by James Evans
“Pity, I’d really like to get in that bay, and these bastards have had us on the back foot for a while now.”
“What’s behind their position? Anything we need?”
“Yeah, the corridor that leads to the docking bay.”
“So nothing dangerous or valuable for about a hundred meters until the door to the bay?”
“Yes, why?”
“I’ve got something that might help,” Fletcher said, holstering her pistol and flicking the release on a strap that ran across her breastplate. She unslung a large backpack and began opening fasteners.
Milton fired another burst toward the other side of the room. “What have you got there, Fletcher?”
“Confiscated enemy weapon, Colour. Shall I give it a go?”
“Have at it. We’ll back you up.”
Fletcher hefted the brutal multi-barrelled weapon and grinned. Then she leapt from cover and charged down the corridor, holding down the trigger as she went. Gouts of flame shot from the barrels as each fired in turn, spraying huge numbers of rounds at the enemy position.
“For fuck’s sake Fletcher! I didn’t mean that!” Milton shouted, as she fired her own weapon at the enemy position.
“Die you bastards!” came a scream from somewhere behind Milton. She turned to see, to her astonishment, Sub Lieutenant Corn charging after Fletcher, her shotgun firing wildly.
“Corn, get your head down!” Captain Warden yelled.
Fletcher bounded over an enemy barricade and despatched the Deathless crew who had been firing over it.
Oh balls. Those stupid bastards will get themselves killed on their own, thought Milton.
Milton piled over the crates she’d been sheltering behind and swapped in a fresh magazine as she pelted after the suicidal pair.
“What the bloody hell are we doing?” she heard Captain Warden shout as he joined the charge.
Corn was sprinting full tilt, directly for a cluster of enemies huddling behind an armoured position. The Deathless behind it were firing wildly, not even bothering to aim as they cowered back. Milton lobbed a flashbang then pummelled them with fire. The enemy troops ducked, and Corn leapt over their shield, howling like a banshee.
“Die you bastard, die!” she screamed as she smashed an unfortunate trooper’s helmet with the heavy butt of her shotgun, over and over.
The rest of the Deathless scrambled away from the lunatic who’d descended on them. Milton dashed to the shielding and dropped to one knee, firing short, controlled bursts into the fleeing enemy, cutting them down one by one. Warden joined her, and they made quick work of the remaining enemy.
“Corn, he’s dead,” said Warden, laying a hand on her shoulder to gently pull her back. “It’s over.”
Corn looked up and stepped back, breathing hard. Then she looked around, clearly slightly confused.
“Goodwin, get that door open,” said Milton. “Everyone else, stand by in case there’s any resistance on the other side.”
“Fletcher, is the auxiliary power down?” Warden asked.
“Not yet, Captain. I wanted to make sure we were all clear,” Fletcher replied.
“The tactical map confirms we are – blow it now,” Warden ordered.
Goodwin whirled, shouting, “No! I haven’t got the door open and we need power to open the bay door as well, or we can’t get the shuttle out.”
Warden mulled over that for a moment, nodding.
“Good point. Fletcher, blow the power when Goodwin gives you the nod, okay? We don’t want to be trapped on Target One when Ascendant goes pop.”
He turned to Milton and grinned as she rolled her eyes in exasperation.
The doors dilated into the bulkheads with a pronounced hiss, and the hangar beyond was revealed, along with a handful of the Deathless crew determined to defend it. The Marines dropped below the captured security barriers that they’d turned around and brought close to the entrance, while Goodwin hacked the lock. Projectiles clanged off the thick plating, ricocheting down the corridor above their heads.
Warden wagged a finger at Corn and Fletcher. “Don’t even think about it, you two.”
“What now?” Milton grumbled.
“We could try another suicidal charge?”
“I’d rather not,” Milton remarked as she lobbed a grenade in the enemy’s general direction.
Warden popped up, fired an extended burst and ducked back down under a hail of return fire. “I’m not keen either.”
