The Chicher landed along the ceiling next to me, rope secured to its harness and tied to a different rail below. He grabbed onto my harness with his clawed hands and pulled back against his rope using his prehensile tail.
Before Villet had finished his knot, McAllister shouted, “Ha!”
The wind died within seconds.
She shot a glance at me and the Chicher. “Creative but flawed solution, Relics,” she said.
“Sure, you were our only real hope, but I’ll accept your ‘Thank you’ later.”
She didn’t respond, once again focused on her computer’s screen and hacking deeper into the enemy’s system.
A few minutes later Sergeant Smith ordered, “Take’em out.” A half dozen laser blasts shot through the intersection. “Good job, Marines,” he said. “Remain alert.” Then he asked over my com-set, “Specialist, anything to report?”
“Negative,” I replied back. “No enemy spotted. The engineer and com-specialist are still working.” It felt odd, having such limited frequencies. I wondered if it was just a naturally limiting phenomenon built into the Primus Crax ship.
A few minutes later, McAllister said into her collar mic, “Sergeant Smith, command functions are locked in a loop, effectively locking them out of engine control. Main thrust, maneuvering thrust, and condensed space. It should take the enemy and their automated antiviral systems at least ninety minutes to break through my interdicting code. They shouldn’t be able to move their ship, so I hope we’re not drifting anywhere…bad.
“They won’t be able to use the engines to self-destruct, unless they go down there and cause a detonation manually. All other systems slowed to 0.378 percent. They could still interfere with lighting and environmental, or try their airlock safety bypass and expose a section to space, but I should see it coming, or Major Howard, who also appears to be actively interfering with their computer systems. He’s got control of the shuttle bay.”
Leaning back and observing her computer, she said, “My suggestion would be to have Rear Admiral Tallman bring in more troops on medical shuttles and take off the wounded. Strip whatever they want, maybe take prisoners and interrogate, because once the system goes back on line, my educated guess is that there’ll be an accelerated countdown to destruction.”
“Right, Senior Engineer,” Smith said. “Private Arnold, relay the engineer’s report.”
The pilot replied, “Acknowledged.”
A moment later, Pilot Arnold came back. “Major Howard indicates there is a squad of Colonial Marines fighting their way to main engineering. Medical and support shuttles en route. ETA to shuttle bay, sixteen minutes. And our current vector of drift is not defined as, ‘Bad.’”
McAllister, still staring at her computer’s screen and tapping away rolled her eyes, but with a grin.
Smith cut in, asking, “How many shuttles can that bay fit?”
He didn’t specifically address his question to the pilot or McAllister, probably intentionally.
“Room for three shuttles,” Arnold replied.
Private Villet added, “Senior Engineer McAllister concurs. She also requests an additional set of batteries for her anti-grav harness.”
“Private Villet,” Smith said, “remind her that if we cannot fulfil her request, there’s a Relic whose shoulders she can stand on.”
The Chicher Handler stared from my shoulder, up to McAllister. “Warrior Leader’s Trusted Hand, now Warrior Leader,” he said into his mic through his translator, “I am shrub to a tree. Select stored drive stones from my hoard to Computation Web Conjurer’s hoard.”
Laughing, Smith said, “Specialist Bleys, explain it to your fellow Relic.”
Chapter 32
After ten minutes passed, Sergeant Smith consolidated our position to support McAllister’s continued effort to maintain a lockdown on the enemy’s computer system. At the same time she was downloading whatever she could that might be of value to both Intelligence and the military. She’d commented to Private Villet when he asked how she’d hacked her way in, that the Primus Crax had protected their system from outside interference, but not very well from an internal attack. It wasn’t something they anticipated.
They’d brought Private Brooker over to us after wrapping his shoulder, used an inflatable splint to hold his shattered knee, and pumped him so full of pain meds that he was essentially unconscious.
After Smith sent the Chicher to watch the intersection with Umpernilli, he said to Corporal Pallish, “Once they land shuttles and begin sending additional teams to secure the frigate, I want you and Umpernilli to get Brooker to one of the medical shuttles. Nollie is doing okay on the pod and can wait.”
