by Richard Fox
“No,” Fournier went pale, “he swore that this ship was the only place they make the proccies. I promise!”
The feeder arm rose in front of Fournier’s face as dendrites flecked in blood danced over the true born’s face.
“Many more on Hawaii. A better prize than this ship…and Dotok? New meat for the market. Why did you lie to me?” Stix asked.
“No! No! Never!” Fournier’s crotch darkened as he lost bladder control.
“I like the fear,” said Stix as his feeder arm pounced on Fournier’s skull. The human leader didn’t even scream as the Toth drained him to nothing.
Shannon turned and ran, shoving stunned true born aside as she rushed toward the doughboys and the ladder leading below decks next to them. She heard terse Toth commands behind her and screams from the unarmed true born as they realized that they were next on the menu.
A doughboy—one that moved with confidence and had only four fingers on his hands—pushed his way out of the pack.
Rochambeau pulled his helmet off and pointed at Stix.
“Soldiers! Attack!”
A doughboy knocked the true-born minder aside and charged toward the Toth. Their heavy footfalls rattled the deck.
Rochambeau reached beneath his back plate and drew the short sword he’d kept hidden. The heirloom Karigole blade flashed in the air. A thrill went up Rochambeau’s spine as Stix, the Toth that led the betrayal of the Karigole, rocked back on his claw arms in surprise.
The doughboy at the front of the charge took a blast from a Toth rifle in the chest. The soldier staggered backwards, then charged forward again. Toth warriors closed shoulder to shoulder around the elite and leveled their rifles at the doughboys.
Three shots tore an arm off a doughboy and knocked him on his back.
The constructs leaped over the gap between the two ships. One landed on top of a hissing minion, trampling it without effort. More went down to the warrior’s rifles as they herded Stix toward the exit.
A doughboy grabbed a Toth rifle, struggling with the warrior until it shot the soldier in the gut. The doughboy groaned and fell to his knees, his hands locked on the rifle. A doughboy smashed a meaty fist into the warrior’s snout, caving its skull in with a shower of sparks from the skull cap.
Rochambeau jumped over the chasm. He reached under his breastplate and pulled out a metal cylinder attached to a long handle.
An energy blast hit the doughboy in front of him, turning its head into a smoking wreck. The fire lessened as the doughboys made it through the fusillade to grapple with the warriors.
The Karigole despised the idea of using the doughboys as little more than meat shields, but their sacrifice would not be in vain. Rochambeau slashed his sword through the brainstem of a warrior and impaled the blade through the rank pins of another. He grasped the cylinder with his free hand and twisted it hard.
A snap told Rochambeau that the shaped charge grenade was set for impact detonation.
Stix broke away from his bodyguard and made for the door as fast as its bulk and claw arms could take it.
Rochambeau took three long steps toward the Toth elite and leapt into the air. He slammed against the tank and dug his claws into its armor plates.
The brain inside the tank lashed at him against the glass.
“I could not ask for a better way,” Rochambeau said. “Ghul’Thul’Ghul!”
Rochambeau slammed the grenade against the tank. A small explosive charge morphed a tungsten disk into a molten lance of plasma. The superheated metal sliced through Stix’s tank like it wasn’t even there and flash boiled the brain within. The tank exploded, sending hunks of jagged shrapnel into the warriors and doughboys battling around it.
Rochambeau rolled across the deck, his body aflame with pain. He stopped on his back, staring into the ceiling. His limbs wouldn’t move. The taste of blood was thick in his mouth. The sound of the melee around him faded quickly.
Rochambeau greeted death with pride. The architect of the Karigole xenocide—Stix—found death at his hands. A deafening darkness closed around him. His final thought went to his brothers, hoping they could also find a worthy death.
****
Admiral Makarov waved her hand through a holo tank. The senior staff officers and Kosciusko watched as the space around Earth materialized, with icons displaying over the legacy fleet over Phoenix, and her Eighth Fleet burning toward the pulsing red Naga beyond the orbit of the moon. The Crucible lay far beyond the battle lines, where the Breitenfeld waited, still surrounded by tenders and repair vessels. The Breitenfeld looked helpless and broken, just like Makarov wanted.
