The warrior seemingly ignored her as he pirouetted smoothly around one of Kratos’ upward swipes with his boarding axe. Never breaking his stride, the warrior plunged his right vibro-blade into Bernice’s upper chest and withdrew it as though the devastating blow had been nothing but a minor step in an elaborate, perfectly-practiced dance.
The warrior’s disdain for his enemies—for Lu Bu’s teammates!—filled her with a blood-boiling rage she had not felt since the battle in the hyper dish junction. That event seemed like a lifetime ago to her, but the overwhelming sense of unbridled fury was so familiar that it seemed like it had never left her.
She leapt across the wreckage of the crew-served, rapid-fire, ion cannon and drove her vibro-blade at her foe’s neck as Bernice fell to the ground clutching her bleeding wound.
The enemy warrior contemptuously turned Lu Bu’s blade aside, but Lu Bu followed up the lunge with a vicious kick to the warrior’s lower leg. Her Storm Drake-armored shin drove into the other man’s armored leg, and for a brief moment the pain she felt convinced Lu Bu that she had snapped both her tibia and fibula in two.
But her leg did not give out, so she continued to press forward and the enemy warrior’s balance was briefly disrupted by her vicious, clearly unexpected, attack. He swung his left blade somewhat crudely at her neck, and she barely managed to limbo beneath the attack before it could decapitate her. The blade still struck her helmet with enough force to knock her off-balance, and she knew that the opening the enemy warrior had created was a fatal one.
She barely even noticed Kratos intervene with his boarding axe as the huge Tracto-an brought his weapon down on the warrior’s right, forearm-mounted, vibro-blade. The blade snapped under the crushing power of the Tracto-an’s two-handed attack, and Lu Bu fought to regain her balance before launching herself at the warrior once again.
But in the three seconds it took her to regain her footing, the sinister-looking dervish whirled and ran his vibro-blade along Kratos’ left hamstring. The Tracto-an fell to the ground, defiantly swinging his boarding axe at the warrior’s midsection as he eschewed any kind of defense for one, almost certainly final, attack at his would-be killer.
“No more!” Lu Bu screamed, refusing to allow even one more of her teammates to fall to the enemy that day. Rather than attacking the warrior’s slightly exposed flank, she kicked out with her right leg at the man’s calf with every last newton of force she could muster.
This time, when her leg impacted against the warrior’s sleek armor, Lu Bu’s shin did snap in two. But the force of her blow also briefly upended the warrior, sending his attack aimed at Kratos’ head off-target by just a few inches.
As his forearm-mounted vibro-blade struck Kratos’ metal helmet, Kratos brought his boarding axe up into the other man’s gut, where it buried to the shaft. Lu Bu knew that her right leg would not serve her, so she dropped her vibro-blade and reached out with her lone, useable, hand and grabbed for a hold of the enemy’s armor.
Her fingers caught on his neck, and she lunged—or, rather, fell—toward him as she desperately attempted to pin him with her body weight.
The warrior tried to spin away, but Lu Bu had already wrapped her arm around his neck and begun to drag him down—only then did she notice that, unlike the corridor they had come through, this part of the ship actually had artificial gravity.
The warrior tried to spin, but Kratos’ axe was still held firmly in the Tracto-an’s right hand. Lu Bu knew she could not hold onto the armored warrior’s neck indefinitely, so she drove her knee into the small of his back with enough force to knock a Tracto-an out cold—she knew, since she had done so on more than one occasion during hand-to-hand sparring. The warrior was almost certainly not harmed by the blow, but it disrupted his movements enough that Kratos was able to crawl atop the entangled bodies of Lu Bu and the armored Marine—or whatever he was.
The deadly warrior tried to bring his remaining vibro-blade around to fend Kratos off, but Lu Bu hammered her forearm into the warrior’s forearm with all the grace and finesse of a drunken bull.
She heard herself screaming wordlessly as her movements became a knot of mindless fury, and she realized the warrior had somehow slammed her head into the nearby bulkhead. She had no idea how long her senses had left her, but when her focus returned she saw that Kratos had somehow destroyed the warrior’s second vibro-blade—along with the rest of his forearm-mounted weaponry.
