Charlie Team’s here,” said Fiedler as they arrived at another lift. The other two fireteams emerged from either side of an intersecting passageway. All three groups settled in for a moment as the team leaders discussed.
Torsha approached a nearby bulkhead and leaned steep
ly against it. She drew several calming breaths. Glancing to her side, she caught sight of a slain buccaneer. Staring into the woman’s lifeless eyes, Torsha’s emotions overwhelmed her. Tears tumbled along her cheeks, and she sank down to a crouch, weeping as quietly as she could manage.
Mike stood next to her, resting his hand warmly upon her back.
“Handle your business, Fiedler,” said the Bravo Team leader. “Your little kitty’s losing it over there.”
Fiedler somehow looked even more dour than usual. “I know you ain’t talking shit about the civvie who saved all our asses out there. Yeah, I’m sure she’s having a hard time ‘cause she ain’t ever seen the shit we wade through every fucking day, but that’s pretty reasonable considering.” He leaned in close. “Am I right?”
“Roger that,” grumbled the head of Bravo Team.
Alpha Team’s leader laughed and slugged him.
Fiedler turned to Bainbert. “See if you can stabilize her. We got two minutes.”
“Don’t worry, LC. I’ll take care of it,” said Bainbert, and he jogged over to Mike and Torsha.
Mike regarded him sidelong. “Just give us a minute. Please.”
“Take all the time you need,” said Bainbert, and he squatted next to Torsha. With a kind look, he tapped the bulkhead, drawing her attention. “Hey,” he said, and he offered a kind smile. “This is some real shit, huh?”
“How do you live with it?” she whispered. “I can’t. I can’t do it.” Gritting her teeth, tears splashed down as she seized him by his vest. “Tell me how to live with it!”
Bainbert leaned into her. “Well, you talk about it. And you don’t stop. You talk about it, and you cry about it, and you feel your way through it for as long as it takes. It hurts a little less every day, and it will never be easy, but you’ll get through it. You will. I promise.”
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough,” she said.
“You are,” said Bainbert. “And you already know you are. It just hurts like hell right now, and that’s perfectly normal.”
Torsha wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed him tightly. “Thank you,” she breathed, and she pulled away. Collecting herself, she rose to her feet, and she pressed the tears from her eyes.