{Damn idiots,} the sergeant grumbled as he rose. Motioning his team forward, he said, {So much for bringing them in alive. All right kids, bag ’em and tag ’em.}
Heat maps from Boone’s advance scout drones showed the sleepers were stirring in their quarters. The warning had been sounded. Highlighting the feeds, he pushed them to the two corporals leading each fireteam. {Getting movement on scan, expect resistance.}
Two-clicks sounded in his ear.
He returned his attention to the third scouting drone, the one preceding the fireteam to the D-FAC. Bravo had rounded the corner, moving out of his direct line of sight. Suddenly, the feed’s heat map lit up like a Christmas tree.
{Bravo! I’ve got blooms, two and ten o’clock!} Boone’s own muscles coiled, a visceral fight or flight response to the explosive devices he saw coming online as he willed the Marines to safety.
{Cover!} the sergeant barked. Through the feed, Boone saw all three launch themselves back toward the intersection.
The drone disappeared in a flash of blinding light just as three forms flew around the corner, partially assisted by the overpressure wave from the detonation.
He flinched sympathetically as a wall of fire rushed over them. The drakeskin suits were well-equipped to handle incendiary burn-overs, but no one would call it a pleasant experience. Telemetry from their suits flashed briefly yellow, then returned to green as the three rolled to their feet.
{That’s it. I’m done playing nice,} the sergeant growled. He motioned his team forward and they disappeared down the corridor.
With no drone left to scout ahead for Bravo, Boone switched his attention to the drones above Charlie and Delta, only to discover they’d already routed the sleepers and had them well in hand.
While Bravo mopped up, Boone positioned his P-SCAR for one last visual sweep of the platform. That movement saved his life.
The high-pitched sound of a projectile sang in his ear. He expected to hear the thwack of a slow-moving bullet smashing into the bulkhead behind him; what he heard instead was the fast ping of a ricochet.
Shit! That’s not a station-approved weapon!
Boone threw himself into a roll, momentum carrying him up to one knee. He pushed off, feet pounding against the brushed steel walkway as another shot whinged past.
His drakeskin suit hid him from view and the cloud of audio chaff that encased him partially masked his steps as he ran, but it could do nothing to mask the sound that traveled through the steel structure itself each time his feet struck the walkway’s surface. That meant whoever was shooting at him had a damn good idea where he might be.
{Archangel taking fire,} he called out, as he reached mentally to recall his scout drones. If he could get a lock on this joker’s position—
A shot hammered into his left side, hitting him in the floating ribs just above the kidney. The drakeskin’s synthsilk did its job, diffusing the bullet and turning what would otherwise have been a through and through into a massive bruise. He stumbled but caught himself, his attention split between his destination up ahead and the feed pouring in from the two scout drones.
Pain shot through him as he dragged air into his lungs, the action causing his ribcage to expand. The triage app stored in the data partition of his wire flashed an alert, indicating medical nano was being routed to the injury.
{Sitrep!} Bravo’s sergeant snapped.
His scout drones had located the asshole. Boone pushed the feed to the sergeant. {One tango, tucked between a wall and a charging station, anti-spinward, quarter-klick.}
{I see that, private.} The sergeant’s words were dry. {What’s your situation?}
Every breath Boone took was painful. Dammit, how long does it take medical nano to— His thoughts fragmented as his side fell blissfully numb.
A shot hit the railing just in front of him and he dug deeper, pouring on additional speed to close the last few meters. Without slowing, he caught the edge of a support beam in one hand and let momentum swing him around until he was snug against its back side.
{I’ve taken cover behind one of the beams,} he reported, breath sawing in and out in great gasps. {Going to try to get off a shot.}
{Negative,} the sergeant replied. {That’s your only cover up there, and he knows it.}
As if on cue, the pirate began concentrating his shots on Boone’s location.
{Copy. Taking steady fire now.}
There was a pause, and then a female voice cut in, clear and crisp. {Delta has eyes on.}
A map appeared over the combat net, limning the tango in red. A firing solution appeared, its engagement cone also in red, a warning to the others to remain clear of the area.
