"No one will ever accuse you of vacillating, Signe."
The smile the Gaean leader flashed her senior officer transfigured the oval face framed by startling silvery hair, softening faint lines etched by sorrow, pain, loss of valued comrades, and conscious acceptance of the consequences of brutally difficult decisions forcefully rendered. Signe looked older than her thirty Earthyears. Emotional trauma engendered by fighting in the forefront of countless assaults as sanguinary as this last, indelibly imprinted her intensely alive, vibrantly expressive, resolutely determined, singularly arresting countenance.
Eric smiled back. For a brief instant, a likeness sprang into being: an uncanny resemblance between the still-young woman so oddly crowned in silver, and her golden-haired, blue-eyed kinsman, a phenomenal swordsman whose graceful body displayed youthful vigor despite his sixty-six Earthyears.
Signe now issued two key men a ringing challenge. "The Columbians know Norman stripped Gaea of ships, so they're still brazenly working the mine on Penn's Rock they refuse to relinquish¾as if the metals Norman systematically plundered all over Gaea weren't loot enough. Unmanned drones once routinely made the transit between that mine and Main World. One of those carriers survives here. Jassy, you'll reinstall the remote-controlling hardware Penn's grandson hid. Conor, you'll refit the vehicle so that a twelve-member assault force can ride the outfit to the mine. One of Third Corps' first-class vessels periodically descends there. We'll seize that ship."
Conor eyed his superior reflectively even as he nodded. "I expect I'll be able to rig something. Won't be any pleasurable jaunt, the trip we take in it, though." Nor any cinch, what you plan on pulling off , he qualified his assent mentally.
A soul-searing vision rose unbidden. The utilitarian cabin faded. Consumed with grief, heedless of his own life, Conor again charged towards the enemy force thrown back upon the barricade from which Ione's slayer had aimed the fatal pulse. A wicked blade pierced flesh. Yanking bloody steel free with strength amplified by his rage and his pain, the bereaved husband glimpsed terror in eyes that dulled as the dying foe dropped to be trod under boots that raced onwards. Amid a yelling press of combatants, the Gaean maddened by blood-lust cut, slashed, thrust, hacked, and shouldered his way towards the burly, black-clad Columbian he targeted.
Unaware that he shouted, the attacker whose distinctively scarred face projected incandescent wrath leaped up the side of the barricade, left hand clawing at the packed debris, right still wielding the now-crimson sword. A warrior-captain universally feared by men themselves redoubtable fighters rose to his full imposing height atop the pile, even as his adversary slipped out of the sling holding the device now wholly discharged, to brandish the heavy weapon like a club. Maneuvering with consummate skill on the treacherous surface, the avenger drove thirty centimeters of steel into the guts of the foe that had felled his wife. Surrounded by antagonists, he fought on with undiminished, deadly effect: killed, and killed again.
"We'll ride home in style, Conor." That confident prediction of Signe's jolted the veteran back to the present, and elicited one of the surviving spouse's rare smiles.
Heartened by that response, the Commander outlined her plan. "Forty men staff the mine. Ten will be occupied far below the surface. Ten more will be asleep. Twenty others will either be doing administrative tasks or relaxing on their off-time. We'll dock during the spacers' main sleep-shift. Their captain inspects goods consigned to a cargo ship that arrives once a fourweek, and transports precious metals Norman evidently refuses to trust to the cargo spacers. This captain--always the same one--docks four days before the cargo ship descends, and leaves the day after it lifts. The Columbians know we possess neither ships nor navigational skills. They won't expect a strike."
Conor's index finger absently traced the sword-cut scar furrowing a face seamed as much by cumulative personal loss as by age. "Those carriers dock in slips adjacent to the habitat. Won't the men manning the boards pick us up on their scanning screens?"
"Not after we spray the drone with a microlayer of Gaeanite."
Comprehension, blended with shock, flashed across six faces. Forgetting to signal that he wished to comment, Sean blurted out, "That would cost a fortune!"
