Renegades (Expeditionary Force Book 7)

by Craig Alanson

  “No hard feelings, Sir?”

  “Nunnally, aboard the Flying Dutchman we will be in a desperate fight for the survival of humanity, there will be no room or time for feelings.”

  Despite the pain radiating from his bruised kidneys, Nunnally smiled. “Bloody good, Colonel. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Oh, hell,” Staff Sergeant Grudzien groaned. “This is life or death, for everyone?”

  “More than you can imagine,” Smythe nodded once, slowly.

  Grudzien looked up to where the high-pitched whine of turbines was coming out of the thick clouds. He had a duty to his wife and child at home, he also had a duty to keep them alive and safe, and he couldn’t do that dirtside while others went to the stars to fight. Holding out a hand, he asked “Can I borrow that special phone you have, Colonel? This is going to take a bit of explaining. My wife expects me back home in three days.”

  Skippy had contacted as many former Pirates as he could, most of them were already in what the authorities called ‘protective custody’ and were not able to help. Others were hesitant to participate in what they viewed as a mutiny. One former Pirate told Skippy he thought the world’s governments may be right, that Earth could not continuing trying to fight the entire galaxy with a single broken-down starship. “I’m sorry,” the man reluctantly told the beer can. “We did great things out there, I’m proud of my service with the Pirates, but what we did ultimately attracted the attention of the Maxolhx.”

  The only American former Pirate he could contact, who was willing and able to deploy immediately, was one Navy pilot on a deep-sea fishing trip off the coast of Mobile Alabama. Commander Jim Porter had been about to crack open his first beer of the morning when Skippy called him, and the appearance of a Thuranin dropship was the highlight of the day for the charter boat’s customers and crew. One of his fishing companions was an Air Force pilot who had come along partly to hear war stories from Porter. “Sir,” Lieutenant Alan Edwards said with one eye on Porter and one on the dropship descending vertically over the fishing boat that was rocking side to side from the force of the dropship’s belly jets. “I want to go with you!”

  Porter turned, startled, and leaned toward the young pilot, cupping a hand over one ear. With the Falcon in hover and lowering a self-guiding cable, it was hard to hear over the whoosh of the turbines, the spray kicked up, and the fishing boat’s diesels as the charter captain tried to keep his boat steady. “What?”

  “Commander, I, want to, come with, you!” Edwards emphasized his shouted words by pointing to himself, then the Merry Pirate, then gesturing toward the hovering Falcon.

  “Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?” Porter shouted back, looking up to watch the cable as it steered toward him.

  “No Sir!” Edwards replied, holding out a hand to steady Porter’s shoulder as the boat rocked. “Neither do you!”

  Porter glanced away from the cable for a second. When Skippy had called on a regular cellphone, he told Porter the Flying Dutchman would likely be going out with a skeleton crew, barely enough to operate the ship. Another pilot would undoubtedly be useful. “Edwards, you have the right attitude! Grab this cable!”

  The end of the cable blossomed as Edwards grasped it, the nanofibers reforming to wrap around his torso, both legs and under his arms. Before he could think twice or give a thumbs up that he was ready, Edwards was lifted off the deck of the boat, the cable yanking him sideways to avoid crashing into the boat’s cabin. As he tried to relax and not instinctively fight that super-high-tech alien cable that was pulling him up toward a woman leaning out of the dropship’s ramp, Edwards felt a thrill of excitement, and at least a tiny bit of self-doubt. “I sure hope to hell I know what I’m doing,” he muttered to himself and closed his eyes for a moment.

  With Edwards and Porter aboard, the Falcon’s ramp closed and the craft began climbing, gently at first then standing on its tail while the three passengers strapped in as best they could, unable to reach the cockpit. Simms leaned toward Porter to whisper. “Picking up strays, Commander?” She pointed to Edwards with a thumb.

  Porter shrugged. “Skippy told me we are thin on personnel, and he’s a pilot. If he doesn’t work out, we can send him back down.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Simms bit her lip, wishing Porter had cleared his action with her, before offering to bring a new and unknown person aboard. It was too late to land the Falcon now, they were soaring over the Gulf of Mexico and- “Wait!” Simms slapped a hand on the armrest. “Skippy, we have one more stop.”