The warrior went limp and Kratos hesitated, prompting Lu Bu to scream, “Finish him!” She knew that if the warrior got back into the fight, they were all done for.
Kratos shook his head, and for a moment she considered the handful of ways she might kill him for insubordination, but then he spoke and the world seemingly fell silent as she processed his words. “This is Captain Raubach,” he pointed to a section of the warrior’s breastplate.
She looked down in shock at the seemingly lifeless warrior, and saw a significant amount of blood had come out of his chest—courtesy of the vicious wound Kratos had inflicted with his boarding axe.
It was only then that Lu Bu noticed the heraldry of House Raubach—an animal known as a ‘gryphon’ set against a starry backdrop—accompanied by a long, superfluous string of titles which were apparently bestowed exclusively upon Imperial nobility.
Fei Long’s spider drone appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and came to a stop beside Lu Bu’s head. “Stop the ship, Kongming,” she snapped in their native tongue, feeling both her left arm and right leg explode in pain as she attempted to slide out from beneath Captain Raubach’s armored body. “Do it—now!” she said through gritted teeth.
The drone hesitated for several seconds before skittering away down the corridor which Captain Raubach had apparently been guarding.
“Follow him,” Lu Bu cried as the pain in her limbs seemed to increase with each passing second.
Kratos looked doubtful, but he obeyed before she was forced to reiterate her order with a dire threat included to ensure his obedience.
Lu Bu hauled herself out from beneath her fallen foe’s limp form and grabbed her discarded vibro-blade. Her weapon in hand, she found what looked to be the power supply for Captain Raubach’s armor, and she carefully carved into the housing until the unit’s main power went off-line.
Securing Captain Raubach had been a goal of the mission, but the primary mission had been to stop the Corvette before it could escape the system and, presumably, alert the rest of the Raubach forces in the area. If his fancy armor was anything like Lancer power armor, then it would possess an emergency power supply for life support functions.
But even if it didn’t, and Captain Raubach died from exposure or anoxia, that was a chance Lu Bu was perfectly willing to take.
That was the last thought she had before the world slipped into darkness.
Chapter XXXIII: The Price of Victory
“The Corvette has been taken, Captain,” Fei Long reported. “Sergeant Gnuko has docked his small craft with it, and my drone was able to successfully disconnect the control interface Captain Raubach’s people installed.”
“Relay my congratulations to our Lancers,” Middleton said, more than slightly impressed at the Recon Team’s performance. He then caught Fei Long’s eye and added, “Well done, Mr. Fei.”
“Captain,” the young man acknowledged without his usual flair for pomp. The young man then proceeded to relay Middleton’s message to Sergeant Gnuko’s people.
“We’ve drifted to sixty percent beyond the Dämmerung’s rated turbo-laser range, Captain,” Lieutenant Sarkozi reported. “They haven’t landed a strike in their last four volleys, none of which have been particularly close; I think we’ve exceeded even their robust targeting equipment.”
“Good,” was all Middleton could manage. Captain Raubach’s ship was full of surprises and, almost certainly, technological mysteries which he would love to have examined by the Pride’s people.
Unfortunately, he was unlikely to get the chance to send te
ams over; any good commander would scuttle such a valuable warship, and the fact that it was now missing its stern quarter—and engines—made the decision to scuttle an easy one.
“Mr. Toto,” he turned to the Sundered officer, “it seems we’re currently lacking a shuttle, forcing me to once again impose on your family’s largesse. How many armored Lancers could squeeze into your gunship?”
Toto considered the query for several seconds before answering, “Eight. No more.”
“Bring it to the shuttle bay and we’ll use it to ferry some Lancers over to the Corvette. I’m guessing the Recon Team could use a little help at this point,” Middleton said, and the Sundered Tactical Officer nodded his acknowledgment.
The command chair’s com-link chimed, and Middleton looked down to see it was War Leader Atticus who was attempting to raise him.
