Without Mercy

by Eric Thomson

  “Thanks.” Dunmoore snagged a chair with her foot and sat. She took a healthy bite from the pastry and chased it with a swig of the strong, black brew. “We should hear something within the next few hours. Dawn broke over the target area not long ago, which means the mines should be stirring to life.”

  “Good morning, sirs,” a tentative voice said from the wardroom door.

  Dunmoore glanced over her shoulder and smiled at a bleary-eyed Carrie Fennon.

  “Good morning, Apprentice Officer.” Salminen and Puro nodded politely but remained silent. “Please, grab something from the buffet table and join us. We were discussing the joys of waiting for the first reconnaissance report.”

  “If you don’t mind my presence.”

  “Of course not.”

  The young woman served herself then perched uncertainly on the edge of the chair facing Dunmoore.

  “I was just noting,” Siobhan said, “that we should hear something shortly since dawn just broke over the target area. They’ll be rousing the workforce right about now. If Enoc Tarrant wasn’t lying about Baba Yaga’s destination, chances are good we’ll see your mother and other relatives among them.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  Fennon’s large dark eyes, set in a grave face, met Dunmoore’s gaze.

  “Then we’ll keep searching.”

  “Even if your admiral has recalled Iolanthe, sir?”

  Dunmoore nodded. “Even then.”

  **

  Command Sergeant Saari silently slipped into the observation post at daybreak. As he expected, one of the two soldiers occupying it had his eyes glued to the unpowered optical elements of the portable sensor suite. With the rest of the complex electronics shut off, it was virtually undetectable.

  “How are they hanging?” Saari whispered.

  “Side by side, Sarge,” the man on close protection duty replied in the same tone.

  “Want to look?” His winger backed away from the sensor. “They’re stirring. Until a few minutes ago, it was just regular two-man patrols walking the perimeter. But now, there’s a bunch of them coming out of the barracks, each uglier than the bastardized children of boneheads who mated with lizards, even if they’re human. Damn mercenary fucks.”

  Saari crawled up and glued his helmet visor to the rectangular eyepiece. The mining camp, at the base of a rocky tor, swam into view. Even though it was several kilometers away, Saari felt as if he could reach out and touch the wicked-looking fence crowned by razor-sharp wire capable of amputating limbs.

  Black-uniformed mercenaries carrying side arms and shock sticks milled about in the early morning light until they coalesced into six-person teams. Each team headed for the closed doors of large huts built from containers set end-to-end and pierced by square openings filled with dark, reflective plastic panes. Another dozen took position on three sides of the open space fronting the huts, shock sticks in hand and judging by their facial expressions, joking about something.

  A siren, audible even at this distance, shattered the stillness. Four of each six-person team entered a hut and soon thereafter, men, women and even children streamed out to form up in orderly rows. They wore gray workers overalls and solid, calf-length boots, and though most seemed unkempt, the men with beards ranging from scraggly to luxurious, none appeared to be suffering from malnutrition. But Saari could see bruises on more than one squinty-eyed face.

  The scene unfolding before him resembled nothing so much as convicts herded together for morning roll call in a military stockade on Parth, something Saari saw on video during the law and order portion of his basic training. A few of the mercenary guards seemed shock stick happy when it came to motivating laggards, but the involuntary labor force formed up with commendable alacrity and in what appeared to be total silence. Enough of them had probably suffered through painful punishment for tardiness and disobedience early on that everyone understood how the game was played.

  Yet a few still needed encouragement. Saari saw a brief, but violent exchange between a pair of prisoners and the guards. It ended with the former writhing in agony at the feet of the latter, their nerve endings on fire. Habitual dissenters? Or...

  Saari zoomed in on one of the two laborers as he painfully pulled himself up to avoid the guards’ vicious kicks. The man bore the unmistakable markings of a severe beating on his face — split lip, black eye, bruised cheekbones. But he didn’t sport the long, wild hair or beard common among his fellow sufferers. A newcomer.