  “You are kidding me, right?” The beer can gasped.

  “No, I am not. We need to land,” she fiddled with the map function of her phone. Even modified by Skippy, the brand-new phone was painfully slow compared to a zPhone. She looked for a target close to the Falcon’s projected flightpath up to rendezvous with the Flying Dutchman. At that point, the starship was over the other side of the planet, so it might have been faster to fly over Australia then reverse course.

  “Land again? I told you, there isn’t anyone else we can pick up,” Skippy protested. “Not without a violent confrontation. We must proceed to the Flying Dutchman immed-”

  “No. Here. Land here,” Simms jabbed a finger at the map on her phone.

  “Colonel Simms,” the beer can complained, “we are taking a risk by landing again.”

  “You think the FBI is waiting for us at a Publix supermarket in Florida?”

  “Ah, sarcasm. No, I doubt that-”

  “Then do it.”

  “Ok, fine. Do you want to hit the drive-through for a McFlurry too? Maybe land in front of a drug store so you can stock up on cute nail polish?”

  “Skippy,” Simms gritted her teeth as the Falcon heeled over in a tight turn. “If I’m going to be stuck out there for years with a beer can and a ship full of monkeys, cute nail polish is a must-have. Don’t argue with me.”

  The AI did not speak until the Falcon flared for landing. “Make it quick, please. Your Air Force vectored a pair of F-35s toward us, they will be in weapons range in less than ten minutes.”

  “I’ll be back in four minutes,” Simms swallowed hard to control her queasy stomach and unstrapped, shielding her eyes from dust swirling in the open ramp, kicked up by the belly jets.

  Porter rose from his seat. “I’ll go with you,” he offered, but Simms shook her head, waving him back as she sprinted down to ramp.

  “What the hell is she doing?” Edwards asked, unstrapping from his seat and walking back to stand at the top of the ramp, watching the woman run and stumble across what appeared to be a construction site next to the shopping center. The ground had been cleared of trees and scraped mostly flat, piles of sand and puddles of wet mud the color of black coffee dotted the land like landmines. She weaved around the mud, slipping and Simms nearly fell, windmilling her arms. Then she was in the parking lot and dodging cars that had screeched to a halt, their drivers astonished at the sight of the big alien dropship plopped down in a muddy suburban field. Two cars had collided head-on, their drivers still sitting behind the wheel, transfixed by the sight of the sleek airspace craft, its skids sunk halfway into the rain-drenched ground, steam rising from under its belly jets and twin turbines.

  “She is the logistics officer,” Porter speculated, “maybe there is some vital item we need.”

  “A vital item that’s available at a Publix?” Edwards shook his head in alarm as Porter opened a locker, pulling out a Kristang rifle. “Sir, what are you doing with that?”

  “In case some law-abiding citizen decides to perform his civic duty by getting in our way. This can discourage any idiots,” Porter explained, flipping off the safety and deselecting the explosive tips. All he wanted to do was get people’s attention, if needed.

  It was not needed. Less than a minute after entering the building, Simms came racing out, carrying a cardboard box and tossing a handful of dollar bills on the sidewalk as she ran. When she got close to the ramp, Edwards lo
oked quizzically at Porter, holding his hands palms up in a ‘what the hell?’ gesture, but the Navy pilot only shook his head with a sheepish grin.

  Simms pounded up the ramp and the sleek machine was already lifting off as the three secured themselves in the seats. She struggled to tug a seatbelt strap around the cardboard box.

  “Ma’am,” Porter shouted over the screaming belly jets as the ramp was still closing. “What did you get?”

  Simms did not answer with words. With a wink and grin, she opened the box and pulled out a plastic jar of marshmallow Fluff, real Fluff. Flipping the lid aside showed the box was full of jars, their red plastic lids lined up.

  “You are kidding me,” Porter’s face fell.