She and her staff would control the battle from the Combat Information Center, located directly behind the ship’s bridge, while the Midway’s captain handled the ship. Makarov had enough to worry about without trying to steer the supercarrier. All wore the shipboard armor and enclosed helmets, ready for combat.
“The strike force from the Crucible reports they’ve breached the Naga,” a staff officer said.
Makarov tapped the Naga and her fleet. A dashed line appeared between the two along with a timer.
“Forty-five minutes until we’re in their engagement envelope,” Makarov said, “maybe fifty before our rail cannons can touch it.”
“If we cut our speed, it’ll give the strike teams more time. This will be a short fight if their shields are still up when we get in range,” an aide said.
“No,” Makarov shook her head. “We give the Naga any more time and it’ll make range on Titan Station and Phoenix. Neither of which can take a punch.”
“Admiral, we’ve got new sensor contacts,” an officer in the forward section of the bridge called back.
“Send it to my tank,” Makarov said.
A swarm of tiny icons emerged from the Naga and lines traced their projected course toward Earth.
“Are they abandoning ship?” Makarov asked.
“No,” Kosciusko said, “there are a few lifeboats aboard any Toth vessel, and they are only for the overlords. Those are fighters and troop transports.”
“This doesn’t make any sense.” Makarov watched as the smaller Toth craft pulled away from the Naga. Their course put them on track to break atmosphere over Hawaii. “They’re not coming to intercept our fleet? There’s nothing of strategic value on Hawaii but the Dotok camps and the R&R centers.”
“Their fighters don’t have the range to make it to Phoenix if they’re flying through atmo from Hawaii,” an aide said.
“What could they possibly want?” Makarov trailed off as she made the connection. The Toth were only there for the proccies. They took a risk to bring in the Lehi, the only proccie production facility there was. If the Toth were moving on Hawaii, then that meant…
Makarov’s muscles tensed into knots as the realization hit her. There was another facility, hidden from her. She and her fleet had just finished their R&R. The truth became self-evident. She knew what she was.
Makarov turned her gaze to Kosciusko. The Karigole nodded slowly.
“I want…” Makarov cleared her throat. This was no time for introspection. She pointed a finger at the aerospace wing commander. “Cavanaugh, I want a full interdiction launch prepped and in the void. Throw everything we’ve got at the Toth fighters. You understand?”
Cavanaugh tilted his head to the side. “Everything? Should we maintain—”
“Everything! I want hedgehog shells launched into that mess of Toth as soon as we have firing solutions ready. What do we have on Hawaii?”
“One squadron of Eagles from the Breitenfeld,” a Marine officer said. “A few companies of doughboys relocated from Phoenix.”
“Tell them they’re going to have company,” Makarov said. Damn Ibarra for keeping this secret from us, she thought. We can’t afford to lose what he’s got hidden down there.
“I’ll join the Dotok squadron,” Kosciusko said.
Makarov dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
“Admiral, new conta
cts—”
“Thank you, Commander. I see them,” Makarov said.
“No, ma’am, it’s the rest of the Toth fleet!”
Dozens of Toth warships decelerated at the edge of the Earth’s gravity well. They wouldn’t be in range for another hour, barely enough time for her to take out the Naga before she’d have to deal with the combined might of the entire Toth fleet.
“This just got complicated,” Makarov said. “Get me Captain Valdar on the IR.”
****
Ibarra reached his hand into a holo tank and rotated the image of the Naga. Shields distorted light around the massive ship’s hull as tiny motes of light swarmed from multiple points across the ship. Icons popped over the motes, marking them as dagger fighters and larger transport craft.
“They’re going for it,” Ibarra said.
Stacey, bound against the halo chair, sucked in a sharp breath. Tendrils of solid light arced from her skull to the halo like electricity travelling up a Jacob’s ladder.