  He called up the images of Kattegat Maru’s crew, culled from the crew roster and loaded in his helmet’s databank, and quickly scrolled through those of the males. He compared each to the man now leaning on his comrade’s shoulder as both joined the formation until he hit a match.

  Second engineer Gene Ross. There was no mistaking the resemblance. Even after a shit-kicking from the mercenaries.

  A muffled curse must have escaped his lips because the soldier lying next to him asked, “What’s up, Sarge?”

  “I think I see one of them, Tuvi, a member of Kattegat Maru’s crew.”

  “Hot damn!”

  — Fifty —

  Dunmoore was recounting one of Stingray’s less embarrassing misadventures, as much to distract the soldiers and help calm Carrie Fennon’s nerves as to pass the time when her communicator chimed.

  “CIC to the captain.”

  “Dunmoore.”

  “Sergeant Saari is calling on tight-beam, sir. He says he’s spotted eleven of Kattegat Maru’s crew inside Ruby One so far.”

  Salminen raised a clenched fist and grinned at Carrie.

  “Yes!”

  “He sent up video so Apprentice Officer Fennon can confirm the identification.”

  “We’re on our way.”

  Dunmoore drained her coffee and stood, but not without smiling at Carrie’s wide-eyed impatience. The young woman was almost quivering with anticipation.

  “And as luck would have it,” Sirico continued, “Sergeant Mattis just reported seeing fourteen of the missing in Ruby Two, including a woman who looks very much like Captain Aurelia Fennon. That accounts for everyone. A word of warning, however, they bear signs of having been ill-treated by their captors.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Once it the corridor, Dunmoore placed a restraining hand on Carrie’s arm, lest she break into a sprint for the CIC.

  “Remember what I said about the proper demeanor of a starship captain. No running, unless it’s a life or death emergency. Otherwise, your crew will assume something’s gone terribly wrong.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Fennon, anxiousness oozing from every pore, checked her pace with visible reluctance.

  When they entered the CIC, minus Lieutenant Puro, Salminen guided Fennon to an unoccupied seat next to her console while Dunmoore took the command chair.

  Sirico, back at his own station, gestured toward the main display.

  “Ready for the Ruby One video?”

  “Run it.”

  When the first bruised and battered face swam into focus, Fennon gasped.

  “That’s Uncle Gene. He’s the second engineer. What did they do to him?” A second face, less damaged but far from unmarred replaced that of Gene Ross. “Cousin Patty Fennon, our purser.”

  And so it went until they accounted for the eleven Kattegat Maru crewmembers Sergeant Saari saw in Ruby One.

  “Ruby Two’s coming up now,” Sirico said.

  A sob greeted the appearance of a hard-faced, middle-aged woman with a distinct resemblance to her younger version at the back of the CIC. She also bore signs of the mercenaries’ brutality.

  “That’s my mother,” Fennon said in a soft, almost mournful tone.

  “Cheer up.” Salminen patted her on the shoulder. “At least she and the rest are alive. Bruises and cuts will heal.”

  “What happens now?”

  “Now?” The normally staid Scandian officer gave her a bloodthirsty smile. “E Company, 3rd Battalion, Scandia Regiment will
raid both targets, retrieve your crew, free the remaining prisoners and put the assholes running those camps out of business permanently.”

  Dunmoore turned to face Salminen.

  “When do you intend to strike?”

  “After dark. Say in eighteen standard hours. Jon, Talo, and the command post crew will shortly begin to analyze the video we received from Karlo and Maki. They’ll give 1st Platoon a list of what other essential elements of information we need and let them continue the recon while we draw up our plans.”

  “How difficult do your rate the targets?”

  Salminen made a non-committal gesture.

  “The targets themselves are easy. Dump one and a half platoons in the middle of each at oh-dark-thirty while the recon teams make a lot of noise to distract the enemy; take out their guard detail; smoke the mercenaries’ barracks and seize control. The trick will be to do so while avoiding casualties among the detainees, either from our fire or if we don’t take out the guards cleanly, from theirs. Those huts don’t appear able to withstand an angry glare from Talo Haataja, let alone twenty-millimeter plasma from a squad automatic weapon.” She climbed to her feet. “With your permission, Captain, I’ll join my command team and start planning the raid. If everything goes well, I should be able to brief you before the end of the afternoon watch.”