{Taking the shot,} she said calmly.
The hail of bullets ceased at the same time Boone heard, {Tango down.}
Boone pushed away from the bulkhead, his bruised side awash in numbness. His mouth twisted when he thought about what awaited him back on the ship. Once his suit synched with the armory and ratted him out, he’d be ordered to report to the infirmary, no doubt.
For now, he’d return to his duty as overwatch. {Archangel back in position.}
By his count, the asshole who’d shot at him was the last of the resistance, but after that recent bit of excitement, Boone wasn’t leaving anything to chance. It never hurt to perform an ‘idiot check,’ to make sure he hadn’t missed someone.
The scouting drones came back null.
{Archangel, idiot check complete,} he reported over the combat net.
{Bravo team, idiot check complete.}
{Charlie, same.}
{Delta, same.}
When a voice from Callaghan cut in, Boone knew the sergeant had reported the mission’s success. Though the destroyer was ninety thousand kilometers away, latency was hardly noticeable.
{Prisoner head count?} The icon tagged to the voice indicated it was the platoon’s lieutenant who had spoken.
{Charlie has four,} Grant reported.
{Delta, three live, one bagged.}
There was a pause. {Bravo. Three live, two bagged.}
{Daaaay-um,} a second voice from the destroyer, the corporal running comms, drawled. {Looks like Bravo’s buying tonight.}
{Can the chatter, corporal,} Bravo’s sergeant growled.
{Copy.} The voice on the other end sounded crisply in Boone’s head. {Shuttle’s inbound, ten mikes.}
An hour later, they were back on board the Callaghan. After Boone checked his P-SCAR back into the armory, he and the rest of the Marines involved in the skirmish had time to hit the showers before reporting in for an after-action report.
Boone winced as he stripped out of his drakeskin suit and pulled his baselayer shirt over his head—or tried to, at any rate. Getting the damn thing off took a bit longer than it should have. He heard a long whistle and then hands grabbed the material, clearing it over his head.
Payne, the corporal who’d led Delta, held his shirt in her hands. Her eyes were on his left side.
“That’s going to be one colorful bruise,” she said with a shake of her head. Dropping the shirt into his hands, she sidled past and into the showers.
“Colorful’s right, bro.” Ramirez came to a stop beside him and stared critically at Boone’s bruised ribcage. “You do know the overwatch is called Archangel because you call down death on the enemy, not because you have a desire to become an angel, right?”
“Ha-ha. Funny.” Boone scowled at the other man as he tossed the shirt into the laundry.
“Has it reported the strike yet?” Ramirez jerked his chin in the direction of Boone’s drakeskin as he began stripping out of his own.
Boone stifled a resigned sigh and bent to retrieve the suit. “No, but it’s just a matter of time.” He folded the armored camouflage and then slipped it inside its protective case to be auto cleaned.
Ramirez watched, his head cocked. “In three… two…” His countdown accompanied Boone’s hand as he sealed the lid. An alert popped up, ordering him to report to medica
l.
Boone’s mouth twisted in a resigned smile. “Yep. There it is.”
Ramirez clapped him on the shoulder, causing Boone to wince.
“Only incident in the entire action.” The other man pointed a finger at Boone. “Maybe you should be buying the drinks tonight.”
Boone turned for the showers. “Figures you’d say that. You were on Bravo.” He paused at the entrance to shoot Ramirez a long, narrow stare. “If I hear that you tried selling the others on that idea, I’m coming for you.”
Ramirez’s laughter followed him inside.
Ten minutes later, Boone reported to the infirmary. The medic looked up when he appeared and waved him in.
“I received a notification that you’d been hit. Let’s take a look.”
The medic shoved his hand into a medical bracer, the unit extending up to his elbow. He palpated the area, earning him a flinch and a scowl.
The medic ignored Boone’s reaction, his face distant, eyes trained on the results the unit fed to his overlay. “Two cracked ribs, localized tissue insult,” he said as his bracer-clad palm tracked over the wound.
