Victory or Death

by Richard Tongue

  The return fire tore a series of holes in the side of the boat, and Marat collapsed twitching to the deck, blood pouring out of half a dozen wounds, before he could take cover. Caine's head popped up out of the hold, and she swore as a bullet narrowly missed her; the aft machine gun started to provide suppressing fire over the hatch to keep the rest pinned down, while the fore gun began to rake the deck, bullets tearing through the sides of the ship just by Orlova.

  She replied with a pair of shots and was rewarded by a cry of pain; Clark was firing in threes, but was causing more fear than actual effect. Elvira had taken a firing position, cracking off wild shots with more enthusiasm than accuracy. In the middle of the noise, she could just make out the sounds of her father calling out, but she couldn't make out the words.

  Orlova didn't like where this was going. They were outnumbered, but that wasn't necessarily a problem; those machine guns were the major problem. While they were firing, their reinforcements were pinned down, and the armor plating at the front of the guns would prevent her getting a good shot at the gunners. She glanced over at Clark, who was ducking down after taking another shot, and grinned at her; he had a few more notches for his knife already. If she only had a couple of grenades, this battle would be over very quickly.

  As if her mind was being read, she peered over the side of the boat to see a man wearing shoulder epaulets pulling a pin out of a small ball, raising his arm to throw; she managed to get a shot off at him, hitting his hand and sending the grenade spinning out of his hand into the water behind him. The resulting splash drenched part of the ship, spray flying high into the air. The next time she was unlikely to manage such a good shot. Taking a deep breath, she held up a hand, pointed at the boat – which had drifted now to within just a few meters of them, making the salvos of machine gun fire even worse, and counted down three, two, one with her fingers.

  Screaming, "Now!" she leapt out of cover, firing a pair of wild shots to keep the legionnaires down, and jumped onto the patrol boat, shooting a nearby figure at point blank range. Clark had followed her just a second later, and as the machine guns wildly spun around, she saw Caine and the rest of Clark's squad boil out of the hold, taking firing positions along the side of the boat, returning fire with a series of salvos of her own.

  That still left Orlova and Clark stuck on the Legion boat. Clark had discarded his empty pistol and restored to his knife, ducking and stabbing at targets with manic fury, while she found a little cover to fire her last few shots. The smell of blood was in the air, the deck was growing slippery with spray, and the staccato bursts of the machine guns were being punctuated with carefully timed volley fire from Caine. A pair of officers ran forward with grenades, only visible to Orlova; she was able to hit the first without trouble, sending him spinning into the river, but the second managed to throw his bomb.

  The explosion tore through the deck of the Tatar boat, a column of smoke punching into the sky, splinters shooting everywhere. Clark didn't give the grenadier time to enjoy his victory, sending his lifeless corpse into the river, but their boat was definitely beginning to sink, and not slowly. Fire from the Legionnaires began to quieten, the machine guns now silent, and she heard a shout from the remains of the bridge.

  "Par-dessus bord!"

  In good order, the Legionnaires retreated, diving from the side of the boat and swimming to the shore. Clark and his men, whooping, took pot shots at them as they swam, a few of them dropping out of sight, trails of red running with the current, but some of them made it to shore and disappeared into the undergrowth. Orlov lowered his gun, muttering under his breath.

  Stepping onto the Legion boat, Caine yelled, "Cease fire!"

  Reluctantly, the men agreed, clapping themselves on the back and celebrating – one of them fired a couple of exuberant rounds into the air. Orlova looked at her old craft, shaking her head; the deck was almost below the waterline now, and Rustem was dragging Marat's body from its rest. She jumped across to help, getting a grateful smile from the quiet boatman, and they placed him gently on the deck, draping a coat over his head. Two of Clark's boys had been wounded, neither seriously. In fact, they seemed to be ignoring their wounds altogether, concentrating on celebrating their victory.

  Orlov raced up to his daughter, "Are you alright, Maggie?"

  "I'm fine, Papa. Elvira?"

  "Just getting off the boat now." He shook his head, "What a horrible mess."