No stickler for protocol when engaged in a discussion such as this, Signe failed even to notice the lack of the requisite gesture of the hand. "In normal times, it would, Sean. However, I've persuaded heads of patriotic mining families to donate a hoard of Gaeanite worth several fortunes, to the cause. Your family, Sean--Morgan's father, and your own--proved especially generous. From their distant rock, they're organizing and financing a crew of former employees living here on Main World, who'll apply a microlayer of the mineral by vacuum vapor deposition. That coating will absorb all wavelengths of electromagnetic radiation illuminating the drone, thereby rendering the vehicle undetectable on scanning screens. Our plasma exhaust will show on multispectral screens, as well as on the vid, but since the former are time-delayed by ten minutes, and no crew monitoring the traffic in the space over a base ever glances at the vid, I'm confident that we'll descend undetected. Jassy, you'll be able to prevent the carrier's contact with the slip from giving notice to the men manning the boards at the mine, will you not?"
"I'll rig a way."
His imagination fired by Signe's visualization, Morgan chortled, "The Columbians won't know where we dropped from!"
Theo again recalled the past. "We owe a major debt to those patriots who died rather than let the smallest sample of the alloy fall into Norman's hands, during ten Earthyears of occupation," he reminded his comrades, shuddering at the thought of what course history would have taken had Norman ever discovered the strategic value of the rare substance, scoured the Group in a murderous quest for hidden hoards, and rendered his military ships undetectable.
We do indeed , Sean agreed feelingly, if silently, recalling the summary execution of a well-loved cousin who, knowing that interrogation under truth compeller would force him to reveal where he hid the treasure in his keeping, had set off a detonation of blasting gel, thereby obliterating a considerable quantity of the precious mineral even as the invaders bent on pillage stormed into the mining facility owned by his family.
Frowning, Sean directed a question at Signe, while resting his eyes on Jassy. "How do we avoid dying when the drone enters the fields that protect the hull of the habitat from the impacts of meteoroids?"
In response to Signe's gesture, the expert offered a welcome reassurance. "The drones emit a signal that deactivates the fields in the slips and surrounding area upon their approach."
"Will we find a pressurized route leading to the occupied part of the complex?"
Meeting Conor's sternly interrogatory glance squarely, Signe unhesitatingly stated the wholly valid concern that she knew prompted the query. "That worries me, I'll freely admit. If we blunder suited into an ambush, twelve aspiring spacer-fighters will die before they can offer even a token resistance."
"Exactly my point," Conor stated evenly.
"We'll die of suffocation before we arrive at our destination, if we vomit in the helmets of our pressure suits during the ride," Eric interjected bluntly, considering that danger to be the worst facing them.
"We'll dose ourselves with the pills that prevent motion-sickness," Signe countered.
"Those didn't do much for me when I made the transit to Columbia thirty Earthyears ago, nor did I fare any better on the return voyage." That epic journey rose vividly in the objector's memory, producing a grimace.
"I could pressurize the drone," Conor offered musingly. "Build into it three cabins from those lifeboats we disabled just before Norman escaped. We could fly suited--don the helmets before leaving the carrier--but once we enter the mine…" Two parallel creases furrowing the scarred warrior's forehead deepened further.
"I hardly expect that Norman's crews altered any of the life-support systems," Signe declared, her brisk rebuttal producing nods of agreement from three of the officers listening
intently. "The entire habitat will most likely contain breathable air. We'll shed our suits as soon as we enter the complex. The Columbians won't be expecting any attack, so we shouldn't encounter a welcoming party."
"If one shows up, we'll get caught--literally--with our pants down," Conor retorted tartly, no whit loath to speak his mind to the Commander who routinely solicited the opinions of her staff-members before launching any direly hazardous strike.
Signe's silvery laugh, supportive rather than derisive, warmed her captains without lessening their reservations in the least degree. "I'm afraid that's a risk we'll need to run," the strategist declared stoutly. "Four of us will pack military handweapons--eight will stay unencumbered to fight with swords. We'll keep our battle-plan flexible. Timing will be crucial."
"Will we be able to fly that outfit back here if we're forced to retreat?"
"Only if one of us stays behind to throw the switch on the control panel," the mechanical expert informed his comrade grimly.
