Outpost

by W. P. Brothers

  She crept toward the staircase, her carbine at low ready. She stepped over what was left of the sand bags and pressed herself against the wall beside the stairs. Raising her weapon to her shoulder, Christine pied off the corner. The staircase was empty. Above, the entrance to the command center glowed, the room far brighter than the flickering dimness of the corridor. She could hear voices from inside, but couldn’t quite make them out. At least the command center’s doors seemed to have already been destroyed.

  Thank God for small miracles.

  Christine concentrated on climbing the stairs as quietly as possible, placing her feet between the pieces of rubble that littered it. A waist-high, sandbagged barricade was at the landing at the top of the stairs, a rocket launcher propped up against it. Reaching the barricade, Christine tucked herself into cover and peered into the room. There were at least thirty people in there. A cluster of them stood by an open panel on the left, back end of the room. They had their weapons trained on what looked like a hatch in the floor. Others were scattered around the various computer stations. And there was the tall man who’d fired the rocket launcher, leaning next to the silo control console while a young man sat in front of it, tapping the controls.

  “Missile on target,” the young man was saying. “Warhead separation in six seconds.”

  Christine set her carbine down, reached for her belt, and pulled a grenade off. She ripped the pin from it, and held the striker closed in her hand as she readied her muscles for the throw. She’d kill the guys at the silo station, then deal with the others when they bunched up into cover. This would be easy. She could do this.

  She raised herself over the barricade, swung her arm, and tossed the grenade — just as the rocket launcher man looked over his shoulder.

  The grenade landed with a metallic clunk right in front of the tall man, who kicked it to the side. It rolled and landed next to the group of soldiers at the hatch.

  “Take cover! The Alliance is here!” The tall man pulled the young guy at the silo controls with him, and everyone scattered for cover.

  “Dammit!” Christine ducked back behind the barricade. She heard the grenade explode, screams of agony. Then she was up again, firing at the people rushing around the command center, diving behind tables, flipping over chairs. Her first shot went wide, but then she dropped two targets and folded back into cover.

  Gunfire crackled from inside the room, and bullets sizzled over the top of the barricade. She crawled a few feet, hoping they wouldn’t expect her to pop up in a different spot. She waited for a couple shots to whiz past, then straightened up again, her sights already finding their next target. She moved methodically, knocking down an enemy with each bark of her rifle.

  A man dashing for cover behind an overturned metal table.

  A woman hiding behind a chair.

  A pair of them running toward her, rifles firing from the hip.

  Another one drawing his pistol.

  Christine ducked down, scooted over a few more feet, then came up. The room looked empty, except for the two, bullet-dented metal tables at either end of the room. Christine sprayed a couple shots at the tables, then tore the last grenade from her belt and lobbed it toward the table on the right. The grenade sailed through the air and dropped behind it. Christine ducked again, heard the explosion, more screams.

  “It’s only one soldier. Rush her! Go now!”

  Christine looked back over the barricade in time to see a dozen people un-tuck themselves from behind desks, tables, and consoles and run toward her.

  Christine sprayed shots at them, but they were so close. She felt the bolt lock back on her empty rifle with three of them left. They covered the last few feet between them and leapt over the sandbags.

  She lowered her bayonet and stepped to the right. One man went sailing past, lost his balance, and toppled down the stairs, the crack of bone on cement almost lost against the shouts of the other two. One of them jabbed a rifle butt at her, but she deflected the blow, sending the man off balance. She pivoted on the spot, her side screaming in protest, and slammed the buttstock of her carbine into the other one. The man dropped his rifle and grabbed his face. Christine kicked him in the midsection, and the man fell down the stairs. She turned, ducked the swing of her remaining opponent’s weapon, and thrust her bayonet up and into his stomach. He screamed, and Christine withdrew her blade. The man slumped to the ground, tried to point his rifle up at Christine. She sidestepped and punched her bayonet into him again, once, twice, three times. She freed her blade, and ducked back behind the barricade. She dropped her empty magazine, replaced it with the one from her belt.