  "Looks like we've traded up, Lieutenant," Clark yelled, grinning. "This should get us there much faster."

  "Not to mention the guns," another said. "I want to give them a try!"

  "Not yet," Caine said. "Not until we see someone to shoot with them." She looked over at the sinking craft. "Help Rustem bring anything we need over here. Sub-Lieutenant?"

  Orlova looked around shaking her head, "Yes?"

  "Let's take a look in the hold, see what exactly we've stolen."

  The hatch to the hold was open, and the two of them carefully made their way into the hold, pistols at the ready in case someone had stayed behind. A dozen bunks were along the sides of the boats, all of them carefully made and with small lockers for their possessions; there were doors fore and aft, both of them locked. Orlova began to make her way forward, to be stopped by Caine's hand on her shoulder.

  "What do you think you were doing with that stunt, Maggie?"

  "My job. We were pinned down, caught. You'd rather we were captured? Assuming they didn't just shoot us?"

  Caine shook her head, "That jump was suicidal."

  "They thought that as well – that's why they weren't expecting it." She broke into a piratical smile, "You've got to catch the enemy by surprise if you're going to win."

  She shook her head, "Next time, ask first."

  Orlova looked at Caine in the eyes, then shook her head, "I'm not going to make a promise I can't keep. In a battlefield situation, when the bullets are flying, you can't wait for orders. You have to trust your judgment. That's what officers do. If there'd been an NCO around he'd have led the charge, gladly. You think Sergeant Kozu would have waited to act? Or Ensign Esposito? Or any of the espatiers?"

  "You've been hanging around with them too long."

  "Maybe you haven't been spending enough time with them."

  Standing straight, Caine's eyes narrowed, "I would point out that I outrank you."

  Sighing, Orlova replied, "Are you going to turn into one of those officers down here on the surface? Look, you've been at this game for a long time, and I respect you; but this is something I know." She paused. "You were a fighter pilot during the war. Were you ever under direct fire? I mean on a planet, or in a station?"

  "No."

  "It's different when you can see the person that's shooting at you. And they you. I'm not your problem; Clark is."

  Caine glanced up at the deck, "He saved my life back in Yreka."

  "I did what I did because it had to be done. He enjoyed it. That's dangerous."

  There was a loud crackling from the forward room, breaking the air; without a second thought Orlova raced forward, charging the door, while Caine covered her. It took two heaves to break through, the door cracking loose from its hinges; inside was a collection of radio equipment, crackling away. Their eyes widened as Caine pushed past Orlova, sitting at the chair.

  "Why didn't Alamo pick up any signals?"

  Caine pointed, "Low power. Very low. That won't travel far, and enough of it would bounce off the planet's ionosphere that we'd hear nothing but static."

  "Can you juice it up?"

  "I'm trying. It's not as if the enemy doesn't know we're here." She started fiddling with buttons and dials, running her hands over unfamiliar controls. After a few minutes, she dropped her hands to her side, grinding her teeth in frustration. "If I had a damn datapad, I could read this in a second."

  Orlova yelled up to the deck, "Anyone read French?" There were a chorus of negative replies; evidently the resistance group had successfully resisted French languag
e lessons in school, as well. "Anyone know anything about radio equipment?"

  A figure dropped into the hold, swinging down on his arms; he looked down at the equipment and his eyes lit up. He moved over to start playing with the dials, then peeked down at the components, grinning.

  "I think I can do something with this."

  "What's your name?" Caine asked.

  "Oh, they call me Hawk."

  "Hawk?"

  "Hawking's my last name."

  "Can this punch through the ionosphere?"

  Hawk frowned, lines crossing his young face, "I'm not sure. Probably not, it's at maximum now. I guess you've been trying?"

  "Yeah."

  He shook his head, "Probably not, then. I can have a tinker with it, though. Love playing with electronics. I don't get the chance much back home, those bastards keep all the cool tech to themselves. Granddad was an engineer on the Mayflower II, he told me all sorts of stuff before he died."

  Orlova looked at Caine, smiling, then down at Hawk, "Any way you can make something a bit more portable out of all of this?"