“I can’t…I can’t feel the space within the shields. The dark-energy signature is throwing everything off,” she said.
“Don’t strain. I have someone on the inside who’ll take down the shields. Soon. Any second now.” Ibarra put a fist next to the Naga and mimicked an explosion. When none came, he tucked his hands against his arms. “Come on, Shannon.”
“Shannon? Aunt Shannon is on that ship?” Stacey asked.
“I couldn’t give this mission to just anyone. She’ll pull through. She always does.”
“We’re going to lose her…” Half her face jumped with a painful tick.
Not for long, Ibarra thought. “Shannon” had died twice before, once to the Xaros invasion and again after her flawed re-creation uncovered the truth about her existence. The profile he’d used to approximate his old head of security was the most detailed program he’d ever devised. He’d have her back, with a few parts of her memory adjusted for her own sake.
“Does she have a beacon?” Stacey asked. “Maybe I could get her out.”
“No. She’s a big girl, darling. She volunteered for this. Knew the risks going in,” Ibarra lied.
“She and Uncle Eric were always so nice to me,” Stacy said as a tear slid down her face. “I would have liked to see her again.”
The swarm of Toth craft veered toward Earth. Ibarra didn’t need the computers to tell him they were heading straight for Hawaii.
****
Shannon sprinted down a narrow passageway, the slam of her feet against the metal grates ringing through the air. The Toth had gone mad since the Karigole killed the elite, ripping the ship apart and dragging away every human they could find.
A high-pitched ululation rang through the air. She didn’t bother looking over her shoulder at the pack of menials hunting her down. She heard their claws skittering over the deck, snarling at each other.
She saw a door slightly open ahead of her and bashed it open with her shoulder. She slammed the door behind her and activated the pressure seals. She was in a crew cabin—double bunks with a mess of clothes and data slates.
Claws raked against the outside of the door, rattling it against its hinges as the menials tried to force their way in. The pressure seals were meant to keep the cabin safe if the ship suffered a sudden decompression, not serve as a panic room. The view through the single small porthole was of the enormous Toth hangar.
I’m backed into a corner, she thought.
Shannon jabbed a knuckle against her false tooth.
“Marc, can you hear me? Everything’s gone straight to hell. The Toth are all over the Lehi and I’m…” The banging intensified against the door. The guttural command of a Toth warrior sounded through the door.
“I’m not going to make it out of here.” Shannon took the detonator from her coat pocket, then waited for a response. None came.
She flipped the safety latch off with her thumb. A pale-green light blinked from the detonator switch, signaling it was in range and in contact with the bomb.
Toth claws punctured the door, and metal screeched as the warrior scratched a triple gash across the door. A yellow eye glared at Shannon.
“Had to happen sometime,” she said. “Here we go…” She pressed her thumb against the detonator once, twice, then held it down.
The bomb deep inside the Lehi exploded, sending a torrent of fire and white-hot hull fragments into the Naga. A wave of fire incinerated decks and thousands of Toth before blasting through the outer hull. Atmosphere vented from the exit wound until emergency airlocks slammed shut throughout the ship.
The Naga’s engines sputtered, and the energy shields protecting the ship vanished.
CHAPTER 16
A cheer went through dozens of Marines and soldiers as they watched a plume of fire erupt from its hull. The ship listed to the side.
“Buckle up—that’s our cue,” Hale said. His Marines knelt next to the armor plates welded to the side of the grav sleds and connected anchor lines from their belts to magnetic plates. The navy boatswain’s mate in the control compartment looked at Hale and gave him a thumbs-up.
Dozens more grav sleds floated level with his, all loaded down with strike teams. Three sleds held the Iron Hearts.
“Hale, we’re good to go,” Hunter said through his helm IR.
“Roger, sir. Good hunting,” Hale said. He switched off his transmitter. “Marines, the Lehi got us a way in. It’s up to us to rip the Naga’s heart out and finish the job.”
Steuben’s hand closed over his sword hilt.
“Every Toth life is forfeit, but the elites are mine,” he said.