Straightening, he reached for an ampoule and held it up for Boone to see. “These are tissue nanotransfection agents. They’ll promote in situ regeneration through cellular reprogramming.”
Boone blinked at the explanation. He had no clue what the medic had just said, but it sounded impressive. He’d be down with anything that programmed the pain and bruising away.
The medic snapped the vial into the bracer and then centered his palm over the spot where the bullet impacted. Boone felt a slight pressure and then a tingling sensation. Injection complete, the man stepped back.
“You might feel a bit itchy inside while the nano accelerates the healing,” he told Boone as he pulled the bracer off. “I’ll issue you an extra meal rat ticket for tonight.”
“Thanks.” Boone nodded his appreciation. He’d been injured enough to know how fast the body burned through calories when rapid therapy was used. He’d likely awaken in the middle of his sleep shift, ravenous.
Pulling his shirt down, he stood. “Am I good to go?”
The medic had already turned away. He lifted a hand in a silent wave goodbye. That was all Boone needed. He was out the door in a flash.
The debrief was in full swing when he slipped into the room and took a seat beside Ramirez at the table. The lieutenant leading the briefing gave him a subtle nod, letting Boone know she’d been informed of his whereabouts.
As the sergeant wrapped up his summary, the lieutenant switched off the holoprojector and leaned forward, her gaze sweeping the table.
“Good job out there today. Initial reports from the engineering team indicate these are the folks who’ve been hitting the Mercer-Merki space lanes. Taking them out of the equation will put a big dent in pirate activities in this area. And now…”
She lifted the sheet in front of her, the security nanofiber embedded in the plas decrypting the document when it registered her biosignature. She held it up for them to see.
“Orders,” Ramirez whispered.
Boone nodded.
“The XO informed me earlier that Callaghan has been recalled. This was our last sortie in the Atliekas,” she told them. “I’ll be sharing this with the platoon shortly, but since you’re here, you might as well know.”
Murmurs spread through the group at her words. They’d been patrolling this sector of Procyon’s asteroid belt for the past six months. Everyone knew they were due for a billeting change, but no one realized it was coming up this quickly.
Looking down at the sheet, she read, “The Benfold is on its way here to take over patrol of this sector. When she arrives, we’re heading for the heliopause. Once we’re back on Beryl, Callaghan goes into spacedock for a refit.” She looked up at them and added, “at that time, promotions will be handed out, and you’ll be given new duty assignments.”
Lowering the document, she straightened. Her action elicited the same from everyone seated.
Nodding, she said, “That’ll be all. Dismissed.”
2: AT LOOSE ENDS
Port Defiance, Beryl
Geminate Alliance
(Sirius B)
It took six weeks for Callaghan to arrive at Procyon’s Calabi-Yau gate and transition to Sirius’s heliopause. It was another six weeks before the destroyer berthed at the orbital base above the planet Beryl.
Those aboard the ship had been in the black for more than a year. Most put in for leave before reporting to their next post. Boone and a few others remained on base.
Orders were slowly trickling through the pipeline, as were promotions. Boone was now a lance corporal; in his inbox sat invitations to two advanced training ‘A’ schools. He hadn’t had much chance to think about it before Ramirez strong-armed him into joining the rest for dinner in town.
Boone’s eyes followed the coastline as the transport neared Port Defiance’s South Bay Harbor, but his mind was on those two invitations, and the decision he knew he must soon make.
He tried to focus on the sights, how the city glittered like a jewel as the white dwarf sank low on the horizon. Lights popped up everywhere, businesses preparing for the throngs that would soon descend when the bay area transitioned from day to night. Some came from Port Defiance, while others like him were from Ouray, the military base where he and his platoon were temporarily housed.
But his mind kept drifting back to those two invitations. The ‘A’ school he chose would determine his career path. It would have a profound effect on his life in the coming years.
The back of his seat dipped, bringing Boone out of his reverie as Ramirez leaned a forearm across it, gaze riveted to something up ahead. He pointed. “Now, that’s what I call a good time, right there. The three ‘t’s.”