  "Portable? Maybe. Not hand-sized, though. Backpack, maybe."

  "Get to work. You've got until we reach the village. I'll make a deal with you – pull this off, and I'll get our Chief Engineer to give you a tour of Alamo's engine room."

  "A starship?"

  "Uh-huh," Orlova said, grinning. This kid she could understand.

  "Cool." He looked around the compartments, finding a toolkit, and started to get to work, Caine moving out of the way. The two of them went back to the bunkroom to give him room, the door closing behind him. Caine perched on one of the bunks, looking around the room, grimacing a bit as she heard a loud crackle.

  "Think he'll do it?"

  "If he doesn't blow himself up first," Orlova replied. "Look, about earlier..."

  "Forget it. You were as right as I was. It is different on the ground." She looked forward. "At least we've solved our communications problem. We might not able to get a signal out of the atmosphere, but when those shuttles are on the way down, we'll be able to guide them in."

  The two of them clambered back up to the deck. Clark and his gang were playing around with the machine guns, mock-sighting imaginary targets on the shore, while Rustem was up in the bridge, looking around the controls. Shaking her head, Caine walked over to the gang, fire in her eyes.

  "We've got a mission to complete. Let's get this boat cleaned up."

  "Why?" one of them asked. Clark had a bit more sense, and clambered to his feet.

  "She's right. It's going to stink in a little while. Bob, go down and see if there are any supplies, Dave, start rounding up any ammo you can find." He looked up at Caine. "That suit?"

  "Fine. Let's get to work."

  Orlova climbed up to the bridge, shaking her head at the scene of devastation. A lot of equipment had been shot to pieces; navigational instruments, infra-red detectors, some other things she couldn't even recognize. Much of it would have been useful, but that bridge had been well and truly shot down. Rustem was tinkering with the controls, trying to make them work again; he'd pushed a couple of decorated bodies to the rear of the room, and Orlova tossed them down to the deck for Clark's crew to deal with.

  "Will it work?"

  "Yes." The shared vocabulary didn't allow her to translate what she assumed from his tone were swear words, but she grinned to show her understanding. The engine spluttered into life, and they began to move upstream again, purring away from the wrecked boat. Rustem looked back at the last traces sank beneath the water, a tear in his eye. He shook his head, and looked at her.

  "This better," she roughly translated. "I keep. Trade."

  She nodded, and climbed back down the ladder, looking out over the river—bodies were bobbing around in the current like logs, one by one slowly sliding beneath the surface forever, leaving nothing but a red stain. Shaking her head, she clambered down to the deck.

  Chapter 20

  Marshall closed his eyes, still trying to get some sleep. He'd been lying in his cabin for hours, trying and failing to relax; he was never any good at resting while other people were working, even though there was nothing he could do to help. Quinn and Cunningham, drowning under a deluge of crazy ideas from the crew, had isolated themselves in the conference room with a vat of coffee and some datapads, making it clear that even a certain Captain might not necessarily be welcome. He fidgeted some more, then decided to see if Security was making any progress on tapping into the satellites. Pulling on his shirt, he flicked a switch.

  "Captain to Security Department."

  The voice of Chief Washington came back rather too quickly, "Sir, I'm on my way over there now."

  "I think I missed a conversation, Chief. Fill in the dots."

  "Damn."

  His voice grew stern, "That's not much of an explanation, Chief."

  Sighing, she replied, "Harper's gone missing, sir."

  "Missing?"

  "She was supposed to go over to the station to download some data, see if there was anything in the deleted files, and, well..."

  "Let me guess; that was a surprisingly long number of hours ago."

  Reluctantly, the chief replied, "Yes, sir. She went over with the second boarding party."

  "That's more than a day."

  "Yes, sir. I was going over now to find her; she isn't answering her signal."

  Rubbing his forehead, Marshall replied, "Belay that. I'll go over myself. You might as well start filling out the transfer paperwork; this time she's gone too damn far."

  "Sir, I accept full responsibility."

  "My fault, Chief. I should have busted her out of the department after the incident on the station. If Orlova hadn't talked me out of it, I would have."

