by Troy Denning
But the bucket did not come down, and before Veta knew it, she was staring up at the rock-scarred skid plates that protected the LHD’s underside. She reactivated her camouflage and, dropping her MA5K on the ground beside her, lunged up to grab a cross-member with both hands.
The LHD jerked her into motion so hard she feared her shoulders would pop out of the socket; then her legs and boot heels began to drag through the mud.
“Take cover!” Veta said over TEAMCOM. “Papa-10 hostile. Repeat—”
A chain of tremendous booms echoed through the adit, and Veta’s imaging systems went white with blast wash.
CHAPTER 25
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* * *
0421 hours, December 16, 2553 (military calendar)
Adit 2, Jenny Lynn Tantalite Mine
Moon Meridian, Planet Hestia V, Hestia System
Fred was in his least-favorite combat position, flat on his back, and the entire mine seemed to be shuddering beneath him. He assumed there were detonations somewhere, but they were barely audible above all the alerts sounding inside his helmet.
A pulsing siren was warning that his energy shielding had gone down and would not be coming back up. A steady chirp confirmed that he was injured and had received a biofoam injection—though the dull agony in his collarbone, arm, and ribs were reminder enough. An irregular pinging confirmed that Damon was having trouble rebooting, and a repetitive bleep cautioned that his power armor’s reactive circuits were nonfunctional. Most worrisome of all was the urgent buzzing of the runaway alarm, reminding him that the compact fusion reactor on the back of his CENTURION-class armor had lost its cooling system.
The only silent system seemed to be TEAMCOM.
At least the lockdown system in his Mjolnir was working . . . sort of. The excess pressure was still bleeding from the hydrostatic gel layer. But as soon as the detonations started to shake the adit, he managed to lift his helmet.
The beams from his headlamp showed a blood-matted Jiralhanae squatting in the mouth of a stope, extending a hand toward Fred’s feet. Most of the Brute’s armor was gone—Jiralhanae armor usually fell apart once the shock plating was overloaded—and one arm hung limply at his side. It had to be the same warrior Fred had encountered when he entered the stope to clear it . . . the one Fred had been trying to kill when a boulder sailed out of darkness and sent him flying.
The hand closed around Fred’s ankle and dragged him toward the stope.
Fred’s assault rifle lay in the mud next to him, crushed when the LHD ran over him and now as broken and useless as the arm that had dropped it. His M6C sidearm still hung on his right thigh. But the barrel was probably full of mine mud anyway, and there was still too much pressure in the gel layer for him to smoothly reach across his body and grab it. The Jiralhanae would see what Fred was doing and flip him over before he could open fire.
And the weapon was probably clogged anyway.
Fred remained still and allowed the Jiralhanae to drag him into the stope. The Brute paused and gazed into Fred’s faceplate, his deep-set eyes steady and brooding, perhaps even sorrowful that they were both going to die in such a lightless place, so far from any world that either of them had ever called home.
Finally, the warrior released Fred’s ankle and reached for a rock.
Fred sat up and extended his good arm and sank the fingers of his titanium gauntlet into the fur on the back of the Brute’s neck. The Jiralhanae bared his fangs in a sort of acknowledging snarl, but Fred was already pulling the Brute’s head down and driving his helmet forward, and bone shattered as titanium met flesh.
Then the Jiralhanae’s rock slammed home. Fred’s ears rang and his head snapped sideways.
He went with the blow, throwing himself toward his injured arm, and brought his leg up in a roundhouse kick that caught the Jiralhanae in the ribs and knocked him onto his side.
The Brute’s head landed on a stone, facing Fred. His snarl deepened and the eyes beneath his crushed brow burned with anger. He raised the rock to strike again. Fred drew his foot back and landed a stomp kick that rolled the Jiralhanae onto his back.
A string of muzzle flashes lit the stope, and the Brute’s arm fell limp and let the rock drop, and blood began to ooze out a line of holes that ran from ear to heart.
