Star Wolf (Shattered Galaxy)

by David G. Johnson

John and Mel steadied themselves before moving onward as the ship continued to buck and roll in the inevitable battle dance. The stabilizers kept them from being tossed around like rag dolls, but the pitching and yawing in John’s stomach remained. He wasn’t sure how much was due to the movement of the ship and how much was due to Mel’s stunning accusation.

  “I’m not a liar,” was all the reply he could manage as they resumed their trek toward the upper hangar.

  “No, John, I don’t believe you are. But you are out of your element. You trust Molon, so you wanted to obey his order. Whether or not you admit it, you are also drawn to me above and beyond whatever my abilities have caused. You trust me too. Your memories of Ratuen are fresh wounds. The idea of a disguise possibly keeping you safe was a powerful draw. I only eased your reservations, John. You wanted to come with me.”

  Mel had just laid his mind bare. Part of him wanted to run as far as possible from this alien from whom he had no secrets.

  “So you’re a telepath?” John asked, fear and wonder filling his voice.

  “I am an empath,” Mel corrected. “I sense feelings. I have a limited ability to push and pull what is there, but I cannot create feelings, nor can I force you to do anything against your will. I would never harm you.”

  They reached the doors to the upper hangar half-deck. It led to a large platform above the main hangar floor where the smaller STS Molon had used to extract him from Ratuen was docked. The light in his vac-suit’s display panel showed the atmosphere in the hangar had also already been vented.

  John paused as realization hit him that for now, the necessities of life were contained in this single, cumbersome second-skin. Death loomed inches away. The thought almost overwhelmed him, feeling none of the calm from Mel that had bolstered him earlier.

  As they entered the upper hangar, a vac-suited crewman approached. A merc assigned to security, his sleeve bore the rank insignia of a sergeant.

  “Who in blue blazes are—” the non-com started, before spotting Mel’s unmistakable powder-blue skin through the clear faceplate of her vac-suit helmet. “Oh, I’m sorry Lieutenant, your suit wasn’t marked with your rank. What can I do for you?”

  “Sergeant, the captain instructed that we dress as enlisted deck crew and come here for the duration of the battle. He wants to protect Dr. Salzmann’s identity from our attackers.”

  “You can hang out with us, ma’am, but you might as well make yourself useful. Can you handle weapons?”

  “Not really,” John answered.

  “I am trained with handguns, though I prefer my needler pistol. I can retrieve it from my quarters if need be.”

  “No time,” the sergeant said, pulling his sidearm and handing it to Mel. “This will have to do. Same principle, point and pull the trigger. You two won’t need to hold the line. Set up back by the STS. Open the hatch, take cover inside, and shoot anything that gets past us.”

  “Thank you, sergeant,” Mel replied.

  “Doc,” the sergeant continued, turning toward John. “My corpsman is down below with the team on the hangar floor. If you are willing, grab the med kit from the STS, and be on standby in case we have casualties up here. I would feel better having another medic close by.”

  “That I can do, sergeant,” John replied.

  At least with a med kit in hand, he would be earning his keep. John might be able, in some way, to repay the Star Wolf crew for risking everything to fight his battle.

  “All right then,” the sergeant said. “Take your positions and keep alert. Captain called all hands on this one, which means we’re in for one heck of a fight.”

  *****

  “They are getting close,” Molon announced through his vac-suit comms. He watched the array of small ships on the tactical display currently filling the bridge’s main screen. “Ladies, they are all yours.”

  “Halo,” Twitch said, pulling herself momentarily out of her deep interface with the ship’s systems.

  “Aye, sir?” Halo answered, using the genderless masculine address common to the military.

  “I’m about to give you a fixed target forward arc on the bogey painted Alpha 1 on tactical. Be ready with pulse lasers on that one. I’ll set a thirty-five degree pitch on the maneuver so you can sweep plasma cannons for the other bogey tagged Alpha 2.”

  “But we’re out of range for the pulse lasers, Commander,” Halo answered.

  “Trust me kiddo, I’ve danced this tune before. We’re about to get real close, real fast. You get one shot with the pulse lasers. After that, I won’t be standing still long enough for another.”