  Simms shook her head, and she was no longer smiling. “The last time we left Earth, I brought a case of generic marshmallow cream aboard, and Colonel Bishop wanted to perform an exorcism against it. I had to toss the whole case out an airlock, it’s still floating in orbit for all I know. I am not making that mistake again this time.”

  “Colonel Simms, shame on you,” Skippy’s voice broke in. “I’m having to climb your Falcon straight up to avoid those F-35, and you brought a box of processed sugar?”

  “A box of pure deliciousness, according to our fearless leader.”

  “That was still a foolish risk,” the AI admonished.

  “Really?” She arched an eyebrow. “We may be gone a very long time, trying to defeat the most powerful enemy in the galaxy. Do you want Colonel Bishop to be happy, or cranky?”

  “Um, good point. I guess that was excellent judgment. Hang on, everyone, those F-35s just launched missiles at us. I’ve engaged stealth but I don’t want to enable point-defense masers to avoid collateral damage below us, so I’m going to a full-power climb.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Seven against one,” Rodriguez advised whoever was blocking their way. It was not a good situation. The figure standing in the passageway was wearing the same type of Kristang powered armor, and most likely was more familiar with the alien equipment. While the Delta team could select armor-piercing explosive-tipped rounds from their rifle magazines, they were under strict orders not to risk damaging the irreplaceable starship. Even a ricochet could destroy a vital piece of equipment that had no spare.

  What truly bothered Rodriguez was not knowing his opponent. The duty officer had assured him no one aboard the ship would or could oppose his team, so who was the armor-suited person blocking his path to the CIC?! “Put down your weapon. Under orders from the-”

  “Sorry, couldn’t hear you,” the figure shook its head. “You are intruders aboard our ship. You put down your weapons.”

  Our ship, the figure said, a slip Rodriguez picked up on immediately. His opponent felt the ship belonged to them, and the voice was female. Unless the Merry Band of Pirates had snuck someone aboard, he must be facing United States Army Ranger Captain Lauren Poole. “Captain Poole, step aside. My team will kill you if necessary, but we are taking control of this ship.” Softening his voice, he tried another tactic. “It is four of us against one of you, and I have three more men in the aft section. You don’t stand a chance and you know it.”

  Lauren Poole rarely had the opportunity to enjoy herself while in action, especially as much of the action she had seen had required her to babysit Colonel Bishop on away missions. Action meant combat and that meant chaos and danger and death and there was nothing enjoyable about that. The frantic high-speed nature of modern combat also meant she would not have the time to reflect on whether she was enjoying herself, until the fighting was over.

  Thus, she was determined to enjoy the hell out of this particular moment. “Really?” She said in the tone women use when a guy says something egregiously stupid. “You may want to check your math on that.”

  Rodriguez opened his mouth to order his team to engage, when his suit suddenly lost power. All power. His visor went dark, then faded to clear, providing an unenhanced view in front of him. The soldier to his left slumped forward, trying to stop his fall but unable to move quickly enough without the suit’s nanomotors assisting him. While in use, a Kristang suit felt light as a feather. Without power to its tiny motors, it was heavy and awkward, stiff and unyielding. The soldier fell forward stiffly to crash onto his face, bouncing off the deck and bumping into Rodriguez, who nearly fell also. “Team!” He shouted before remembering no one could hear him. With the suit’s arm resisting him, he reached up with one hand to open his visor. They had procedures for suit power loss, although the subtext of those procedures were of the ‘kiss your ass goodbye’ nature. “Team!” He called out, and centered his rifle on the target.

  His next word died away as two menacing combots stomped out from doors on either side of Poole. They formed up to almost block his view of the armor-suited Ranger, and he heard and felt the deck shake behind him. More of the powerful Thuranin machines were blocking his only option for retreat.

  The two in front had their large cannons pointed at his chest. As he swayed slightly in the heavy armor, the cannon muzzles moved to track him.

  “Those cannons will cause severe damage to the ship,” Rodriguez warned.

  “Ah, it’s happened before, and we rebuilt it,” Poole dismissed the issue. “Can you rebuild yourself or your team?”

  Rodriguez was at a loss for what to do. His orders had not included a scenario in which he faced overwhelming firepower. “I am not authorized to surrender.”