His question prompted by curiosity, not fear, Morgan shrugged as he voiced the thought simultaneously striking his five peers. "Retreat won't be an option, so we'll fight the harder for knowing that we've got to claw our way aboard that ship." Chancing to meet Theo's eyes, he added sardonically, "Providing we can reach a target defended by the whole forty-man garrison, plus a crew of twelve crack spacer-fighters."
"You give a fight all you've got, whatever the chances of winning," Theo countered, his impulsive commendation conveying admiration wholly unmixed with envy of a man younger than his own self--a man whom the fighter-by-necessity perceived as designed by nature to be a warrior-adventurer.
"Stealth added to the advantage conferred by the element of surprise might well balance odds that seem at first glance damned poor," Conor observed thoughtfully.
"Plus a healthy dose of luck," Sean added equably, no whit unnerved by the danger he would shortly face.
"We'll aim for readiness a day before the targeted vessel is due to descend, Conor," Signe declared, her tone signaling an end to the period of discussion. "Whatever assistance you require, commandeer. Morgan and Sean, you'll lend a hand with the crew your family provides. Our assault force will consist of the seven of us, plus Yuri, Malcolm, Jess, Teeny, and Madelyn."
"Gaean spacers," Sean breathed. "We'll make the snatch. We can't afford not to." Youthful, handsome features bearing a strong resemblance to Morgan's projected wholehearted acceptance of the need to run a formidable risk.
Consciously exerting the full power of an indomitable will, Eric banished the insidious doubts still plaguing him. "We'll do our damnedest," he vouchsafed calmly.
When have you ever done otherwise? Signe silently commended the man she unerringly judged to be still not wholly convinced of the feasibility of her plan.
The day came when Signe's assault team lay harnessed into couches, four people to each of three cabins installed by Conor inside the drone. Of the twelve men and women, Eric alone guessed accurately just how stressful this lift in a vessel not designed to accommodate the sensitivity of human stomachs, musculature, or delicate mechanisms of the inner ear, would prove. Ordeal, this flight will be , he warned his alter ego glumly. I hope to hell this ancient outfit holds together under the strains of the lift!
Lying tautly within the rigid, fluid-filled cocoon equipped with a breathing regulator--standard gear designed to mitigate the effects of accelerating out of the gravity wells of planetoids so dense that the mass of the largest approached that of Earth--Signe gripped the exterior of the harness with one hand, and a glass-cloth bag providing insurance against disaster with the other. Her eyes fixed upon the clock installed by the meticulous mechanical genius, the Commander counted down the final, seemingly endless seconds until the time set for launch.
Amid a shuddering visible throughout the fabric of the cramped cabin, and a silence the more eerie for the magnitude of the brutal force slamming harnessed bodies downwards into the couches, the ungainly vehicle soared into the void.
Finding the physical effects worse than she expected, Signe fought a devastating onslaught of nausea. The same pressure that assaulted her magnificent physique acted on the fluid in the harness, enabling her finely conditioned body to maintain the flow of blood to her brain, even as the regulator assisted her to breathe. The athlete's digestive arrangements shrieked protest as the first rigor ended. Weightless now, she readied herself to face new trauma.
That came in the guise of a series of yawing motions that the passengers within the carrier experienced as harrowing sideways thrusts. Endeavoring to conquer savagely increased interior stress, the landsman wholly unused to violent changes in motion felt her head drop, and her body tilt, as the drone abruptly changed direction. Assailed by uncontrollable nausea, she retched violently into the self-sealing glass-cloth bag clutched in one hand.
Sean succumbed to the power of suggestion produced by the Commander's surrender. Eric lay spent, having been overcome before the drone completed the liftoff. On the other side of Eric, Teeny, a husky, carrot-haired, female Amazon, her spectacularly homely face contorted into a grimace of disgust, listened, sniffed the overpoweringly pungent aroma, and vomited noisily into her own receptacle.
Johann's ghost, you've no self-control left, woman, the Spartan-souled leader castigated her alter ego as she sealed her brimming bag. Am I glad we didn't wear the helmets--and that I didn't deposit this ghastly offering in mine, hanging there like an upturned basin off the neck-ring of this suit! Exerting all the strength of a will fully as indomitable as Eric's, she strove to control her still-queasy stomach.