  “Aye, commander,” Halo replied, her hands hovering over the ship’s weapon control panel. “Ready when you are.”

  Twitch slipped back into her deep interface trance. Suddenly, Star Wolf yielded under her mental commands as the ship pulled a turn that strained the gravitic compensators and intertial dampeners to their limits. Fortunately, the bridge crew was well strapped in, but elsewhere aboard, Molon suspected there might be more than a few loose lunches among the crew after this maneuver.

  As soon as Star Wolf’s bearing aligned on the leading assault shuttle, the thrusters fired to maximum acceleration for a half second before backing off to maneuvering speed once again. The effect was an almost instantaneous closing on the assault shuttle directly in front of them. Proximity alarms sounded, and a collision warning flashed on the main screen as it switched from the tactical display to a visual representation of what was going on outside the ship.

  Halo was an experienced and disciplined weapons officer. Molon watched with satisfaction as she followed Twitch’s anticipated maneuver by releasing a full array of weapons fire from her console right on cue. The four fixed position pulse lasers blasted a streaming barrage into the craft directly ahead, while the plasma turrets turned and acquired a targeting solution on the second assault shuttle.

  Hoot let rip a shout commensurate with his call sign as moments later both enemy ships were reduced to scrap metal and molten debris. The proximity alarms silenced, and Star Wolf flew through the shredded cloud of what a moment before had been a fully manned assault shuttle.

  Molon noted the weapons launch notification flashing on his HUD. Star Wolf had just fired another barrage of missiles.

  “Where are those birds headed, Halo?”

  “Launched twin tethered nukes at the gunboats. Not that I don’t trust your instincts about them not blowing us to shreds, captain, but figured I’d give them something else to shoot at while they think it over.”

  Hoot switched the display to an aft view as Twitch once again accelerated to gain some distance, and then began a rolling evasion pattern. The gunboats unloaded with point-defense batteries against Star Wolf’s missiles. One brief, large flash flared on the screen, while three smaller ones marked the destruction of three of the missiles.

  “Hoot,” Molon called out to the sensor officer. “One missile connected. How solid was that hit?”

  “Glancing blow. Ablative armor took the brunt of it. It was a nuke though, so probably some crew casualties and minor system damage from radiation. That assault craft is dropping back from pursuit though.”

  “Great job, Halo. That was as good an opening volley as we could hope for.”

  “Uh-oh” Hoot interrupted, “two of the three fighters shadowing us just dropped their VDEs and are closing.”

  Molon’s heart jumped in the hope that his worst fears might not be manifesting after all.

  “They on an intercept course?”

  “Nope,” Hoot replied. “They are moving between us and the remaining assault shuttles. The gunboats are also not firing. The remaining assault shuttles are closing fast with the gunboats flying cover. That little trick put us a lot closer to them. They’ll be in range to lock on for boarding in less than three minutes.”

  “Yeah,” Molon said, with no hope now of stopping the dread growing in his stomach. “I’ve seen this before.”

  “Where, captain?” Warbird
interjected. “These aren’t standard Imperial Navy tactics.”

  “GalSec. It’s called a dead-stick order. They use it against pirates when they mean to capture critical cargo. Those gunboats and fighters are going to run point-defense for the assault shuttles. We blow up that last assault shuttle, it kicks in a free fire order for every ship out there, including the cruiser.”

  “Why would a Provisional Imperium cruiser be using GalSec tactics?” Warbird pressed.

  “That’s a good question,” Molon replied. “My guess is a GalSec spook is giving orders on that ship, not a navy captain.”

  “That’s…. a… capital.. class ship!” Twich objected, wrenching her consciousness out of her interface long enough to speak. Her normally calm, professional demeanor showed a hint of a stress crack. “No way in creation Zarsus handed the reins of a capital class ship to some GalSec spook.”

  “If Zarsus didn’t, someone did.”

  “So,” Twitch replied, “our choices are to let them board or force them to destroy us. You got an option C floating around in that fur-covered skull?”