Fred rolled onto his back and saw Kelly standing above him, her MA5K held in one hand. Her faceplate was turned toward his and she was tapping one finger to the side of her helmet.
All Fred could hear were alarms.
He shook his head, then used his good arm to peel his helmet off.
“What took you so long?” he asked.
“Couldn’t get a clear shot.” Even the electronic modulation of her helmet speaker could not quite hide the relief in her voice. “You wouldn’t stay down.”
“Didn’t think I had a choice.” Fred motioned to his mangled armor, then said, “Help me out. We need to get this mess shut down before the fusion reactor overheats. The cooling is down.”
“Isn’t that a job for Damon?”
“Damon is . . .” Fred paused, then said, “I don’t know . . . Damon’s in worse shape than I am.”
Kelly put her assault rifle aside and started to open access panels and release multiplier circuits.
Linda and Mark appeared outside the stope mouth. After a moment, Fred saw a blur that suggested at least one Ferret was there with functional active camouflage.
“What’s the situation?” he asked.
“Three Jiralhanae down,” Kelly said.
“Sloan said there were four of them,” Fred said.
“Perhaps so,” Linda said. “But we have killed only three.”
“You’re sure?”
“There are only three bodies,” Linda replied. “This one, the one we took by surprise, and one Kelly took out in the stope behind us.”
“There were two in this stope.” Fred allowed Kelly to key in his reactor override code and initiate the shutdown, then rose. “I never even saw the one who threw the boulder at me. But he had to be here. Did anybody see where he went?”
“Not me,” Mark said.
“Or me,” Ash added. “But things got pretty confused when Papa-10 tore out of here in that LHD.”
“What about ’Livi?”
There was a moment’s pause as Kelly relayed the question over TEAMCOM; then Olivia’s voice echoed up the adit.
“I took a shot at one Brute after the LHD started up,” she called. “He was leaving a stope somewhere up there. Couldn’t tell you which one.”
“You hit him?” Fred called back.
“Who knows?” Olivia replied. “You see any blood?”
Fred glanced around. There was blood splattered everywhere.
“We’ll take that as unknown. What about you, Lopis?” Fred waited while Kelly relayed the question over TEAMCOM. When no reply came after three seconds, he called, “Lopis? Report!”
A moment passed, then Olivia called, “Lieutenant, I don’t think that’s going to happen. I just found her rifle.”
“And?”
“And that’s all I found,” Olivia reported. “She’s gone.”
CHAPTER 26
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* * *
0422 hours, December 16, 2553 (military calendar)
Adit 1, Jenny Lynn Tantalite Mine
Moon Meridian, Planet Hestia V, Hestia System
The foot was still dangling behind the LHD, a huge appendage with two toes, clearly Jiralhanae and dripping blood that showed up in Veta’s HUD as falling blossoms of crimson radiance. She had spotted the foot an eyeblink after she grabbed the crossbeam and started her wild ride, and she could only imagine the Brute had been thinking the same thing she had—that the easiest way to stop Papa-10 was to climb aboard.
At first, she had assumed the appendage was a severed foot, left hanging there when a hapless Jiralhanae got blown up by an improvised grenade. Then the thing had risen briefly out of sight as its owner scrabbled for a toehold, and she had rea
lized the Brute was holding on to the back of the LHD as desperately as she was clinging to the bottom.
Veta was hearing nothing over TEAMCOM, though that was hardly surprising. The LHD had taken two sharp right turns, which could only mean it had crossed over to Adit 1, and now it was heading deeper into the mine. There was a lot of stone between her and the rest of the strike team. This deep underground, even ONI communication devices required a clear line of sight to function properly.
What Veta could not figure out was why the Papa-10 survivors were going deeper into the mine. Even if they were hostile to other ONI personnel—and their actions certainly suggested they were—they now had a clear route back to the surface. The simplest thing would be to return to the terrace where the Pinnacle Station shuttles had landed and call for extraction.