A seemingly interminable period of weightlessness followed, as the drone now in free flight sped towards its destination. Veteran combatants forced adrenaline-charged bodies to rest, in anticipation of action to come. Even as she did likewise, the Commander methodically reviewed certain knowledge painstakingly acquired against the arrival of this day. Emerging from a state of intense concentration, she glanced at the clock. Death and damnation, we're about to descend! Hang on, woman. Hang on!
The violent motion mercifully ceased. Pale and hollow-eyed, Signe threw off the top half of her harness, and lurched unsteadily to her feet. Rising shakily, Sean managed a wry grin. The woman fighting an attack of dry heaves flashed him a wan smile before tipping her helmet over her head. Cautiously, each of the pair checked the seal of the other's helmet and gloves, as did Eric and Teeny. Four raiders activated the life-support packs integral to the cumbersome suits.
Preceding her subordinates, the leader emerged into the hard vacuum of the slip. The drone doesn't seal to a lock , she noted as she climbed awkwardly through the pressure-proof door to exit the makeshift lock rigged by her mechanically adept captain between the last cabin and the hatch leading out of the cavernous cargo bay. Conor figured it right. Remote-controlled robots must have unloaded these blasted outfits. What if we fail to gain access to the habitat? Damn! There's got to be an entry! The miners surely made repairs at times!
Suppressing the bone-chilling fears assailing her, the daring risk-taker stalked down the slanting walkway. Ghostly light shed by the splendid turquoise planet dominating the star-strewn black vault of space reflected eerily off the huge bloated form of the drone. Pale radiance illumined the metal deck traversed by the warrior patently conscious of bucking long odds.
Intent on gaining entry, Signe cast no entranced glance at the dark, rocky surface of the planetoid: rugged terrain that stretched away on three sides. A landscape pitted with craters born of random acts of cosmic violence failed to capture any fraction of her attention. The eyes behind the faceplate of the helmet minutely scrutinized the metallic hull-plates of the habitat rising steeply, directly ahead of the suited leader.
There's a lock. Hopefully, the door's not barred from within--ahh. The touch of a gloved finger on a switch set the heavy panel swinging open, to reveal utter blackness. Did they shut off the power? the Commander asked herself in dismay. No. The outer door wouldn't have op
ened in that case. The lighting malfunctioned, perhaps, due to no one's ever venturing into this part of the complex.
Twelve silver-suited forms crowded into the cramped enclosure. Hands groped along the walls. Producing a pocket-torch, Signe located the panel. Is this a trap? she wondered uneasily as the door behind the raiders sealed, and the lock filled with air. I'll sweat blood until we shed these suits!
Armed with a massive electronic handweapon suspended in a sling at his waist, Jassy positioned himself next to Theo, who bore another. Teeny and Yuri, similarly armed, ranged themselves alongside the two men standing in the forefront of a space all knew might form the point of aim of a patrol staging an ambush.
Gear for action, woman . The inner door swung open, revealing a loading dock that stretched away empty. A thin film of dust lay undisturbed on the metal deck, and shrouded massive machinery. Dim, harsh light radiated from fixtures set into hull-plates curving high overhead, and reflected unevenly from smudged deck-plates and grimy metal walls. The door to the cubicle housing the controls for lifting the drones stood ajar. No footprint sullied the dust carpeting its threshold: an accumulation testifying to Earthyears of neglect.
Twelve tense intruders breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Holding up a hand in a gesture of warning, Conor detached a meter from a ring on the front of his suit, and tested the air pressure. Reassured, he boldly removed his helmet, and inhaled deeply. At his nod, eleven fellow raiders shed helmets and gloves. Eight men turned their backs upon four women, and prearranged pairs assisted each other out of the pressure suits, emerging stark naked to don slate blue uniforms packed in bags snapped to rings integral to the suits.
Strong hands buckled belts from which hung carriers holding long, rapier-like, sheathed swords.
"About face," Signe commanded, when the women finished dressing. Frowning in concentration, she stood tautly still, orienting herself spatially so as to retain an accurate sense of direction. At her nod, the others hastily concealed the suits behind ponderous equipment.
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