by T. K. Toppin
When the noise came again, she cocked her head. It sounded like a herd of elephants thundering into a very small room. They crashed and banged about clumsily. Their bulky forms slid against each other in their intent to get across the room. She flexed her numbing fingers and shook her head again to clear it. She’d be ready for those noisy elephants.
They came in a rush, almost tumbling on top each other. Agnes was glad that when she’d still been able to focus, she’d rigged all her remaining weapons into one. They were connected electronically by a series of tricky-triggers—her term—where all she had to do was punch a control pad next to her like a drum-set keeping time. Doing so would enable her weapons to change automatically, as the control pad sent out a remote signal via the now networked system. All she had to do was keep the trigger pulled on any gun of choice, and aim.
She was armed with an enormous pulse gun straddled between her legs. Mounted beside it on either side, strapped together, were a heat-seeking automatic rifle and two Elf missile launchers. And as a final resort, several explosives were attached to her body like medals.
From her corner against the wall, hidden in the semi-darkness, Agnes pulled the trigger, cutting down the first wave of the elephant-hoard with her pulse gun. Shouts bellowed out amid the smoke and confusion. She punched the pad with the heel of her palm; it switched to heat-seekers. More fell dead, piling on top each other. She smelled blood and roasting flesh. It filled her nostrils.
Die, you stinking elephants! she imagined shouting. Die!
Something stung her arm, her face, her neck. The elephants had turned into bees! They were stinging her all over. Oh, what she would give for a flame-thrower just about now.
Angered, she punched the control pad again—Elf missiles. A series of small, compact, self-contained missiles shot out and exploded in muted pops. Elfs were specifically designed for the use in space combat, where minimal damage to the surrounding infrastructure was imperative, but offering the maximum damage to humans. It sensed biological matter within its range and latched onto it like magnets.
The bees bit into her shoulder, making her arm flail away; it dropped useless at her side. She shouted in rage. Digging out explosives one-handed from her chest, she flung them about. More pops and screams, but still the bees stung her. With the last of her strength, she emptied her missiles, then manually switched to the heat-seekers and emptied that as well.
When something hit her head with the force of a sledgehammer, her heart tripped and the deafening noises around her immediately hushed. Her last thought as she slumped backward against the wall, resembling a delicate fallen angel that was her trademark look, was that she’d forgotten to pull the last explosive on her chest.
It was the explosive that would set the rest of them off and blow almost half the room to oblivion.
* * *
Simon stood, legs apart, hands behind his back, considering the storeroom door. It was solid but simply made, and therefore breakable.
Until a few minutes ago, he’d been consulting with Jane, having secreted her away into a fold of his jacket. With her undetectable fingers poking around the networks, he’d managed to access the communications system Ho’s mercenaries used.
According to their reports, the “crazy woman” was dead and the upper escape chambers had been penetrated. Simon reasoned Governor Mwenye would soon be captured and brought down to the mainframe to unlock the code sequence he’d created. Torture was a strong possibility, and the chances Ho would perform it were high.
Ho was now on board. Sometime during the last three hours, he’d slipped in and now ran the show. And something else, too. Two warships now flanked them, stirring up great agitation among the mercenaries. Simon imagined a few of them had already encountered the Lancasters’ special Space Militia.
Simon wondered if Surrey had managed to get back to Earth or maybe diverted and gone to one of the military stations. A likely possibility, but it was too soon. John, he thought, would be on one of the warships, Simon was sure of that. All was not lost, then. He consulted his memory. Sandvik, he would be on board. No space engagement, especially of this magnitude, would slip by him.
He turned to Madds, who was propped against the wall, chin resting on his fist.
“How much do you reckon this door weighs?” Simon asked.
Madds made a noncommittal shrug and glanced at the door. “It’s not the weight of the door you need to consider, it’s what’s on the other side that will give you the strength to remove the obstacle before you.”
“True enough.” A wicked grin split Simon’s face. Madds was a philosophical man at the best of times. “But I’m just itching for a good brawl. Are you game?”