“This is the Captain,” he said, “report, War Leader.”
“Captain Middleton,” Atticus began, his voice raspy and coming between labored breaths, “the leak in Main Engineering has been contained. There were heavy losses.”
Middleton felt his heart sink as he felt his fingers grip the arm of his chair. “Assist Medical by transporting the wounded to sickbay, War Leader,” Middleton instructed, knowing there was a very real possibility that what remained of the Pride’s engineering crew had been killed by the coolant leak. “When you arrive, ask Doctor Middleton what your people can do to help her triage efforts.”
There was a pause, during which time the Pride’s captain understood with absolute clarity what the other man was about to say. That understanding, however, did nothing to alleviate the wave of nausea he inexplicably felt upon hearing Atticus say, “Doctor Middleton was among the casualties, Captain. She has already been taken to sickbay, but the healers were…pessimistic regarding—”
“Thank you, Atticus,” Middleton interrupted, feeling as though his entire body was being squeezed by some unseen force which existed just beneath his skin, “you have your orders.”
Lieutenant Sarkozi approached the command chair with an urgent look on her face. “We should transfer all medically-trained personnel to sickbay, Captain,” she said, and for a brief moment Middleton agreed with her.
Then he came to his senses, and knew that no matter how he felt about the recent turn of events, the battle was not yet over. “Transfer qualified personnel from environmental and gunnery,” he instructed as he straightened himself in his chair. “Engineering will continue working on repairs to the ship, and the bridge crew is to remain at their posts.”
“Captain—“ she began, but he had no time for coddling.
“Don’t make me repeat myself, Lieutenant,” he snapped, his eyes flaring as he nearly leapt out of his chair. “Either carry out your orders or you can stand relieved, is that understood?”
Sarkozi winced before her visage hardened, and Middleton knew he had gone too far but there were still two enemy warships out there which had yet to be fully secured.
“Yes, Captain,” she said stiffly before turning on her heel and moving to the Damage Control station where she helped coordinate the repair efforts.
Tim Middleton was at a complete loss for why the news about Jo had affected him the way it had. He had truly considered the entire matter of her dishonesty, and its ultimate cost, closed when they had last spoken on the matter over dinner.
But there was no denying that, no matter what his conscious mind told itself, there was something entirely different taking place in his subconscious. Addressing that particular quandary however would, like nearly everything else, have to wait until the current crisis was well and truly concluded.
Assuming, of course, that he ever got the chance to do so.
In a rare moment of self-pity, Tyrone Middleton thought to himself, If she died before we got a chance to finally sort things out, I suppose it would be a fitting end to the whole affair.
“Captain?” he heard Fei Long say, as though he was repeating himself, and Middleton turned to see the young man standing beside his command chair.
“What is it, Mr. Fei?” Middleton asked levelly, determined not to let his inner turmoil express itself.
“Our communications equipment is largely inoperable,” Mr. Fei explained in a voice that spoke of a looming request, “and I have nearly completed the basic field medic courses found in the ship’s database. Also, aside from Doctor Middleton, I happen to have the most comprehensive working knowledge of human anatomy of any active crewmember…”
Middleton considered Mr. Fei’s unspoken request, and after thinking on the matter for a few seconds, nodded shortly. “Have Winters take over at Comm., and stay within arm’s reach of a com-link after you’ve reported to sickbay.”
“Yes, Captain,” the young man said, bowing briefly before doing as Captain Middleton had suggested.
“XO,” Middleton said in a raised voice after seeing her cast a short look in the direction of Fei Long as he exited the bridge, “contact Sergeant Gnuko and coordinate the transfer of Lancers to the Corvette. Once that is concluded and the ship is under our control, your orders are to carry out the personnel transfers you just suggested.”
To her credit, Sarkozi did a good job of masking the sour expression she clearly wanted to wear as she acknowledged, “Yes, Captain.”
Middleton knew that was as close to an apology as she was going to get in public, so he refocused his attention on the relative courses and speeds of the three warships as he began to formulate his post-battle plan.
