by Tanya Huff
“Thank you, Ensign.” She took a step closer and stared up at his face. “Four.”
His face began to darken. “And your point, Captain?”
“My point, General,” her toes worked to find purchase on the deck and she forced them to relax before she said, “is that my people have been doing their best, and we don’t need you to ask for it. Flight Commander, launch squadron.”
“Aye, aye, Captain. Squadron away.”
“Any response from the bugs?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Launch shuttle.”
* * *
Fingers drumming against the table, Sibley locked his eyes on the monitor currently showing the signal coming in from the buoy.
“Sib, stop it.”
“Stop what.”
Shylin put her hand over his and flattened it. “Stop that.”
“They’re going to respond.” He jerked his chin toward the image of the Others’ ship. “There’s no way they’d fight so hard and then just let us pick up our grunts and go home.”
“They’re still fighting. The Marauders and the Katray Sants are still out there.”
“Not what I meant. They’re going to attack the shuttle.”
“It’s got a full squadron riding shotgun.”
“I know.”
“You don’t think they’d have launched by now if they were going to try something?”
“Yeah, I do. And that’s what bugs me.” Sibley pulled his hand out from under his gunner’s and, without taking his gaze from the monitor, pulled a stim stick from the breast pocket of his flight suit.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough of those?”
“No.”
“Your fingers are turning orange, and you’re never going to get to sleep.”
He looked down at that. “Sleep?”
“Yeah, you remember, it’s what you do when you’re in bed and not fukking. You know, the stuff you do between crash landings and going out again.”
One eyebrow rose. “Not a lot of sleeping going on right now, Shy.”
She looked around. With the exception of the three squadrons currently deployed, most of the Berganitan’s vacuum jockeys were in the “Dirty Shirt.” The flight officer’s wardroom wasn’t exactly crowded, but it bordered on full. Crews from the two squadrons that had already been out were mostly staring into coffee or talking quietly about the empty places at their tables. Some, like Boom Boom, sitting beside her with a mug of sah held loosely in one foot, had their slates out and were writing home. Just in case. The virgin crews were watching the monitors. Waiting for their turn.
“Forget I said anything,” she sighed.
* * *
“Captain! The Others have opened missile tubes one through six! Firing missiles!”
“Unless the rules have changed, missiles aren’t a problem.” She glared down at the relevant screen and muttered, “Anyone know if the rules have changed?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
C3 went completely silent and, if only for an instant, all eyes flicked away from monitors and data streams.
“That was a rhetorical question, Ensign.”
His ears flushed crimson. “Yes, ma’am, but I’m reading life signs in the missiles. I think they’re actually specialized fighters.”
“And Big Yellow allows fighters.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good work, Ensign. Flight Commander, alert your squadrons!”
* * *
All eyes were on the monitors now, coffee and letters home forgotten.
“These are new,” someone muttered. “Fuk, they’re fast.”
“And it ain’t like the fighters were slow,” someone else added.
The Marauders and the Katray Sants had been pulled away by the Others’ fighters, leaving the shuttle and her escorts alone in space.
“Maces are moving to intercept.”
Fifteen to six, Sibley thought, stim stick forgotten in the side of his mouth. Oy, mama, why don’t I like those odds?
The missile/fighters closed the gap rapidly and made no attempt to avoid the Jades swooping in at them. They roared on by, maintaining the same close diamond formation.
“A hit!”
One of the diamond’s outer points spun away from the rest, leaving a trail of debris. Three Jades raced in for the kill. Another point was hit with the same result. Another wing peeled off after it to cheers in the “Dirty Shirt,” but somehow Sibley didn’t feel like cheering, although other times, other missions, he’d have been yelling advice and bad puns at the screens with the rest of them.
Nine Jades; one wing holding position around the shuttle, the other two racing after the four missile/fighters.
“They’re going to take out the shuttle.” He almost didn’t recognize his own voice.
“Well, they’re going to try,” Shylin snorted, her hair flicking back and forth. “But if they want to survive the attempt…”
“They don’t.”
One of the pilots seemed to realize the same thing; a Jade moved directly into the path of the enemy. Both ships were destroyed, but the three remaining enemy fighters were through the debris field so fast it did no damage.
The shuttle was taking evasive action but, given the comparative speeds between hunter and hunted, it needn’t have bothered.
All three enemy fighters detonated on impact.
The explosion stopped all conversation, all speculation. The brilliant white light blanked out all but two of the monitors and the entire wardroom held its collective breath until they came back on-line. The shuttle and the two closest Jades were gone without even debris enough to mark their passing.
“Stupid fukking bugs,” Boom Boom said at last.
Shylin leaned in closer to her pilot’s shoulder and muttered, “You know, I really hate it when you’re right.”
“Yeah.” Sibley fished out another stim stick and bit down without tasting it. “Me, too.”
* * *
“Captain Carveg! The Others launched an STS shuttle of their own just before their missile/fighters impacted.”
Her fingers clutched the edge of her panel, grip tightening with every flash that told her two more of her people weren’t coming home. “No fighter escort?”