Russell, the Junkie, came forward. “It’s about time. What’re you planning? My men are with you, and they’re more than ready.”
“A good old-fashioned fist-fight. But, the woman is mine.”
“That’s cheating, she’s got a weak right arm and you know it.” Madds flexed his shoulders, readying himself.
Minnows sniggered in the background, nervous, but ready. “But she’s still strong. She moves fast. Careful, Simon.”
The technician in control of activating the droids in Distributions cleared his throat. “Half are online and waiting, sir. I’ve finally managed to remote access them,” he patted his personal unit like an obedient dog. “It’s taking some time, but…in another hour, I should get the other half activated.”
Simon nodded with a stern smile. “I’ll leave you in charge, but make it thirty minutes. No pressure. Once they’re activated, have half proceed straight to the docking bays to assist in the…clean up. Alert them there are friendly warships waiting outside, target only mercenaries. They’re wearing green. The other half, direct them throughout the Yard to assist. In both cases, they are to use extreme force. Are they fully equipped?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. And when you’re done, destroy that unit. We wouldn’t want it falling into the enemy’s hands so they can gain access.”
Earlier, Simon had opened the access code briefly, using Jane as the carrier for the signal commands so the technician could slip through using a personal unit. The technician had had the good sense not to ask how this was possible, glancing at Jane with a covetous sort of interest. It had taken hours of slow work, but finally the tech had gained full control without raising any alert flags.
Simon turned to the others, ignoring the technicians for the moment. “Are we ready? It should take two good kicks and the door will be down. When that happens, we pounce in stagger formation. Understood?”
Madds stood before the door after giving it a few prods with his finger. “Simple metal door, nothing special, standard pressure lock,” he muttered.
Considering it was just a storeroom door, and judging from what was in the room—nothing of any great importance, just basic, everyday supplies—the door wasn’t much more as a partition to separate the room from the mainframe than anything else.
Madds rolled his shoulders like a boxer. He turned to Simon. “Make that one kick.”
The door kicked out with ease. The force with which it flung out knocked one man down, who’d stood guard just outside it. It slammed into the back of his head with a resounding bang.
The three Elites catapulted out in a blur. Simon arrowed out first, fists outstretched before him, aimed at another guard standing a little to the right. The guard gaped in horror as one of Simon’s fists slammed into his face; the other fist broke his sternum with an audible crack.
Minnows jumped, sailing over the short flight of steps in a tight ball to land on the floor like a cat. From his boot he pulled out another krima, engaged it, and went whirling around the room like a dizzying kaleidoscope.
Madds was the last out, having ducked low after kicking the door, allowing the others to soar over him first. He had small, marble-sized pellet explosives hidden in his crotch. He flung them about, spraying them into a small group of armed men, where they
popped like miniature stinging firecrackers. He dove straight in after them, barreling down two men in his wake.
The Junkies followed suit, swarming out of the little storeroom and knocking down whatever stood in their way. Three headed straight to the pile of weapons, which still sat on the floor in the middle of the room.
The woman in charge shrieked in rage. She hoisted her gun and took aim at the first person she had in her sights. Simon. The flash of his red hair had caught her attention. She fired. The heat-seeking bullet found its mark, and though the last-second dodge saved him from a bullet to the chest, it still plowed through his side and out his back.
With a grunt, Simon crashed to the floor, sliding across it on his own blood. Before the immobilizing pain speared him, he did a quick mental check as he rolled away and ducked behind some console stands.
Left side, no major organs—kidney might be damaged.
He smelled his blood and bit back an oath. Aside from the rich, metallic tang of copper and the heavy musk of open wounds, the air was tinged slightly with fecal matter. The intestines! If he wasn’t treated soon, he could go septic, and that would kill him for sure. Rage filled him in an instant. He wasn’t about to die in space. Not if he had something to say about it.