Unless they had already arranged a rendezvous at another point.
Veta recalled the trampled ground she had seen at the mine entrance, both outside the portal and at the map inside, and realized that was exactly what they had done. She spoke into her TEAMCOM microphone.
“Lopis here.” Normally, it wouldn’t be necessary to identify herself over TEAMCOM. But if her signal made it through, it would be so weak and full of interference that even her own Ferrets might not recognize her voice. “Papa-10 survivors exiting mine via haulage portal in LHD machine. Repeat, exiting via haulage portal.”
Veta paused, trying to gather her thoughts. It was important for sitreps to be concise, short, and complete. Not an easy thing to do while hanging from the bottom of speeding mine vehicle—not when dark, enclosed spaces terrified one the way they did Veta.
“I’m concealed beneath an LHD, holding on to the chassis. There’s a Jiralhanae riding on the ore box, also concealed.” Veta took a breath, wondering what else she should add, then finally said, “Awaiting opportunity to attack.”
She repeated the sitrep two more times before the LHD slowed abruptly and took a hard left. The Jiralhanae foot rose out of view, and an instant later, Veta felt a thump as the Brute dropped into the ore box.
The LHD started down a steep slope and continued to turn left, moving slowly as it spiraled down the interlevel access ramp toward the haulage tunnel.
Veta began to work her way back along the chassis, reaching from one cross-member to the next, being cautious to move only one limb at a time, to make sure her grasp was secure or her foot wedged tight before proceeding. Finally, her feet were at the rear of the vehicle and there was no place left to tuck a boot. The LHD was still spiraling down the interlevel access ramp, moving slow—well, at least not fast—and she was still wearing armor. She let her feet drop and start dragging, then opened one hand and grabbed for the last cross-member, got it, and held tight.
Her feet were dragging behind the LHD now, her boot heels sliding through the mud, but occasionally hitting a rock and sending a jolt of pain up her leg. Clinging to the cross-member with one hand, she reached past the rear of the LHD, feeling along the backside of the ore box for something to grab. She was already exhausted from holding on so long, and it was all she could do to continue clinging to the narrow beam with her other hand.
She found a channel running along the exterior support brace at the bottom of the ore box. She curled her fingers into it and slid her hand along until her arm was so far across her body she was rolling up on her opposite shoulder, then released the cross-member.
The LHD continued to drag her forward, and her momentum flipped her onto her belly. Grateful for the slick mud, she reached up with her free hand and grabbed for the channel . . . didn’t find it . . . almost let go.
Tried again, missed, wondered if she was fast enough to release her hold and catch the LHD on foot.
Then she remembered how exhausted she was, how slippery the mud was, and tried one more time.
Her fingers worked into the channel, and Veta sighed in relief and dragged herself forward. She reached upward with one hand and caught a safety bar, brought her other hand up and pulled herself higher, then swung her hips forward. Once she got her feet underneath her, she started running clownishly while hanging on, aware that she would never have been fast enough to catch up under her own power.
Veta grabbed the top of the ore box and gave a little hop, pulling her feet up onto the exterior support brace. She carefully peered into the interior. Even exhausted, she flashed a grin. In the dim reflections flickering off the back of the ramp, she saw the barrel-shaped forms of three cryo-jars. They were lying side by side on the bed of the ore box, wedged into place with rocks to prevent them from rolling around. And no one was guarding them.
Almost no one.
A couple of meters in front of the cryo-jars, a dark form crouched against the ore box’s forward panel. Veta squint-blinked twice, activating the light-gathering function of her HUD imaging systems. The form resolved itself into that of a huge Jiralhanae warrior with a long beard hanging from a heavy-featured, wedge-shaped face. Veta recognized him immediately.
Castor.
His shock plates were long shed, and all that remained of his armor was his helmet, the vambraces on his forearms, and a greave covering one shin. The fur on his left side was matted with blood between his rib cage and knees, and his breath came in short, pain-racked gasps that almost made Veta wince in empathy.