“No, ma’am. The shuttle has been covered in a stealth material; it’s almost impossible to see unless you know what you’re looking for.”
Her lip curled. “They thought we wouldn’t see it until too late.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“They think they can get it to the air lock while we’re preoccupied with our losses. Flight Commander, move the remainder of the Red Maces to the attack. If you can’t blow the damned thing up, cripple it. Keep it from getting to Big Yellow. And keep a better watch on the Others. Even if we couldn’t see the shuttle, those things aren’t small and there should be an energy spike when they open the shuttle bay doors. If it happens again, I want to know about it.” She glanced around C3, but General Morris wasn’t in the room. He had a definite knack for being around when he wasn’t wanted and vanishing when he was. “Yeoman White, find the general and tell him he should contact his people and let them know the bugs are probably close on their collective ass. Only say it politely.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Communications, punch through to the staff sergeant’s implant, but don’t let the general know you did it. Or that you can do it.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
* * *
*Due respect, General…* The sound of weapons’ fire nearly drowned out her next words. *…but we already knew that.*
* * *
“Listen up, people; the good news is, we won that round. The bad news is, we’re running low on ammo.”
“Staff? I volunteer to go to the Berganitan and get more.”
Torin moved a little ahead so she could see Tsui’s face as she walked. “And you’d just be completely screwed if I had a way to send you, wouldn’t you?”
He let his head fall back down onto the stretcher. “Wouldn’t have volunteered if you had a way to send me,” he pointed out faintly. “But I could use a beer.”
“Couldn’t we all.”
They’d run into the bugs again on their way to Nivry’s “weird engine room shit.” The lights were low enough that the Marines had helmet scanners in place, the passage had begun to look like a mechanical access route, and the front of the march was halfway across a T-junction when the sudden smell of furniture polish had let them know they weren’t alone.
The bugs had been the more startled. Torin suspected it was because Big Yellow was also screwing around with their maps, moving corridors, shortening passageways, joining two sections that hadn’t been joined before. They’d probably thought they were on a direct route to the air lock with no chance of running into the enemy.
There’d been a fast flurry of shots exchanged, and the bugs had retreated.
No casualties.
As fights went, it was one of the better ones.
“How’s your arm?”
In moving up beside Tsui, Torin’d also moved up by Ryder who carried the foot of his stretcher. She slowed until he caught up, then matched his stride. “It’s all right.”
“Really? It didn’t look all right.”
The gleam of the field sealant showed through the hole in her sleeve—the burn had been deep enough that had it been on either the front or the back of her arm instead of the side, it would have taken out a muscle group. “It aches, but I can use it.”
“You were very brave.”
Eyebrow raised, Torin turned to face him. It could have been a condescending remark, but after spending the last few hours in his company, she didn’t think it was. “You’re not used to seeing people get shot, are you?” she asked dryly.
“No, I’m not.” One corner of his mouth lifted into a wry smile. “You know, most people aren’t.”
She considered that for a moment, then nodded. “Good.”
A decompression hatch at the end of the passage opened into the upper wall of a well-lit, two-level chamber. Six-by-six grates covered the ceiling, allowing glimpses of a maze of pipes and wires through their mesh. Metal stairs led down to a textured deck. Four large tanks sat along one fifteen-meter wall in black cradles, digital readouts of pressure, temperature, and volume flashing on each. Large pieces of gray machinery that no one could actually identify squatted in rows down the center of the deck.
“Area’s clear,” Werst announced from an identical platform on the other side of the room.
“You heard him, Marines. Let’s move. Air lock’s twenty meters on the other side of Private Werst.”
The deck vibrated as they crossed it, as though they were near the combustion chamber. A faint smell of ozone hung over the whole space.
Torin kept her people moving as quickly as possible; the last thing she wanted was prolonged exposure to what appeared to be four hydrogen tanks. She had no doubt this was just another scenario created for them—the system appeared far too primitive to be an actual working part of the ship—but, because of its availability, hydrogen was the default fuel and should anything happen, should the bugs reappear, the last thing she wanted was a stray shot damaging one of those tanks. Big Yellow had proved willing to blow part of itself up before.
They were three quarters of the way across when Werst yelled, “Enemy above!”
Above? It’s a fukking drop ceiling. Those things aren’t weight bearing!
Sliding along on a piece of armor, only arms and head visible around its edges, the bug was a moving shadow behind the grates.
“Take cover!”
Marines and civilians dove under and behind the big gray machines. They didn’t look likely to explode, but then, neither had that original section of wall.
The MDCs were defused by the grate. Anything that got through hit the armor.
“Stop firing! You’re just wasting your fukking ammo!” Who was tallest and closest to the stairs? “Huilin, Frii; get to Werst and boost him high enough to get through the grate!” She could hear the two di’Taykan moving.
The bugs had fired energy bursts in the hydroponics. They can’t be stupid enough to fire that weapon in here.
A short burst dropped everyone to the deck.
Okay. They can.