“Can I stand behind him when we get on board?” Standish asked.
A point of white light coalesced in front of the grav sleds and then expanded into a white circle almost fifty yards in diameter.
“Here we go,” Hale said. “Gott mit uns!”
The sled hummed and accelerated forward. Hale gripped a handrail and watched as the portal neared.
A wave of white light engulfed the sled, and Hale had a brief sensation of floating.
Reality snapped back. The sled was in the void, Luna hung low below the sled, and the Naga was just ahead. Small segments of the crusted hull broke away around the damaged docking bay in the middle of the ship. Plumes of fire burst forth and were quickly snuffed by airless space.
“Hang on,” the boatswain’s mate said. Rocket pods flared and Hale felt a tug against his magnetic locks against the sled.
“All those shuttles that hit atmo,” Yarrow said, “that should mean fewer Toth on board, right?”
“Yes, but the elite’s personal bodyguard will never leave their master’s side,” Steuben said. “Most bodyguard contingents are several thousand strong.”
“You’re just full of all kinds of good news, aren’t you, big guy?” Standish said.
The rockets died down. Hale’s sled broke off with five others, flying toward the base of a massive weapon crystal.
“We’re not here to fight every Toth we meet,” Hale said. “We’re here to get the Toth’s attention, pull them away from the Ranger’s targets.”
“So the biggest, meanest Toth will come looking for us. Lovely,” Standish said.
The sled dove past the weapon’s crystal the size of a city bus and angled itself parallel to the hull. The anti-grav thrusters fired, slowing it as it descended next to the uneven hull that reminded Hale of the broken lava rock fields on Hawaii. The sled came to a halt.
Hale uncoupled himself and grabbed the upper edge of the armor plating. He swung himself over the edge and keyed his grav boots to pull him toward the Naga. The hull was barren. Irregular weapons pylons and small plumes of gas vented from punctures and broke up the expanse.
Sleds streaked overhead as the Ranger teams broke away to the individual objectives. Small groups would hit the Toth in many locations at once. If everything went as planned, they’d plant their explosives and signal for extraction before the Toth could mount an effective res
istance.
Cortaro bounded toward the joint between the crystal cannon arm and the hull, Orozco and Bailey behind him. Marines dismounted off two other assault sleds. The Iron Hearts didn’t wait for their sleds to touch down; they leapt from the still-moving craft and used their jet packs to maneuver to the hull. They landed hard, their backs to each other.
The sleds rose from the surface and sped away.
“Good luck, Marines,” his boatswain sent.
“Thanks for the lift. Sure hope you can find Titan Station,” Hale said.
“Setting charges,” Cortaro said.
Orozco took a spool of wire from his belt and tossed a weighted end to Bailey. She slapped the end against the hull as Orozco drew out the line. Cortaro grabbed the wire and brought a few feet taut against Bailey’s hold. He held the wire against the hull and pressed a wide-barreled tool over the wire. The tool jolted as it fixed a large staple, connecting the wire to the hull. The trio repeated the task, forming an imperfect octagon of wire against the hull.
“Sure hope that’s big enough for us,” Elias said. “We didn’t get all dressed up for the view.”
Cortaro slapped a power pack to the wire. The Marines stepped aside and put their backs to the cannon arm.
“Going hot,” Cortaro said. “Watch for decompression.”
Hale took loping strides over the hull and stopped next to Cortaro. The gunnery sergeant tapped on his forearm screen and looked away from the wire.
Blaze wire burned hot enough to rival the surface temperature of the sun, focused along a few millimeters beneath it. The blaze wire glowed ruby red and started sinking into the hull.
“You think they’re still pressurized in there?” Cortaro asked.
“Find out in a second,” Hale said.
The cut hull section exploded away from the hull like a popped cork. A gale of breathable air roared into space, ambient moisture freezing into snow. Menials rode out on the blast of air, flailing for several seconds before hard vacuum ended their lives.
“And that, boys and girls,” Standish said, “is why we don’t fight in atmo.”