Castor seemed oblivious to her presence, glaring up at the operator’s cabin on the left side of the LHD. It seemed pretty clear he was thinking about how to attack. The top of the cabin protruded just a half meter above the ore box. It was a flat, dimly lit space that revealed only the top part of the female operator’s head—dark hair worn short; a delicate ear; eyes forward as she drove the vehicle down the ramp.
Even the small part of the cabin that Veta could see was protected by a transparent AlON shield designed to deflect boulders back into the ore box. There was no way Castor could punch through an aluminum oxynitride barrier, especially not when he was gut-shot and struggling to breathe. And if he tried to reach around it through the backside of the cabin, the operator would see him coming and call for help from her two squad buddies riding in the loader bucket.
Still, Castor had not become a high dokab of the Keepers by giving up easily. As Veta watched, he turned and pulled himself onto the front wall of the ore box, bending forward at the waist and balancing on the edge so he could stretch forward and reach over the battery compartments toward the two men crouched in the bucket.
Veta had been trained to know a distraction when she saw one. She checked to be certain her SPI active camouflage was enabled, then slipped into the back of the ore box and tucked herself tight against the cryo-jars. She couldn’t see what was happening in the front part of the LHD, but no one up there would be able to see her either.
She pulled her M6C from its holster and found it coated in mine mud. She worked the slide, and muck ejected with the round. She tapped the barrel and knocked out some more. Returned the sidearm to its holster. It might be good for throwing at someone.
The LHD shook and clanged as the bucket glanced off the curve of the ramp. She peered over the cryo-jars and saw Castor’s silhouette still stretched forward, holding one guy by the back of the neck, swinging him back and forth to keep the other one from slashing him with a laser drill.
The operator was looking between the bucket and the ramp, trying to keep track of the fight and drive at the same time. If the woman crashed into something, Veta hoped it wouldn’t be a support pillar. She dropped behind the cryo-jars again and pulled the C-12 from her cargo belt, began to press it between the dissipation vanes on the bottom of the jars. She was pretty certain that destroying the jars—or at least securing the option—was the best way to head off the Code Hydra threat. No one was crazy enough to weaponize asteroidea without a vaccine. They’d end up just as dead as everyone else.
As Veta worked, she pondered Castor’s presence in the LHD. She could understand why he wanted to take down the people who had pinned the Tuwa murders on the Keepers of the One
Freedom. Pride was big with Jiralhanae, and allowing a nasty trick like that to go unanswered would stain his honor. Still, he had to know the plot went deeper than the three operatives in the LHD. He might not realize ONI was involved, and he wouldn’t know it was a rogue operation. But the one thing he would understand was that if he wanted real vengeance, he had to get to the people in charge.
So why risk his life to stop the LHD before it rendezvoused with the extraction team?
Veta was still searching for an answer when the LHD slammed into a corner and rocked to one side. Castor bellowed and a man screamed; then there was dull thump as the vehicle ran over a body.
The LHD leveled out and began to accelerate, and its line of travel straightened. Veta finished packing the C-12 into the dissipation vanes of the last cryo-jar and peered over the top. Castor stood at the front of the ore box facing forward, a huge looming figure wielding a blazing laser drill in one hand, using his long reach to slash and stab at the lone human still standing in the loader bucket. The drill’s bore was so brilliant it washed out other details, but Veta could tell by the way he held his body he had taken another wound and was fighting one-armed.
The bucket started to retract into the ore box, eliminating Castor’s reach advantage and forcing him to fight at head height. He began to slash at the back wall of the bucket, filling the air with sparks and beads of molten metal and the sizzle of shredding steel.
Veta ducked back down, pulled a detonator from her cargo belt and clicked it to REMOTE. She inserted it into the C-12 on the bottom of the first cryo-jar. Repeated the process for the second.