  Only two shots.

  She rested for a moment, breathing hard, pain washing over her from her injured side. A broken rib maybe? No time for bullshit.

  She was up again. One of the enemies had run over to the silo console. Another had stood up from behind the table and was spraying shots at her with a pistol. She dropped him with one shot, then turned to the man at the console and took his head off with the other. Christine sagged behind cover, letting the empty magazine fall to the floor with a clank.

  How many more of them were there? Only a handful at best. She massaged her side, biting her lip. The pain was getting worse. She looked over at the body of the man she’d bayoneted, saw his rifle lying next to him, and the rifle of another one of her attackers nearby.

  Why aren’t you paying attention?

  Cursing her pain-muddled brain for not thinking to do it earlier, she reached out and dragged the weapons over to her, then unloaded them. Between the two of them, there was a full magazine. Fighting an enemy with Alliance equipment had certain perks. She held her own weapon steady, loaded it, and peered over the barricade again.

  Yes. She could do this. As long as she kept the silo console covered—

  Gunshots burst from behind the table on the left, and another man ran toward the console.

  “Lock the controls on fire! Send another one!” The shout came from the rocket launcher man, who was standing up from behind the table and shooting a pistol in her direction. Christine aimed, took down the man at the console, then turned on the rocket launcher man.

  BANG.

  A gunshot from the right made Christine flinch, and for a second she thought she’d missed, but rocket launcher man tumbled over backward. She spun, saw the source of the other gunshot, a man hiding near the radio console.

  She ducked as the man fired again, then came up and sent three shots his way. He screamed, fell, tried to stand, and was still.

  Silence. Christine stood, panning her carbine back and forth, looking for any sign of movement. She stepped forward, pivoting as she entered the room to check the corners. Nothing. She looked ahead, saw the silo console in front of her. Taking one more look around the room, she ran forward. When she reached the console, she shifted her weapon into one hand, freeing the other to fly over the controls. First, she powered down the silos on standby. Then she shut off the targeting system. She paused.

  She was alone here. If the enemy broke through first, or if Wilcox and the others never came… She didn’t have keys to lock it down again. There was only one option. She raised her weapon over her shoulder, readying herself to smash the buttstock into the screen, break the controls to pieces.

  BANG.

  She staggered sideways, pain blossoming across her abdomen. Someone had punched her, come out of nowhere.

  She turned, saw the rocket launcher man, his shoulder soaked with blood, stepping toward her, pointing a pistol at her.

  Not punched. Shot.

  She tried to level her weapon at him, to fire back.

  BANG.

  She gasped, felt her knees buckle from beneath her, heard her weapon clatter to the floor, and pitched sideways.

  “Captain!” Fowler’s surprised voice carried over the chaotic din on the bridge.

  Kim looked over at the Ensign, winced as the floor shook and another booming sound shook the air.

  “I
don’t know how, but target lock is gone.”

  “Gone?” Holsey’s voice called from over Kim’s shoulder.

  “Yes, ma’am. It just stopped.”

  Thank God, because that last shot had done a number on them. The MOD was just about hosed, and the enemy ships were getting better and better at matching Mr. Stetler’s tricks.

  “Mr. Stetler, get us out of this fleet, maximum possible speed. Order the remaining fighters to screen our exit. All gun batteries keep them busy, distract them from hitting our engines.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “This could be a trap,” Holsey said, her sentence broken up by the hiss of her fire extinguisher. The action table had lit up again. “Are you sure we should give up our cover?”

  “It could be,” Kim agreed. “But if we can get out of here and gain some distance, we may be able to limp away before they spring it. But I’m betting it’s not.”

  Kim turned, saw Holsey’s skeptical expression as she set the extinguisher down next to her. “What else could it be?”