The Marine seated in front of Boone turned to see what Ramirez was looking at. Boone followed his gaze. A cluster of young women stood outside a restaurant, all long legs, tight clothes, and lithe figures.
Davila laughed. “Lemme guess, tacos, tequila, and—”
A hard smack landed on the back of his head before he could finish.
It was Payne. Leaning across the aisle, the corporal sent him an arch look. “You sure you want to finish that statement?” Her finger helicoptered around, indicating the passengers inside the transport. “Not everyone here’s into that third ‘t’ of yours, you know.”
“Gotcha covered, Corporal.” Davila’s eyes danced with mischief as he shifted to slap at his butt. “You be sure to let me know if you want a piece of this action right here.”
Payne smacked him on the head once more, then sat back in her seat, rolling her eyes. “The only action you’ll be seeing is on the mat, when I hand you your ass… you ass.”
The PFC in front of Davila laughed. Reaching back, Edmundson punched Davila on the shoulder. “She’s got you there, bro.”
Davila didn’t bother to turn; he just lifted a hand and flipped the man a one-fingered salute in reply.
Boone choked back a laugh. “Yeah, well. I’d be fine with anything, just so long as it’s not 3-D printed from formation material.”
A hungry expression crossed Davila’s face as Boone steered the conversation back to food. “You have any idea how long it’s been since I had a real bluesteer burger? The kind hot off the coals and dripping with cheese?”
Boone’s stomach took that opportunity to growl.
Ramirez barked a laugh and shoved at his shoulder. “You’re on the coast, my man. Go for something fresh-caught, like conch, straight out of the diver’s hands. No, wait.” He sat back, palms spreading wide. “A sea bass this big, taken right off the ship. So rare it’s still wiggling.”
Boone shook his head. The bluesteer he could handle. He still hadn’t acquired a taste for fresh fish.
Ramirez caught his expression. “I know that look. The seafood they served on the mess deck do not count.”
“Yeah, you can’t count stuff printed from DBCs.” Dav
ila’s lip curled as he mentioned the digital-to-biological converters. “You can’t call that food. It’s fuel, plain and simple.”
“Could’ve been worse. Think of what they had for meal rats a couple of hundred years ago,” Boone said with a grimace. “You can’t blame the Navy. Formation bricks take up a lot less room, especially when they can use them for temp partitions and other things.”
Ramirez coughed. “Yeah, right.” His hands inscribed the air as he drew the mental picture. “Tonight’s dinner is from sector four, deck Bravo-Yellow. It has a lovely bouquet, aged for months beside Combat Support 3-2’s sweaty boots…”
His platoon mate’s humor pulled a reluctant smile from Boone. “Well, unless you’re on one of the ships of the wall—”
“—and the Callaghan was only a destroyer, not a battleship or cruiser,” Ramirez interjected.
Boone plowed past the unnecessary reminder. He’d been stationed aboard the ship for the past year; he knew her type rating as well as Ramirez did.
“—even then, you’d have to be in officer country to get invited to the captain’s table.”
Davila had tired of the conversation, his gaze returning to the wharf as the transport pulled into a passenger loading zone and slowed. “Well, I’m just glad to get off base. It’s not like I could have made it home for a visit before I was due back.”
Boone heard the poorly disguised curiosity in Davila’s voice. He knew the PFC still didn’t understand why Boone hadn’t put in for leave during their two-week break between deployments.
Davila’s family lived light years away, in the Geminate Embassy at An Yang, the star nation that had colonized the Proxima Centauri system. Boone’s home must seem ridiculously close in comparison. The family ranch was right here on Beryl, a quick, three-thousand-kilometer jaunt north and west of their present location.
It would take too much effort to explain the complexities of ranch life, so Boone didn’t bother. Plus, there was the matter of the choices the Navy had just offered him. He had a lot of thinking to do and the ranch—well, he was better off doing his thinking at Ouray.
Sudden Death (A Military Sci Fi Thriller) (The Biogenesis War Files) Page 2