Sending teams to secure the frigate was a bold move, when things could go the other way, with self-destruction as the result.
“I’d rather take Specialist Bleys,” the corporal said, tipping his head toward me.
That response surprised both me and Smith. Maybe McAllister too as she took a second to peel her eyes away from her screen to see if the corporal was serious.
“He’s not part of our team,” Smith said.
“I know, Sergeant. But he’s got a shield that’s proof against the Stegmars’ CO2 needle guns. If we run into a combat bot or a Primus with a shield, it won’t matter if it’s the specialist or Umpernilli with me. But if we stumble across one or more Stegmars, we’ll be in a better tactical position.”
Smith cocked his head, one eye squinting at the corporal.
“It’ll be tough to haul Brooker as he is, Sergeant, if we get even a little numbed by the toxin coating those Stegmar needles.”
Smith locked eyes with me for a reaction. Pallish saw me charge straight at the Stegmars and not get taken down by their needle barrage. Maybe heard McAllister ask me about my shield and put two and two together. I shrugged my uninjured shoulder. “He’d have to do the carrying.”
The sergeant looked up. “He’s your man, Engineer. Part of your team.”
“He is,” she said, still focused on her screen.
“Specialist O’Vorley was assigned to protect you. And he the Bahklack. Seems his assignment now is to keep you safe?”
“The lizards and their insects, and their bots are holed up in Engineering,” McAllister said. “If the arriving Colonial Marines aren’t able to break through, and if the arriving engineers aren’t able to manually disable the self-destruct components. Both the cascading atomic engine and the main thrust engines in the next eighty minutes, if we’re not all out of here, our scattered component atoms will be all that’s left of us.” She took a second to glance down. “No less dead than Specialist O’Vorley.”
“That’s why the pods are staying attached. Our emergency exit route. Us and any shuttled-in Marines that we can fit.”
I asked, “Why aren’t all teams challenging the surviving Crax?”
“You mean us?” Smith snorted. “Besides keeping the engineer safe while she completes her mission? Us and our bitty medium duty laser carbines would just get in the way.”
“At the moment,” McAllister said, “I am observing and keeping their secondary systems occupied. Once they purge my code and restart…”
“Keeping the Crax and Stegmar worried about their safety,” I suggested. “Keeping the pressure on might make the difference. Even using lead buckshot and little lasers.”
Smith rubbed his chin. “Specialist Bleys, always looking to scrap?”
“Not always, Sergeant. But it’s the best way to kill them.”
Corporal Pallish, kneeling down next to Brooker stared up at Smith with raised eyebrows. “Bleys or Umpernilli, Sergeant. Either way.”
“Sergeant, you and your men should be able to protect me as well as Specialist Bleys,” McAllister said. She slid a little finger into one of the lit crevices in the thrall’s oblong device. “If you can arrange for him to rejoin me and the rest of our team.” She scowled. “What’s left of it.”
“Engineer, how’d you get here, to the orbital colony
?”
“Loki’s Lady. A long range shuttle.”
“You’re the ones who contacted Fleet about the behemoth arriving here?”
“That’d be classified,” McAllister said. “If we did.” Her tone left little doubt.
“Okay, they’ll know your shuttle,” Smith said, more to himself than anyone else. “They’ll know who Specialist Bleys is, or can easily find out.” He glanced down at Brooker. “Here’s the plan. Won’t matter if everything goes right and we keep the frigate, or we scatter before she blows.”
He spoke into his collar mic. “Arnold, with all the shuttles and troops arriving I’m assuming the Brisbane and the Gallant are nearby.”
“Affirmative. The troop transport and the medical frigate are nearby, ready to move out of range should it be necessary.”
He turned to Pallish. “Get Brooker to a med shuttle. If there’s room on a med shuttle or one of the others bringing in heavily armed Marines, get off the frigate. If things go bad, I am guessing we’ll need every seat available. You and Keesay get back to the Brisbane. McAllister’s shuttle should be able to pick up Specialist Bleys there before the fleet departs.”