“Should I have a go at them, sir?” Fletcher asked, firing her hand cannon blind over the barrier.
“No! No more heroics. Everyone, check magazines, we’re going to give them a concerted barrage on the count of three. Three, two, fire!” Warden finished, popping up again and firing methodical bursts downrange. The others all discharged a variety of weapons at the same time. Shotgun blasts, carbines, rifles and a couple of grenades. Then they ducked again.
The enemy fire started up again, pinning them behind their purloined security barrier.
“We can’t keep this up, sir,” said Milton. “We’ll probably run out of ammo before they do.”
“Yes, but what else we can do?”
“We could close the door and try another shuttle bay?” Goodwin asked.
Warden checked the timer in his HUD, then he shook his head. “The nearest is too far, and it might be just as heavily guarded.”
“How about closing the door and trying to find another way into this one so we can flank them?” Fletcher suggested.
“Goodwin’s drone shows the only other entrance is on the far side of the bay. It’d take too long,” said Milton.
The Marines looked at each other, then back at their captain.
“Charge?” they all suggested to him simultaneously.
Warden sighed. “Right. If we’re going to do this, let’s have some discipline. A round of flashbangs before we move, then bounding overwatch to the next cover, then a final rush to overwhelm them. Try not to get shot. Everyone got it?”
Everyone nodded at him. “Good, then on my mark.”
Warden shouted “Charge!” as he rose to his feet and began to sprint into the bay.
He slowed after a few paces. The enemy didn’t shoot at him. Warden watched as a lone figure reached down, elbow rising and falling, a glowing knife in its fist. Once, twice, three times for good measure, then the figure stood.
“Everyone ready to leave?” Ten asked, the pistol in his other hand coughing quietly. There was the distinctive thud of a body sagging to the floor.
Warden stared for a moment, not quite sure exactly what had happened. He rallied magnificently, pushing away his confusion.
“Goodwin,” he snapped, “get us into that shuttle, pronto. Everyone else, police the bodies, grab any last-minute intel, then get on the bloody shuttle. We’re out of here.”
Minutes later they were all crammed into the tight confines of the smallest shuttle they could find. Warden flopped down into the co-pilot’s chair and buckled himself in. He reached out and clapped their pilot on the shoulder as the shuttle dropped through the access doors of the bay into open space.
“Sub Lieutenant Corn.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Nice and easy does it, we don’t want the bastards rumbling us. Make it look like we belong, okay?”
“Yes, sir. Slow and steady it is.”
“Permission to detonate charges?” Fletcher called out, waggling her detonator. Ten and Milton held up more.
“Do it,” Warden confirmed, flipping views of Ascendant and Target One to screens around the small cabin. They watched as a series of small explosions rocked the enemy vessel. It was like a firework display. Target One was still very much intact, but atmosphere was venting in multiple locations, and the crew would have a lot to worry about right about now.
Warden grinned, and wondered how Cohen was getting on.
32
“Let’s do this clean and fast, people,” said Lieutenant White from the command chair. “We get one pass, let’s make it count, and remember Target One is behind us. She might be clamped to Ascendant, but she’ll have a clear view of our arse as soon as we move out from Ascendant’s shadow.”
There was a murmur of quiet determination from around the bridge.
“Right. Sound the warning for high-G manoeuvres, Ms Parks, then maximum burn on the main engines for as long as we can take.”
“But the crew, sir,” protested Parks. “They’ll take a dreadful punishment if we –”
“Can’t be helped, Parks,” said White. “Either we deal with Target Two, or she deals with us. We can’t stay here and hope to get a better opportunity. Sound the warning.”
“Aye, sir,” said Parks. The alarm sounded, and White could imagine the effect it was having on the passengers. He gave it another few seconds.
“That’s all we can spare,” he muttered to himself. “Give it everything, Ms Robinson.”