  **

  “I wonder how deep that shaft runs,” Corporal Vallin said, eyes glued to the sensor.

  “You can always check with the sergeant major after we’re done taking the place,” Private Bergstrom replied. “I’m sure Talo will love the idea of a sightseeing tour, and it’s not as if we need to be somewhere else right away. I mean other than this new task force the brass is putting together.”

  Vallin made an obscene gesture at his winger.

  “It was a rhetorical question, asshole.”

  “So is this.” Bergstrom returned the gesture with unfeigned glee.

  “Bored, boys?” Saari’s unexpected presence startled both soldiers.

  “Shit, Sarge. We didn’t hear you.”

  “That’s because you’re too busy kibitzing and I’m the king of stealth. What’s happening?”

  “Nothing. Damned guards aren’t even patrolling the perimeter. So far none of the prisoners came back from wherever they went. Not even for lunch.” He indicated Hestia’s sun, hanging low on the far horizon, its bottom half partially hidden by a distant dust storm. “And it’s getting close to supper time.”

  “Maybe they don’t eat lunch.”

  Saari, remembering the deportees’ decently fed look, shook his head.

  “They’re eating. Must be ration bars stocked at the work sites. Otherwise, they’d waste time coming up to eat halfway through the shift.”

  “Makes sense. I guess that’s why you’re the sarge.”

  “That and many other reasons, Rurik. But I didn’t visit you just to shoot off my mouth. We received orders from the boss.”

  “Tell me there’s a bug hunt coming.”

  “I’m about to break your heart. You and Andres will stay in the OP until it’s over. I’m taking the rest on a close-in recon a few hours before the raid which the boss scheduled for oh-one-hundred. That means I need someone with brains to watch our backs, in case the mercs get antsy at the wrong time. Once we’re in control, Gus will pick you up on the way to Ruby One.”

  “Crap. You’re a real bastard, Sarge.”

  “How often do I need to tell you my parents were married?”

  “But not to each other.”

  Saari thumped Vallin on the shoulder.

  “I’ll send up relief in a short while so you two can eat, piss, and take a nap. And I’ll brief you on the operation while you’re eating. The rest already know everything they need.”

  “You’re a prince among men. A prince of darkness, but still...”

  “Cheer up, son. I’m giving you a front-row seat to the sweetest little raid anyone in our regiment’s ever carried out. In forty years from now, you’ll be able to tell your grandchildren about it. And mightily bored they’ll be.”

  Bergstrom guffawed.

  “That’s only if Rurik finds someone crazy enough to reproduce with him, and Scandia was plum out of crazy the last time I checked.”

  Saari chuckled.

  “You obviously never met my ex.”

  “Good point. Anyone marrying you has to be fucking nuts, Sarge.”

  **

  At seven bells in the evening watch, ninety minutes before H-Hour, Dunmoore with Carrie Fennon at her side, stood by the hangar deck door. They looked on as Major Salminen, armored, and armed like the rest of E Company, led her troops through their final preparations before boarding the waiting gunships. At an unheard signal, they came to attention as one, armored boots crashing on the deck loud enough to wake the dead five parsecs away, and broke up, each half-platoon jogging to its assigned shuttle.

  Salminen turned to face Dunmoore and raised her hand in salute.

  “Permission to begin Operation Ruby Rage?”

  “Granted, Major. Hakkaa päälle.”

  A big grin spread across Salminen’s face at hearing Dunmoore use her battalion’s ancient war cry. And pronounce it correctly.

  “Hakkaa päälle!”

  She pivoted on her heels and, after a last glance around the hangar deck, to make sure everyone was loaded, Salminen vanished into the rear of her command gunship.

  Dunmoore nudged Fennon, and they withdrew to the control room where Petty Officer Harkon was waiting for the signal to open Iolanthe’s space doors once the airlocks leading to the hangar deck were shut.