  "Don't blame her, sir."

  Chuckling, he said, "You're leaping to the defense of your officer pretty quick, Chief. Don't worry, I know who to blame. Marshall out." He flicked over the switch again, pulling on the rest of his uniform.

  "Esposito here, sir."

  "I was expecting a Corporal. Shouldn't you be off watch?"

  "Could say the same about you, Captain."

  "I need to borrow some troops. Got any spare?"

  "How many?"

  "Enough to find a recalcitrant crewman who probably doesn't want to be found?"

  "Let me guess. Harper. I'll give you Alpha Squad if you don't mind me coming along."

  "Fine with me. I'll see you at the airlock in, say, ten minutes? Just don't bring any guns."

  She laughed, replying, "Aye, sir."

  He turned the channel off, then sat on the edge of the bed for a few seconds before slipping on his shoes. He couldn't work up any serious dislike of Harper; at least she was giving him something to do other than mope around in his cabin, or annoy the night shift on the bridge. Stepping out into the corridor, he heard polka coming from Dietz's room; obviously he was having trouble sleeping, as well. For a second he was tempted to invite him out on this little expedition, but decided against it.

  The elevator flew quickly down to the hangar deck, and for a brief second he cursed the designers of Alamo; short of killing the rotation, there was no way he could dock the rotating section of the ship with the station. No human could live in the central core for long, but something could have been improvised, perhaps – something to add to the list of requirements for the next refit. Esposito was waiting on the hangar deck while a technician prepared the shuttle for launch; she and her squad were dressed in exercise jumpsuits rather than standard uniform.

  He looked around for the pilot, then asked, "Who's flying, Ensign?"

  She smiled in reply, "I could, but I thought you might want to."

  "You thought right." He stepped into the shuttle, another crewman tossing him a flight headset, and climbed into the pilot's seat, the troopers following to take their place. He'd been worried that they might be annoyed at having to hunt down a lost crewman, but judging from the banter, they appeared to have de
cided that it was a game of hide and seek with the spacedock as a rather large playing field. A siren sounded as the shuttle dropped into the elevator airlock, then faded as the atmosphere was drained away. With a quick lurch, the shuttle dropped from the ship, and he tapped the controls to bring it to station keeping.

  The airlock was just two hundred meters away; he could have jumped across in a spacesuit quite happily, and he didn't see the point of programming the navicomputer. Playing the thrusters to line up the shuttle airlock with the nearest docking port, he slowly drifted across, taking his time about it, enjoying even this brief little flight. After two minutes, he was rewarded with a loud clang, and the rattle of a successful docking. Unbuckling, he drifted back with a thumbs up, and headed over to the airlock. Matsumoto – temporarily in charge on the spacedock – was waiting for him, a furious expression on her face.

  "I take it you've no leads, Sub-Lieutenant?"

  "Leads? Leads? She's just run off somewhere deep into the bowels of the station. We haven't properly opened up the lower levels yet, there could be anything down there. More to the point, we don't have a damn map."

  "Relax, Sub-Lieutenant, the marines are here. Literally. If we know she isn't in any of the occupied levels..."

  "She isn't."

  "Then we'll concentrate our efforts down in the lower decks. This station isn't that big, and if we leave our autoscanners on, we'll get that map for you." He spun around, halting himself on a handrail. "Split up into twos, taking a level each. Clarke, you decide the parings. Esposito, you're with me. Once you finish your level check in with me, I'll send you down to the next one. First one to find her gets, er, bragging rights. Let's move."

  Clarke grinned, "You heard the Captain. Let's move out." He turned to Marshall, "Where are you going to start, sir?"

  "We'll start at the bottom level and work our way up."

  "Very good, sir."

  Pulling open a hatch while the espatiers got organized, he and Esposito began to drift down the levels, one after another. After five levels of habitation, workspaces and storage, the levels began to take on an unfinished air; the hatches just came to a stop, and the walls were bare rock, sealed to prevent atmosphere leak but otherwise empty. There were four of those before they reached bottom; Esposito stopped herself, swinging on a convenient handhold.