“Aye, sir,” said Robinson, triggering the main burn. The bridge crew were rammed back in their seats as Palmerston rocketed away from the safety of Ascendant’s sheltering bulk.
“Get the railguns warmed up, Ms Elson,” said White. “I want a nice neat line stitched right down the centre of that troop carrier. Let’s see if she’s as lightly armoured as she appears to be.”
“Aye, sir,” said Elson, hands flashing across the console. “You know we only have one pair of railguns, sir? The mass driver is our primary weapon.”
“I know, Ms Elson, but I don’t think that’ll be much use to us today. Lay in the programme, you have, er–” he looked up at the main display, where a counter showed the rapidly reducing distance to Target Two as Palmerston continued to accelerate.
“About fifteen seconds, sir,” said Robinson, “then another ten seconds before we’re past.”
“Work fast, Ms Elson,” said White, “work fast.”
Elson’s hands flew as she set the firing lines for the railguns.
“Five seconds,” said Robinson.
“Done and ready, sir,” said Elson.
“Fire,” said White simply, relaxing back into his seat as the acceleration continued.
“Firing, both guns, continuous stream,” said Elson.
The bridge crew watched as the projectiles appeared on the tactical display. A neat row of yellow dots superimposed on the background stars, all following a line linking Palmerston and Target Two.
“Attitudinal thrusters firing on Target Two,” said Parks. “Looks like they’re preparing to run or trying to bring their weapons to bear.”
“Six seconds to first impact,” said Elson. “Still firing.”
“No sign of incoming fire from Target Two.”
“Nothing from Target One either. Not sure they’ve realised what’s happening, yet.”
“First impact, direct hit,” reported Elson. Then, “Multiple impacts, still firing, no response yet from Target Two.”
The bridge crew fell silent as Palmerston completed her pass unchallenged. Target Two’s thrusters spluttered and failed, the first sign that damage had been done. Then there was some sort of explosive event near the centre of the ship and a hole appeared in the hull. Debris floated out into space as Palmerston’s display switched cameras to keep the view focussed on Target Two.
“Firing has ended,” reported Elson. “Ammunition at fifteen per cent, beginning automated replenishment.”
“Main engine burn complete in three, two, one,” said Robinson.
The end of the acceleration was a relief, but White couldn’t help thinking that they had been tested and found wanting.
“Damage assessment, Ms Elson. Did we actually achieve anything more than a few minor hull breaches?”
“Reviewing the images now, sir,” she replied. “Looks like we achieved greater than ninety per cent hit rate.” She frowned, suddenly mistrusting her own figures. “That can’t be right,” she muttered, triggering a recount and forcing the AI to repeat its work.
“Ninety-six per cent,” she breathed in astonishment. Then she grinned, nodding in satisfaction.
“Well done, Midshipman,” said White, “that’s excellent, but did we actually do any significant damage, or is she now going to blow us out of the sky?”
“Er, checking, sir,” said Elson, reining in her celebrations. “Looks like multiple hull breaches along the length of Target Two. Suggests little to no armour, sir. High probability of major casualties and internal damage, but we’ll need to go back and check to know for certain.”
“Bugger that for a game of soldiers,” muttered White. Poking the suspected corpse or a large vessel like Target Two was a good way to get yourself killed, no matter how many holes it had taken. “We’ll wait, and see what–”
There was a flash on the main display.
“What the fuck was that?” said White, leaning forward to stare. A new hole had appeared near the rear of Target Two and gas could clearly be seen venting into space. “Come on,” whispered White, daring the ship to do more than puff like a damp firework.
Then a further series of explosions ripped through the ship before one last, enormous blast shattered Target Two’s corpse and blew it to pieces. When the flash died away, there was nothing left but an expanding cloud of rapidly cooling debris.
“That’s more like it,” muttered White, nodding to himself. “Good work, team. Now let’s check on our passengers and get this thing turned around. We’re not out of the woods yet.”