Smith scratched an ear under his helmet. “I’ll put Arnold on making the arrangements, contact Brisbane to get verified return orders in the system and appraise Loki’s Lady of the situation.” Then he frowned. “They’ll probably want to retrieve Specialist O’Vorley and the Bahklack in any case. Corporal, you assist Bleys on that end. Make sure he’s there when the Turbo Crank arrives.”
Smith took a breath, thinking. “The Phibs might be interested in their equipment more than one of their dead thralls. Either way, I’ll get Arnold to make higher-ups aware. There’s going to be a lot of body bags, both from here and the dock, freighter, fighters, and attack shuttles and whatever ships the other Crax frigate inflicted.”
Smith’s neck stiffened. “A lot of space burials coming up.”
Villet chimed in, “Nothing new, Sergeant.”
“We don’t want either of them mixed up. Same with Xiont and the lieutenant.”
“I hate them, Sergeant,” Villet said. I didn’t think he’d even heard his sergeant’s last statement.
Smith met my gaze while addressing the communications specialist. “Me too, Private. Me too.”
Smith and I shook hands. I refrained from shaking my head. What were the odds of him surviving this far? Of me surviving all I’d faced, and the two of us crossing paths again. And surviving?
“Engineer McAllister, listen to Sergeant Smith,” I said, “and keep out of trouble, so we can do this again.”
“Havoc, Relic,” she said, not looking away from her screen, her mood shifting. Her voice trailed off. “Wreak havoc until we are no more.”
Smith looked confused, and I didn’t have time, or more accurately it wasn’t the opportune time to explain.
“If we hustle,” I said to Smith, “we might be able to get Nollie on a shuttle too. If not a medical, then a regular. One more open seat, should disaster threaten.”
“If he has time,” Corporal Pallish said to Smith, “have Pilot Arnold send me and Specialist Bleys directions to the shuttle bay.”
Chapter 33
Carrying the unconscious Brooker down several long shafts was quickly draining Corporal Pallish’s anti-grav harness. Unconscious was the only way to carry Brooker, even with his shoulder wrapped and leg immobilized. We didn’t have a stretcher nor the manpower available to traverse a hostile ship’s corridors in such a manner, so it was a fireman’s carry all the way.
Private Nollie brought up our rear, being about 90% alert, despite the pain meds. I did have my Troh-got shield if the private’s aim was off. With me being point, I wondered if protection from the rear was less than forward. Even so, it should stop an errant round from Nollie’s MP pistol.
I worked to push O’Vorley’s death from my immediate thoughts. McAllister was a loner, like me, and she was egotistical. Back to Kent, I wondered how she’d handle his self-sacrifice for her. Especially after the current crisis, when she wasn’t in her element, trying to beat the Primus’s computer systems.
I’d been prepared to do the same for her in the past. Had stepped forward to do so to protect a secret Umbelgarri breeding ground. But there, I was going out fighting. It wasn’t a straight up sacrifice, taking a plasma bolt for someone.
I didn’t dive in front of the Bahklack, who I was assigned to protect. My thought at the time? Avoid getting between the thrall and the target of its energy beam weapon, or I’d end up like Xiont.
Was that nothing more than justification after the fact?
I snapped back to full attention on the current mission. To reach the shuttle bay and deliver Brooker and Nollie. Moving through the Primus frigate was like a pet hamster scurrying through a maze of plastic tubes. Only with us it was roomier, with directions transmitted to my com-set by Arnold.
This corridor appeared to have sliding doors the size of equipment lockers, hundreds of them and all with script on the edge of a human’s visual spectrum. I wondered if we could read it by touch, having a different texture than the smooth metal. Maybe a thermal device could read the lettering placed against the metal background. This lettering appeared more straight and harsh, less curvy and fluid. It struck me as Stegmar Mantis in nature.
The lockers were small enough that I didn’t think anything would jump out of them and attack us. McAllister had screwed up their computer system, so surveillance devices wouldn’t be tracking us. Plus, the enemy was focused on holding main engineering which was directly opposite from the shuttle bay. Our only concern would be a stray Stegmar or Primus.