Peering from around the console, he risked a quick look. The effort made his side throb with so much pain it dulled his vision. The mainframe was in utter madness. Everyone fought like a heaving sea of wriggling worms tumbling atop one another—a medieval war where bodies clashed with bodies. There was shouting, yelling, and even gunfire amid screams of pain and flashes of light as krima sticks materialized. He saw Minnows airborne, twisting and turning, diving into a group that parted away from him as he cut them down. Madds had just finished breaking a man’s neck, flinging him sideways like garbage; his expression calm, serious. And Ox, taller, larger, and stronger than anyone else, swept his arms out like a fan as he pivoted and kicked, crushing anyone who stood in his way.
Simon braced himself. Gritting his teeth, he hoisted himself to his feet, and jumped into the fray. And saw his mark, screeching her head off and swinging her gun wildly about. In a few jumping strides, he was upon her, hooking the crook of his arm around her neck, and slamming her to the floor. But she was made of rubber, it seemed. She flexed, twisted, and slipped from his grasp. In an instant, she was on her feet and lashing out at him. One foot caught him on his shoulder, the other he caught, twisted it and sent her spinning out onto her back. She grunted and made a noise as she pounced back to her feet and headed straight for him.
She’s like a spring, he thought, and managed a quick back flip despite the narrow space he had to work with. Other bodies bumped and nudged him as they fought. The woman, falling short of her intended target, crashed instead into one of her own men. She wrenched him away with force and headed straight for Simon. He was ready. He judged her stride, noted she was left-handed by the way her body was aligned, and weaponless.
She struck out in a lunge, her left arm swinging, the fingers curled into a tiger’s claw. Simon dipped right, snagged her by the left shoulder when the swinging arc was complete, and used her momentum to heave her to the right. She toppled and slid to the floor. He spun, driving a foot into her spine. She screamed as it broke.
That was too easy, Simon thought. He’d expected her to bounce back up and give him a better fight. To end it, he hopped to his other foot and sent the other into the back of her neck, breaking it clean. She lay face down, the last of her dying reflexes making her fingers twitch as they curled inward to her wrists.
Simon’s side throbbed. A quick inspection told him he’d bled quite a bit during the fight. His hand came away slick with dark blood. Madds caught him as he swayed; he had two pulse guns and handed one to Simon. They pushed themselves into a corner.
“Bad?” Madds asked as he fired a few rounds.
“Very. I’m losing blood like a stuck pig.” Simon gritted his teeth. “But I’m not done yet.”
“That’s the spirit.” Though Madds made light of the situation, Simon saw him taking in his condition. Madds looked worried; his nose creased as the smell hovering about the wound hit him.
It took another few minutes to get the room back under control. Toward the end, Ox had the ferret-faced Cerevetto in a headlock as he fended off two men. But it was Minnows who saved the day. His aerial acrobatic skills were no match for the solidly grounded—and sometimes gaping—mercenaries who witnessed him flying through the air before their bodies were lopped in half.
The stench of blood was everywhere. The floor was slick with it, making people slip and slide. Among the dead and dying were several Junkies and some technicians who’d decided to lend a hand. A few of the mercenaries still alive had the good sense to surrender. The injured Elites hobbled about grim-faced, but definitely satisfied.
Russell dripped blood from his head, arms and neck, but stood, defiant. He spat out blood as he directed his men to stand guard at the gaping hole that was once the door. A few security droids were still functional. Russell instructed them to stand guard with his men. He seemed to thrive on chaos. The technicians stood huddled together, vacant-eyed and shell-shocked. Russell grappled one by the scruff of his neck and pushed him to the consoles, snagged Ox along the way and told him to coordinate with them. They needed to get the droids out of Distribution and into combat—fast.
Simon left Russell to organize. He pulled Jane out as he found a quiet corner to sit in while Madds treated him with a quick and rather painful first aid. It would do until he received proper medical attention. Jane took a while to route herself onto a secure network, but once she did so, John’s face swam into view.
“Christ on toast! Simon. What’s happening?”