Tomsk turned to Ascendant’s main display and stared at the feed from Palmerston. The display went dark for a moment, and when it returned, it showed the tactical view from Palmerston.
“Sorry, our systems took some damage and aren’t all working as they should,” said Cohen, waving his arm around the bridge. “This view might be a little clearer.”
They watched for a few seconds as Palmerston shot towards Target Two. Then Tomsk began waving his arms around. Cohen couldn’t hear, but it looked very much like the admiral was having a violent argument with whoever was still aboard Target One. He grinned to himself and sat back to enjoy the show, with rather more insouciance than he really felt.
“Oops, that’ll be the firing line from Palmerston. She’s a gunboat, you know,” said Cohen conversationally. “Originally designed for bombarding planets or other things that sit at the wrong end of a deep gravity well.”
Tomsk was still waving his arms around gesturing at the display and generally making a fuss.
“Apart from the mass driver, which is pretty useless against something like that,” said Cohen, nodding at Target Two, “I’m afraid Palmerston’s armaments are very light indeed. I must confess, that paucity of weapons has proven to be something of a hindrance, but I think we’ve managed to overcome the most serious of issues, wouldn’t you say, Admiral?”
Tomsk whipped his head around to stare at Cohen. He flipped up his faceplate.
“What have you done?” he snarled in Koschite. Cohen waited for the translation then shrugged and gave the admiral an insolent grin.
“It’s not my job to lose, Admiral, or to make things easy for you,” he said. “I offered to accept your surrender, or to let you leave unmolested, but you chose to attack.”
The admiral yelled something in Koschite that the translation system didn’t catch, then he gestured angrily at his soldiers.
Cohen watched, wondering just how far he could push.
“If you surrender now, maybe we can still settle this peacefully.” Tomsk stared at him, and Cohen had to work to keep the grin from his face. Death might be close at hand, but for the first time, Cohen thought he understood what drove the Marines, what led them to seek out dangerous solutions to difficult problems and to strive for victory even while everything seemed hopeless. Here, on the very edge of death, there was joy to be found in the simple th
ings.
“Ah, look,” said Cohen, working hard to keep his tone light and friendly. “Palmerston has opened fire.”
Admiral Tomsk turned back to stare at the main display, mouth open in appalled horror as the feed showed Palmerston spitting untold numbers of railgun rounds at the troop carrier.
“Yes, you can follow the trajectory of the rounds on the tactical overview,” Cohen went on. “It looks like your ship’s going to take a bit of a pounding. Why isn’t she firing back, or taking some other step to defend herself? Don’t you think she ought to?”
Tomsk shouted in Koschite again and Cohen watched the translation as it rolled up in his HUD.
“Don’t be too hard on them,” he said sympathetically. “They’re amateurs, after all.”
“This is your doing, Cohen,” said Tomsk angrily, rounding on the lieutenant commander and flailing angrily towards him.
“Yes,” admitted Cohen, “although your crew’s incompetence is certainly making things easier.”
On the display, the feed had switched from showing the tactical overview to a close-up of the troop carrier as it floated serenely through space. All looked normal, except for the flashes of railgun rounds puncturing the hull and the spurts of gas as the penetrated chambers vented their contents into space.
“It’s still not too late to surrender, sir,” said Cohen, “if that’s what you want. I would be happy to–” He stopped as an explosion punched a hole in the troop carrier’s hull. “Ah, no. Maybe it is too late.”
All eyes turned to the screen. Gas was blasting from a hole near the rear of the troop carrier. Then they saw several more explosions shudder along the length of the ship before one final blast shredded what was left. The Deathless watched in mute horror as the feed showed the remains of the troop carrier drifting through space. Then the feed ended, to be replaced by a slowly spinning Royal Navy logo.
“And that is my cue to leave, ladies and gentlemen,” said Cohen, triggering the first of the explosive charges. There was a loud bang and then the atmosphere began to vent quickly from a small hole on the far side of the bridge.