“Looks like there was a fight up ahead,” I said over my shoulder. Seven Stegmar Mantis and two Primus Crax, stripped of their electronic gear, lay scattered about. Laser burns and fragmentation grenades appeared to have been the cause of death. The dead Primus were tan, one of the lower castes.
Passing through them, Pallish asked Nollie, “Pick me up one of those Stegmar pistols, for a souvenir?”
I didn’t think such souvenirs followed Colonial Marine policy, but it wasn’t my business. The splattered blood and burned remnants of uniforms and equipment about forty yards down told that the fight hadn’t been all one-sided. No bodies or equipment, so it appeared our side won the skirmish.
We made a right hand turn, taking us toward the outer hull. Ahead a Marine stood, looking our way. He’d heard us coming, which said something about both his efficiency guarding the passageway and us, making our way to deliver our wounded.
Broad shouldered and dark skinned, he was armed with an MP rifle and a laser sidearm. He watched us approach while keeping an eye the other direction.
“A security specialist from a penal colony?” he asked as we neared, looking at my shotgun and gray-green coveralls. His baritone voice was just loud enough to be heard, and wouldn’t carry far beyond.
“Close enough,” I replied, mimicking his volume. “We’re heading to the shuttle bay to deliver our wounded.”
“First wave’s departed,” he said. “Second one is landing now. If you move along briskly, you might get there before they pressurize the landing bay.” He grinned. “Now that they’ve figured out how to work the controls.” He gestured with his rifle. “Less than forty yards, around this bend, go up one level and you’re there. But you already knew that.”
“The directions, not the exact distance,” I said. “Thanks.”
Before we could pass, he added, “More dead than wounded. I’ll radio ahead.”
We were stuck in a holding area, several nurses in white and corpsmen in mottled blue attending mortally wounded Colonial Marines.
Someone had blown the sealed sliding door that led to the rectangular room. The floor was holed and pitted, like an old colander polished clean. The wall to the left of the entrance had four panels in the same color pattern as the rails. On the wall opposite the colored one, a small tube to the left spiraled upward with a single rail.
Several racks were set into the metal walls on either side of the tube passage. The wall across from the entrance had four three-inch-diameter poles set into the floor and a low ceiling next to it. Curvy Primus lettering, again perceived only through an off-coloring of the metal was placed next to various geometric shaped buttons situated into rows of eight. Near the wall, five poles were set into the floor and ceiling. They must’ve enabled the chameleon-like Primus to climb up to press the buttons
Compared to the large travel corridors, this room, with a seven-foot ceiling felt cramped, even though it was at least thirty feet across and twenty wide. Counting me, Nollie and Pallish, there were only two other men, Colonial Marines, combat ready. They stood along the color paneled wall, watching as the three nurses and five corpsmen worked to stabilize six of their fellow Marines, all severely injured.
One of the nurses and corpsmen came over to help Pallish lay Brooker out on a floor mat. They began asking the corporal questions. Nurses and corpsmen working with portable emergency equipment, and no doctor. It was equal to a first on the scene emergency squad. Better than it could’ve been. If they hadn’t captured the shuttle bay intact, and figured out how to control it, these men, and the group before, would be on the breaching pods waiting for evacuation.
The corpsman asking Nollie about his bandaged hand told the Marine that each of the corpsmen was from the pods, ordered here for triage. The first wave of med shuttles had taken those Marines that had a chance. Nollie told the corpsman we’d arrived after the first wave because we stayed to make sure Engineer McAllister was secure in her effort to hack the enemy’s systems.
The corpsman expected a few more stragglers like us.
I knelt down next to one of the mortally wounded Colonial Marines, made eye contact with the attending corpsman, who nodded solemnly.
Delivered on a makeshift stretcher, the diagnostic computer’s readout sitting above his head showed the Marine had lost a quarter of his abdomen. The same with his hip. The mylar blanket covering the Marine’s body couldn’t disguise it. The way the monitor showed blood circulating, the stench of third degree burns, of freshly cauterized flesh, identified the culprit. Plasma bolts. The same thing that killed Kent.
Relic Hunted (Crax War Chronicles #2) Page 32