  “May I ask a question, sir?”

  “Certainly, Carrie.”

  “What does Hakkaa päälle mean?”

  Fennon’s pronunciation would have made everyone in E Company cringe.

  “It’s commonly held to mean something along the lines of ‘cut them down’ in a language called Suomi, the ancestral tongue of most in the 3rd Scandia.”

  “Oh.” Fennon seemed both puzzled and impressed.

  “You’ll not experience true fear until you hear the lot of them yell it as they spill out of their gunships to slit throats,” Harkon said, chuckling. “Makes me freeze in my skivvies every time they practice boarding tactics on my hangar deck. Though I suppose since this raid is more an infiltration than a smash and grab, they won’t be scaring the enemy with that heathen shout. Although I daresay Talo Haataja in full armor looming over me as I wake up would be enough to eject my soul from my body. Ah, here we go.”

  Harkon touched a screen in front of him, and the space doors on either side opened, replaced by shimmering force fields designed to keep the compartment pressurized. Then, one after the other, the gunships rose a meter above the deck and nosed their way through the energy barriers, half to starboard, the rest to port.

  Dunmoore and Fennon watched until the last pair vanished before returning to the CIC and a relatively short wait that both knew would feel like an eternity.

  — Fifty-One —

  Command Sergeant Saari and his half of 1st Platoon were almost within reach of the wire-topped fence, hidden by folds in the ground and their armor’s chameleon outer coating, when the mercenaries patrolling the perimeter stopped nearby. Both men flipped down the visors attached to their light-weight helmets and turned their backs on the camp so they could scan the night.

  Saari, often called an artist with a combat knife by his fellow noncoms, was close enough to take either one with a thrown blade on the first try if necessary. But thanks to their almost preternatural alertness, his soldiers froze in place at the first hint something beyond the camp’s perimeter was attracting the guards’ attention. Saari listened intently, trying to discern what caused them to search the night but heard nothing more than the never-ending breeze rustling through the low scrub. Perhaps one of the remotely operated sensor suites atop the fence posts at the camp’s four corners saw a non-natural shadow move and alerted the nearest patrol.


  After a few minutes, the men flipped their visors up again, exchanged a few words — one of them shook his head — and they resumed their monotonous patrol. Three faint beeps sounded in Saari’s ears, the prearranged signal signifying E Company’s gunships, half headed for Ruby One, the other half for Ruby Two, were on final approach.

  The brief message also told the two section grenadiers to prepare their breaching charges. These were long, flat, light-weight tubes filled with high explosives attached to tiny rockets that would drape the tubes over the fence and its deadly wire topping before going off and destroying both. Since the gunships would touch down inside the camp, 1st Platoon’s breaching charges, due to go off just before Major Salminen’s half of E Company landed, would serve primarily as diversions, to focus the guard detail’s attention on the fence rather than the central square for a few crucial seconds.

  Three long beeps came over the company push, just as Saari’s trained ears picked up the faint whine of dampened gunship thrusters. Not even a second after the third beep faded away, two tiny sparks of light emerged from the dead ground on either side of him and skipped over the fence, trailing an almost invisible black string behind them. The sparks dropped to the ground and died out. Then, a pair of miniature lightning bolts split the night with a thunderous roar, slicing through the fence as if it were made from paper and creating two wide gaps. Saari’s visor saved his night vision, but anyone not adequately equipped wouldn’t be so lucky.

  No sooner did the rumble fade than he saw four sleek, deadly silhouettes pass over him, thrusters whining and land where the deportees stood for evening roll call several hours earlier.

  “Go, go, GO!” Saari climbed to his feet and followed alpha section through the breach to his right while bravo section took the other one.

  The unearthly howl of an alarm siren split the air asunder, and powerful lights came on, illuminating every corner of the camp. They revealed four black gunships disgorging armored infantry soldiers who ran toward specific buildings with an easy, but determined lope, guided by their noncoms’ hand signals.