Sickbay was crammed with at least fifty crewmembers, all of whom were suffering from some sort of burn wounds. Fei Long worked his way through the plasma burn victims, injecting them with medications designed to stabilize their cardiopulmonary systems long enough for them to be seen by the ship’s acting Chief Medical Officer.
Fei Long sliced a quick look over at the tall, blonde, woman who was presently operating on a crewman’s left leg—or, rather, what remained of his left leg. He had been in Main Engineering when the coolant leak had occurred, and somehow his leg had been trapped in a pool of the super-hot liquid.
The only parts of his leg which remained below the knee were his tibia and fibula—the bones which comprise the lower leg. Mid-way up his thigh was a ruined, red mass of tissues which Fei Long knew he would be unable to identify even after several seconds of close examination.
But the woman wielding the scalpel worked calmly and steadily, as though she had seen this precise wound a thousand times before. Using hemostats and a rapid cautery device, she clamped off the blood vessels in the affected limb one by one until the bleeding had slowed to a manageable level.
Fei Long returned to his own duties, marveling at the blonde, Tracto-an, woman’s acclimation to the modern facilities aboard the Pride of Prometheus. He would never have guessed that just a few months earlier she had been grinding herbs by hand and treating relatively modest infections via amputation.
He had been working in sickbay for at least an hour and, thankfully, there had been no call for his return to the bridge. He had assisted in several emergency operations—not all of them successful, much to his disappointment—and, thankfully, it seemed that the ramshackle medical staff had finally gotten the situation under control.
The doors to sickbay slid open and Fei Long turned to see Sergeant Gnuko enter, carrying an unfamiliar man in his arms. It took only a few seconds for Fei Long to deduce that the man was none other than Captain James Raubach IV, and for a brief moment he exulted in the success of Lu Bu’s twin suicide missions.
Then his thoughts came to a deafening halt and his senses seemed to abandon him entirely. Behind Sergeant Gnuko was Kratos, and in his arms he carried the still-armored form of Fei Long’s one, true, love.
“Fengxian,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper as he very nearly dropped the injection apparatus he had used to administer the life-saving medicines to the burn victims.
“Stay at your post,” he heard a deep, growling voice say from be
hind him, and he whirled to see Atticus looming over him. The so-called War Leader looked down at him with barely-concealed contempt, and Fei Long decided to ignore him as he turned back to find Lu Bu.
He had not taken one step before feeling Atticus’ restraining hand on his shoulder, prompting him to try shrugging the overgrown ape’s hand off—of course, referring to him as an ‘overgrown ape’ was an insult to the actual ape people aboard the Pride, but it was how Fei Long had silently come to think of the self-important Tracto-an.
“I said ‘stay’,” the War Leader growled.
“Remove your hand,” Fei Long said coldly as he turned to make eye contact with the much larger, much stronger, and in every other measurable way, the far superior physical specimen, “or you will come to regret it.”
“Return to your post,” Atticus said in a tone that was quite clearly a command, and Fei Long saw Kratos set Lu Bu’s limp form down on a hastily-cleared bed.
“I will not say it again,” Fei Long warned as he once again tried to remove the Tracto-an’s massive hand from his shoulder.
“Neither will I,” Atticus spat, his face twisted into a contemptuous smirk. “Serve your role and let your betters serve theirs.”
Fei Long felt several sets of eyes on him—among them was Kratos’ eye, which seemed odd—and he knew that to escalate the confrontation any more would, indeed, endanger the safety of the crew who had come to sickbay for the treatment of their life-threatening wounds.
“I forget nothing, Atticus,” he said, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He was acutely aware of the gesture’s impotence, so he forcibly relaxed his hands as he returned to his duties with a cold knot of anger forming in his gut. “I will come for you when the present crisis is finished.”
Atticus snorted as he removed his hand from Fei Long’s shoulder. He then looked down at his palm in mock alarm before wiping it on a nearby sheet, as though physical contact with Fei Long was likely to spread some sort of contagion. “I am not difficult to find, runt,” he said with an exaggerated shake of his head as he turned his back on Fei Long.
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