  “I’m working on it,” Molon replied. “In the meantime, we are done here. Kill the maneuvering drive, and put Star Wolf into a three-axis roll with a randomized thruster fire every sixty to ninety seconds just to make it interesting.”

  “That will buy us some time,” Twitch replied. “But it won’t stop them for long.”

  “I know,” Molon replied. “Just lock the helm controls once you’ve established the roll. I will set a distress code to transmit that we lost helm control as well. That should at least stall any ‘comply or die’ ultimatums.”

  “Then what, captain?” Halo asked.

  “All bridge crew prepare to repel boarders. Halo and Hoot, head for the port side airlock, and join up with Voide and her security teams there. Boom-Boom, I want you in engineering helping Dub with anti-boarding protocols and security locking systems. Warbird, you and Twitch follow me to the starboard airlock. We will meet up with Master Gunny Tibbs and his troops.”

  The crew all acknowledged Molon’s orders and secured their bridge stations before moving for the exits. He knew his crew were among the best, but if GalSec was running this op, there was no telling what they were in for.

  “We will be outnumbered but we have home field advantage. In the end it may not make a difference, but they aren’t taking Star Wolf without a fight.”

  Eleven – Close Quarters

  Voide looked through the clear vac-suit helmets of her security team and the infantry troopers around her. Some of these mercs she knew, but most she only recognized. The life of a mercenary was dangerous, and Voide’s policy had always been to forego bothering to learn names until you had been through a few scrapes together. Untested mercs came full of enthusiasm and left in body bags more often than not. She doubted today would be an exception.

  The ship lurched wildly with whatever breakneck maneuver Twitch was pulling on the bridge. The vibrations of Star Wolf’s weapons firing resonated through the hull, but no impacts from incoming fire shook the troops positioned and waiting with her near the lower deck port side airlock.

  One of the newest recruits, a young Private First Class full of more bravado than brains, failed to cut to a private comm channel before whispering a question into his helmet.

  “Hey, sarge. How come Lieutenant Commander Matsumura isn’t wearing combat armor or even a vac-suit?”

  Gunnery Sergeant Raul “Rockjaw” Manolo flashed a smile through his helmet at Voide, recognising the comms protocol error made by the PFC, who had only joined Star Wolf just over a month ago. Rockjaw just nodded to Voide, leaving her to administer the education lesson.

  “Listen up, boot,” Voide snapped through the comms unit in the rebreather mask she wore, using the Empire Marine term for someone new to a billet. “You got a question about me, you ask me, and next time you want to gossip, open a private channel.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant Commander,” the PFC replied, flushing a bright red.

  “But since I want to keep your mind off wetting your armor before combat even starts, I’ll answer you. See this gray skin?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Well then you know I’m Prophane, a Pariah. Prophane physiology is built to withstand vacuum pressure and a lot of other weirdness affecting bodies that transition voidspace.”

  She focused her mind on a voidjump, disappearing from in front of the rookie trooper and stepping through voidspace to reappear immediately behind him. She grabbed the shocked mercenary by the shoulders and spun him around, careful to control the barrel of his weapon so it didn’t point at anything vital in case the startled recruit accidentally hit the trigger. Fortunately, his self-control held, even though the wide-eyed look on his face said he had never seen a Prophane teleport before.

  “Boo,” Voide taunted playfully through his helmet’s clear faceplate. “I don’t need a pressurized suit, but I still need to breathe, which is why I wear the rebreather mask. The combat armor is very dense. It takes a lot more effort for me to shift it into voidspace, so I prefer lighter, stealthier attire. Oh, and before you ask why I am not carrying a weapon, I assure you I am well armed.”

  She pulled two stilettos from waistband sheaths behind her, waving them in front of the young merc’s faceplate. Choked-back laughter echoed across the squad comms channel as the veterans enjoyed watching their security chief toying with the new recruit.

  “But,” the young man inquired, “these guys are going to be boarding in combat armor at least, probably even full battle dress. We will have a hard enough time ripping through that with ACRs, no way you get through with knives.”