When Torin looked up again, a metallic blue cylinder, small and familiar, was falling through a smoking hole in the grate.
The grenade hit one of the gray machines and bounced.
Torin spun around in time to see it roll past Guimond and the three civilians and disappear under a tank.
Time slowed to a crawl as Dursinski dropped to her stomach and batted it out with the muzzle of her benny. She grabbed for it with her free hand but it skittered away, taking an odd bounce on the textured deck, spinning around and almost disappearing again into the thick fur of the reporter flank’s. Presit reluctantly shuffled her leg aside and picked up the grenade, holding it in both hands, her eyes squinted nearly shut as she tried to see what she had.
Guimond had his pack off and combat vest undone.
Standard operating procedure for a grenade in a sensitive area. If you can’t throw it back at the bastards, wrap it in your vest then get some distance. The vest will contain most of the explosion.
Cinnamon.
Presit sneezed.
Guimond grabbed the grenade from her hands and threw himself down to the deck on top of it.
The explosion lifted his body, shaking it like a small animal in a predator’s jaws.
On Torin’s slate, his med-alert went off, then settled down to the steady beep of the locator. She keyed in the code that would turn it off. She knew where the body was.
Time sped up again.
“NO!”
Somebody had to yell it; the only question had ever been who.
The rage in Werst’s voice spun all heads around. From the handrail around the platform, he leaped out onto the grate. Gripping with fingers and toes, he raced toward the bug.
Torin didn’t waste breath calling him back. He wouldn’t have listened. Rage, but no denial, she thought as he crawled across the ceiling. He expected this, or something like it.
Werst reached the hole the bug had blown through the grate and shoved his benny into it, pulling the trigger again and again.
Another energy burst went off.
“If that bug’s got more than one grenade…!” Dursinski yelled.
“She’d have dropped it already.” Torin’s voice filled all the spaces in the room, leaving no place for panic. If the bug had more than one grenade, she’d have tossed them down in a pattern, one right after the other, and they’d all be dead.
The grate Werst clung to peeled away from the ceiling, screaming a protest. Hanging upside down, he reached around the jagged edge and fired one more time. The bug made much the same sound as the grate and pitched forward through the hole, all four arms flailing wildly.
One caught Werst across the small of the back.
She missed the machines and hit the deck with a wet crunch.
Hanging from his feet, Werst swung, once, twice, his helmet flying off his head to clatter against a tank. The grip of his toes alone wasn’t enough to support his weight. He twisted in the air, hit the top of a machine on all fours, and slid off to the deck.
“Harrop, the bug! Nivry, Guimond!”
Torin was at Werst’s side a heartbeat later but, even so, he was already on his hands and knees crawling toward the remains of the bug, pushing his weapon ahead of him, his finger still hooked around the trigger. “She’s dead, Werst. You got her. Let it go.”
He snarled a Krai profanity and kept crawling.
“Werst!” When he jerked to a stop, she wrapped her hand around his right wrist, pinning his weapon to the floor. When he tried to roll out of her grip, when his left fist jabbed out toward her face, she was ready for him. “That’s. Enough.”
And it was because she said it was. She used the word
s to fill him as she used them to fill a room, leaving no space for questions or doubt.
His facial ridges flared once and with a sound halfway between a growl and a whimper, he collapsed into the circle of her arms.
A heartbeat later, when Torin felt muscles begin to tense, she let him push away. He had his own places to store grief, just as she did. Just as they all did.
“Wasn’t enough he had the nice guy fukking target painted on him,” Werst growled, glaring at nothing over Torin’s shoulder, “he had to go like a fukking hero.”
“Guimond saved a lot of lives.”
“And that makes it better?”
Torin snorted. “Only time makes it better and there never seems to be enough of it.”
She wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t know, but the snort drew his focus to her face. He stared into her eyes for a moment, then he nodded and looked away. “You’re a big serley comfort, you know that, Staff Sergeant Kerr?”
“Just doing my job.” His meaning had been clear on his face, the words used were irrelevant. “When you’re ready to talk about it…”
He nodded.
“And otherwise; are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m…” As he moved a leg, his ridges clamped shut and the mottling on his skull suddenly stood out in bold relief. “I broke a serley toe!”
“You’re lucky you only broke one,” Torin told him, standing. Huilin had been carrying one of the med kits, but he was still on the far platform. He—or he and Frii—had cut a section free near the hatch and, standing on the handrail, he was tall enough to make sure any other bugs trying that route would find an unpleasant welcome. The other kit…“Dursinski!”
“Right here, Staff.”
“Werst’s broken a toe.”
“That’s what he gets for not landing on his head.” But she was on her knees with the med kit out before she’d finished talking.
“If there’s one broken…”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll check the others.”
The bug was next. Harrop poked it with a boot as she approached. “Not that I’m an expert on these things, Staff, but I’m pretty sure it…”
“She.”
“What?”
When you forget the enemy is a person, you react to their weapons not them. That’s dangerous. The little we know suggests the bugs are female. Not the time for a lecture, so Torin merely repeated, “She.”