  “Wilcox and Osterman are on that planet, Commander. And I’ll take a chance that he’s behind this.”

  “One hell of a chance.” Holsey frowned, crossed her arms. “We don’t even know if they’re alive.”

  “You don’t know them like I do.” Kim turned to look around at the remaining holoports. The enemy ships, no doubt eager to make distance from the Verdun, were allowing them to pull away, sending sporadic shellfire toward them as they sped the other direction.

  It was one hell of a chance. But at this point, Kim would take what she could get. With some distance to use her main guns effectively, the Verdun could finish this fight fast. And if it were a trap?

  “You have a lot of faith,” Holsey said. “But between that and nothing…” She trailed off, but Kim was not paying attention. She was watching the image of Kensington, growing gradually smaller in the holoports, and wishing she could see down, past the rain of burning, destroyed ships, past the clouds and air and concrete, down into the fort, where Jack was busy saving her ass.

  She was certain he was there.

  “Keep them tied up, Mr. Wilcox,” Kim whispered to herself. “Just a little longer.”

  Tom gaped at the silo control screen, at the target icon representing the Alliance ship. It was moving off, increasing the distance between it and what was left of the fleet with every passing second. And by the looks of it, the warship was taking advantage of the distance to pound the fleet to pieces again. There were fewer than half of the Legion’s ships left up there, and they wouldn’t last long against the enemy’s big guns.

  Luckily, they wouldn’t need to.

  The Alliance vessel was in the open now, an easy target. Tom sat down at the silo station, the pain in his mangled shoulder unbearable, hot, sticky blood trickling down the length of his arm. He glanced over at the Alliance solider, who was groaning softly and writhing on the ground, then set his pistol down on the console next to him. He ripped a piece of cloth from his shirt and pressed it into his wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

  He’d been too conservative, firing one shot at a time. His error had allowed the ship to use his fleet as a shield.

  Anger and regret coiled his chest, mixed, burned hotter. His missiles had killed so many of his own people.

  So much bloodshed.

  But he wouldn’t let it be for nothing. The Legion could still hold this outpost.

  He wouldn’t underestimate the Alliance ship again. This time, he’d fire everything they had left. He would not give it the chance to hide again.

  It was coming down. Now.

  Marcus Hillman took a second to look out his Stallion’s cockpit at the massive shape of the Verdun pulling up and away from the mess of debris and enemy ships. One of its thrusters was stuttering on and off, wisps of atmosphere and smoke trailing behind it and freezing in the vacuum of high orbit. The Verdun had taken more than its share of damage. Now they’d make these bastards pay for it.

  He keyed his mic. “Viper Squadron, Viper One. Let’s keep these ships from following the Verdun. Go for their engines. Work in pairs.”

  “Copy.”

  “Get some, sir.”

  “Let’s make ‘em cry!”

  Marcus saw Viper Six take position just behind his left wing, nodded to the pilot through the glass. Now that they weren’t having to screen the Verdun, they could put these Stallions to their intended use — wrecking enemy ships.

  He nosed his fighter down, pointing it toward the bright ball of the planet below. The enemy ships were slowly forming together, pulling against gravity to chase the Verdun. Marcus accelerated down, weaving to avoid the rounds spitting at him from the hostile fleet. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple as he shot between two of the ships, Viper Six just behind him, the auto turret on top his fighter whirring as it shot down rockets streaking toward him. His peripheral vision cleared of the huge, tan shapes of the ships beside him, and he shoved the controls over. He turned, his momentum drifting him past the engines of the closest target. He opened fire, knew from the pair of rockets that shot past him that Viper Six was still on his wing. Gratification bloomed within him as explosions rippled across the enemy ship. One its engines stuttered, died, spilled burning atmosphere behind it. The ship began to list, causing the others beside it to break formation.