“We’ve taken back the mainframe—for now.” Simon gritted his teeth as pain sent waves of nausea through him. He filled his friend in. “We’re hoping that once the droids are deployed, we can open up the docks manually. Dock 4 is open…that’s their entry point. Best place in is there. But I reckon it’s heavily guarded. How bad is the gunship situation?”
“They’ve got some serious fire-power. We may just manage, but I can’t risk them opening up on you lot.” John creased his brow, studying his friend. “Simon, you’re injured.”
“Just a small ding.” He waved John off with a hand. “Mwenye is under threat. Agnes is dead. Renna is on her own with Junkies and droids—trapped in the escape chambers. I’m not sure how long they can hold out. Ho seems to have an endless supply of men. We need to cut him off from his men. Shut down Dock 4, do you hear me?”
“I’ve a little surprise for Ho.” John grinned. “I’ll organize to concentrate attacks on Dock 4 once we’ve cleared the gunship. Prepare for battle. Give me an hour.”
Simon grinned back. “An hour, he says. Take your bloody time, I’m not going anywhere.”
When he broke transmission, Simon realized he forgot to ask about Josie. He took it she was all right, given that his friend’s face wasn’t overly distraught. Tucking the thought aside as things to ask about later, if he made it, he ordered Jane to transmit another call.
This one was to Deidre Moorjani.
* * *
The first wave of attack riddled the side of Ho’s gunship. Bright flashes of light popped along the hull like Chinese firecrackers before being snuffed out by the airless space around it. John had just enough time to witness this before dashing into the waiting shuttle.
Margeaux was already there, secured to a seat, face white with fury.
Ignoring her, he dropped into a seat beside Josie. Nearby, keeping his voice low, Captain Sandvik spoke to two of his team of six. The rest were Elites. In total, there were twenty of them, not including Margeaux.
John performed a quick weapons check, which prompted Josie to do the same with a quick, “Oh, yeah.”
“I want you to stick close to me,” he said quietly. “At all times.”
Josie was tapping her belt, making sure the four reload cartridges f
or her Snare Gun 3 were still there. “Check,” she nodded, more to herself.
He snaked out his hand and caught hers. This was serious, he needed her undivided attention. “Understood?”
“Yes,” she frowned back in annoyance. “I’m not a total idiot, you know.” She then rummaged through the many pockets of her trousers.
Contact explosives, judging by their shape. Her lips moved in silence as she counted ten. “Check,” she said again with another nod. Throwing knives—three, her fingers counted off. Check-nod. Digging into her shoulder holster, she pulled out a small handheld heat-seeking gun. Cocking the barrel, she peered through it to see if it was clear. Check-nod. She patted her other pocket for the reloads. Check…
John watched her with a mixture of fascination and anxiety. A year ago, Josie had never even picked up a weapon, let alone known how to use one. She’d been a scared and gangly, sickly-thin woman he’d picked on unmercifully. And now, look at her. Strong, sure, determined, and ready. She was capable of things even she didn’t know she could do. Her courage made him admire her just as it scared him cold.
“Stop staring at me,” Josie hissed without looking at him. “The girl is watching.”
“Let her watch. It might teach her something about human decency.”
He was well aware Margeaux watched them. How could he not feel the weight of those glittery, evil eyes taking in every single move they made? He was also aware of the eyes of the others, his own men included. They stared with mesmerized awe at his wife as she casually performed a weapons’ check as if it were an everyday occurrence.
Though men and women fought side by side now, it still brought a raised eyebrow when it came to the president’s wife being among them. They didn’t stare with trepidation, or even mockery, but with absolute respect. Many would willingly stand before Josie to save her life, if only for the fact that she was here with them now. And it hadn’t taken long for the news of the Iceland incident to reach the ears of his team. Loeb was right; her loyalty to him, as well as for those on his side, was clear and evident. And his team knew it. He’d even heard snatches of their whispers, talking of Josie’s brutal knifing at the hands of Ho. Yet here she was, standing among them, ready to fight. His team was more than impressed—they were almost fanatically honored. Right now, Josie had more power than he did. And he was beyond proud; his insides swelled, and his face warmed with humility.