  A chorus of “ooh”s rippled across the comms. A chiding lesson was one thing, but challenging Voide so boldly was a sin the rest of the team knew better than to commit. Still, they were keyed for battle, and this pup wasn’t likely to live out the day. If he survived, she would be sure to instruct him a little more forcefully, but for now she kept her humor.

  Voide poised one of her stillettos near his faceplate.

  “You see how fine a blade this is, private?”

  The young private nodded.

  “Well imagine that very vulnerable area at the base of your neck, where your helmet joins your pressurized combat armor. Now imagine such a fine, tempered blade being inserted forcefully at just that point” she said, adding a little flourish as she pantomimed an attack thrust. “Then, a little twist, and suddenly an invader, whose sole thought was killing everyone in front of him, is now focused on surviving. Every alarm in his suit is suddenly screaming at him that he is going to suffocate and decompress unless he hauls it back to the shuttle’s life support systems.”

  “Oh, I see,” the young soldier answered.

  “Oh, do you now? Or maybe you don’t,” Voide taunted as she touched the controls on her stealth suit belt and faded to nothing more than a shimmering shadow before the merc’s eyes. “Do you know how disruptive it is to an assault plan when your point man runs screaming back to their shuttle swearing he was attacked by ghosts? It screws up firing lines, clearing patterns, and wreaks all kinds of dreck with general morale, giving you boys a chance to light them up while they get themselves sorted. We on the same page now, private?” she asked as she turned off her suit’s stealth mode.

  “Yes, Lieutenant Commander,” the wide-eyed trooper replied, hanging his head.

  “Don’t go getting all hangdog on me, boot,” Voide scolded. “If you live through today, you will have a tale to tell your grandchildren about how you fought side by side with one of those hell-spawned Prophane.”

  She gave the young mercenary a good-natured clap on the shoulder.

  “All right, jarheads,” Rockjaw said through the comms. “If we are done with supplementary boot camp training on Prophane tactics, then I want everyone locked and loaded. You feel that odd little queasiness in your gut?”

  A chorus of “Yes, gunny” echoed through the comms prompting Rockjaw to co
ntinue.

  “That means the helm just put the ship into a three-axis spin. Those boarding shuttles are going to be locking onto the hull and breaching these airlocks any minute, so look alive. We are going to be outnumbered and probably outgunned, but that don’t make no difference. You hold this position until you’re dead or I tell you otherwise. Any of you boots breaks rank, I’ll shoot you myself. Welcome to the merc life, boys.”

  They didn’t have to wait long before the subtle vibration of magnetic locks attaching to the hull reverberated through the airlock door. Voide reached down, reactivating her stealth suit displacement field.

  “Rockjaw, I’m going radio silent,” she announced over the local comms assigned to their position. “I’ll look to mess up their advance. Try and keep these boots from shooting me.”

  “No promises, LTC. Might want to keep a boarder between yourself and these new guns, just in case.”

  “You’re all sunshine, Rockjaw.”

  “Sunshine and roses.”

  Voide liked Rockjaw. He was a solid combat veteran who had been with Star Wolf almost as long as she had. Master Gunnery Sergeant “Handsome” Hank Tibbs was the senior staff non-com in charge of all deployable infantry aboard, but Rockjaw had been put in charge of the security teams. He was a good leader and as tough a fighter as she had ever served with. She hoped he made it through today alive.

  As Voide teleported through the sealed door and into the airlock proper, she slipped into the shadows opposite the airlock portal, where the boarding shuttle was now attached to Star Wolf’s hull. Voide knew the security forces were as ready as possible for whatever was coming.

  Star Wolf was designed for defense. The two lower deck external airlocks were adjacent to the main personnel barracks on both the port and starboard sides. On a merc ship, that meant first contact for anyone entering would be the security forces. It also minimized readiness time in the event that unfriendlies were the ones using the airlock. The smaller, secondary airlocks on the middle deck port and starboard were near the NCO quarters. While slightly less secure than the ones on the lower deck, they were also much smaller and less conducive to allowing a stream of battle-armor-clad marines to come pouring aboard.