  No time to gloat. Marcus put out on a burst of speed, moving back under and around the enemy ship just before the cloud of fire the enemy had fired at him and Viper Six reached their position. One of the destroyers was breaking from the pack, racing upwards toward the Verdun.

  “Viper Six, Viper One. Let’s get that ambitious one over there.”

  “Copy,” she replied.

  Marcus brought the Stallion around, was pushing it toward his next victim when his computer’s target lock warning flared to life for a second.

  “What the—?” He tapped on the controls, his jaw clenched. The damned fort was sweeping for target lock again, and the Verdun, all off on its own now in higher orbit, would not be hard to find. “Son of a….” Marcus trailed off. They’d need to act fast.

  “Vipers, regroup on my position. Prepare to engage enemy missiles.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Christine fought to stay conscious, to keep her mind sharp, in the present. She saw her father’s face in front of her, shook her head, realized her eyes had been shut.

  “You’ve made it, girl. You’ve made it out of here.”

  The man, the one who’d shot her, the rocket launcher man, was sitting at the missile console. Spots danced across Christine’s vision, and she heard herself groaning from the crushing pain in her chest.

  “Maybe it’s better for both of us if we let go now.”

  She wasn’t sure how much later, but Christine opened her eyes again. The man was holding a cloth to his wounded shoulder.

  Christine felt annoyance snake through her. She’d missed. She hadn’t been good enough. She hadn’t…. She shivered. She was cold, colder than she’d ever felt. She tried to reach over, to staunch her wound with something, but the pain of moving tore another moan from her throat.

  “Congratulations, Lieutenant. I know how much this commission must mean to you given the circumstances.”

  Dammit! She’d fluttered out of consciousness again. She bit the inside of her mouth to suppress her pain as she slowly rolled onto her side, the extreme agony of the movement almost making her pass out. She could see her weapon just next to her. If she could only get to it! Just one shot in this bastard’s back and it would be over. She could rest then, find something to stop the bleeding.

  The man was putting down his bandage, starting to punch the controls. She could see the screen for the target lock had come back on, the man scrolling through different targets.

  No way in hell.

  Christine pulled herself across the floor, every inch torture. Her hand closed on the weapon’s stock. She dragged it toward her. It was so damn heavy! When
had it ever been so heavy?

  She was still for a second, breathing hard, her pulse pounding rapidly in her ears. She tugged again, felt the weapon slide across the coarse cement floor. She reached out her other hand to grab the carbine about the handguard.

  A boot came down on the weapon’s barrel, pinning it to the ground. Christine blinked, looked up, saw the man standing over her, the pistol pointed at her head.

  “All you had to do was give up and stay still,” the man was saying. “I want you to know, I don’t want to do this.”

  Christine tried to kick at his feet, to trip him, to fight back. But her legs were so heavy. She was freezing, freezing solid.

  “You… can piss off… asshole.” Christine spat the words at him, wishing they were bullets. No way would she give up for this dick.

  She saw the man’s finger move to the trigger.

  “Stop!”

  Christine thought for a moment that the man had shouted at her, but no.

  The man was turning, shooting to the side. Gunfire shattered the room, assaulted Christine’s ears. She saw the man’s pistol lock back empty, saw a decision flash across his face, saw him dive for the console controls.

  But then someone was there, pushing the bastard aside. Wilcox? They tussled for a moment. Christine tried to help, tried to do something, couldn’t move.

  Wilcox pushed the man backward. He tripped over Christine’s legs, toppled to the ground. Wilcox leapt over her, bayonet forward. She turned her head in time to see the man pick up another pistol lying on the ground next to one of Christine’s victims. But Wilcox was there, knocking the pistol out the man’s hands and driving his bayonet again and again into the man’s torso. The man gasped, gurgled, and stopped moving.

  Christine heard the fall of footsteps, the clamor of shouted commands. She couldn’t turn her head, but she looked out of the corner of her eye, saw some of her platoon helping Arnot and a stream of marines out of the access hatch at the back of the room.