  Poole shook her head in disbelief. The Delta Force drew its members largely from the 75th Rangers, from her unit. She did not know Rodriguez, but she might know some of the men with him. “Are you authorized to die for nothing, you dumb shit? Those are your only two options.”

  “Captain, please, my superiors-”

  “Your superiors are not up here, are they? Hell no. Listen, whoever you are,” she could have asked Skippy to identify the intruders, but she simply did not care. Taking a risk, she opened her faceplate and stepped forward, standing on her toes so she could be seen by the opposing team, including the two who had fallen and were lying on their sides. “Either you drop your weapons and live to fight another day, or, you become a temporary dark stain on a bulkhead. I know what I would choose. Especially if I were responsible for six other lives.”

  “Captain,” Rodriguez looked right then left, being careful not to let the movements overbalance his heavy suit, “it has become clear that one of us needs to surrender.”

  The duty officer in the CIC was growing impatient with the glacial pace of the Delta team. She talked with them, she could monitor their progress on location sensors, she could even watch every step they took. Along their way forward, the Deltas confronted and secured Captain Poole, disarming that woman and providing great relief to the CIC crew. Poole was popular with the crew, even with those few people secretly tasked with taking over the ship. The duty officer would have regretted any harm coming to Poole, a steadfast Ranger who was only doing her duty to the best of her ability.

  It was irritating how slowly, carefully and methodically the Delta team was making their way forward. The team leader insisted his tactics were sound, with the alien dead or disabled, the only dangers that could be aboard the ship were ones the CIC crew could not identify. Accordingly, there was a delay while the Deltas cleared the ship compartment by compartment, working their way forward from the rear cargo bays of the forward section. That cold logic made sense and it was annoying, perhaps the duty officer should not have told the assault team leader that the ship was already under control.

  Thus it was with relief that she heard the distinctive hard clomping sounds of Kristang powered armor boots on the deck, as she saw on the main display the Delta team coming up the final passageway toward the CIC.

  And, thus it was with utter shock that she saw Captain Poole, her suit faceplate set to clear, walk into the CIC with a hulking combot right behind her. “How come I wasn’t invited to this par-tay? This place looks dead, let’s liven it up a little,” an
d she shot the duty officer and three others with stun bolts before they could protest.

  “Lauren?” Sami struggled to her feet from where she had been sitting on the deck, her back to a bulkhead. With her wrists cuffed behind her back, it was awkward pushing herself upright.

  “Sorry, Sami,” Poole kept her faceplate closed in case of trouble. “If you’ll turn around,” she gestured with one hand.

  Sami turned her back to Poole, and felt the suit’s powerful gloves grip the handcuffs, then snap them easily. “Ah!” When the cuffs broke, the metal bashed against her wrists. “I’m fine,” she rubbed her wrists then stooped to pick up the small pistol somehow snuck aboard by the duty officer, who was now slumped unconscious on the deck. “What the hell is going on?”

  “It’s complicated. What you need to know first is, Skippy is alive and well.”

  “Large and in charge?” Sami asked hopefully. She had feared the maser blast might have sent the beer can into another coma-like ‘holiday’.

  “Never better!” Skippy’s voice boomed out of the speakers.

  “The Delta Force team is disarmed and locked in a cargo bay, they can’t do us any harm,” Poole kept her rifle pointed safely at the deck, but in the general direction of the four CIC crew who had backed away from their consoles to avoid a painful stun bolt. “Colonel Bishop is on his way up in a dropship, along with some others.”

  “Outstanding,” Reed looked around the CIC, where the crew who were not unconscious were holding up their hands while fearfully watching every move by the armor-suited Poole. “In that case,” she nudged the former duty officer with a foot to make sure the woman was truly down for the count. “Lauren, maybe we better police this mess before the Colonel arrives.”

  The prospect of facing people I did not know, people who were not Pirates accustomed to how our missions typically operated, had me questioning myself. Did I have a right to essentially steal humanity’s only starship, and take it on a mission that the majority of the world’s governments had deemed foolish, even dangerous and counter-productive?