by Daniel Gibbs
“Screw our orders!” Nishimura thundered. “These bastards killed two of my Marines. They’re no longer civilians, Master Guns. They’re enemy combatants, and I only know one speed with dealing with the enemy. Kill them all, and let God sort it out.”
“With respect, sir, we still need someone from the bridge crew to help us operate the ship. That won’t happen if they’re all dead,” MacIntosh interjected. “I realize I’m an observer here, but still, it’s a valid point.”
“He’s right, sir,” O’Conner said. “I think you know that. Killing the people in there won’t bring back our fallen.”
He was right, but the anger within didn’t want to go quietly. Nishimura bit his lip. “Fine, we’ll use nonlethal to storm, but any of them step out of line, and I’ll shoot them myself. Clear, Master Guns?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Switch ammo to stun and stand back,” Nishimura ordered. When the group was six meters away from the hatch and all battle rifles were reloaded, he nodded to one of the enlisted Marines. “Blow it.”
“Fire in the hole!”
An enormous explosion blew out from the sealed alloy door, sending shards of metal and a sheet of flame outward. The breaching element immediately leaped into action, tossing flashbangs inside before rushing in.
As Nishimura charged forward, the sharp report of battle rifles rang out. He was intent on being the first power armor suit through after the breach team. As he cleared the hatch, a massive wrench narrowly missed his helmet. Nishimura twisted out of the way and used the butt of his weapon to stun the attacker—a human male wearing the same jumpsuit uniform as the other crewmembers they’d encountered earlier.
A few civilians had taken cover behind a group of consoles and fired on the Marines with improvised weapons, including some sort of industrial nail gun. They screamed in a foreign tongue, and one man stood holding a piece of metal with a hose attached. He charged the closest Marine, and as he did, a bright-blue flame erupted from the end of it.
Nishimura watched in horror, too far away to stop it but close enough to feel the incredible heat coming off the plasma torch. It touched the helmet of his Marine and burned through almost instantly. Inhuman screams filled the bridge, and Nishimura closed the distance as fast as he could. His battle rifle spat stun rounds, sending the Leaguer flying backward while the plasma torch flopped onto the deck and began to burn through it.
Chaos reigned for a few more seconds as the Marines quickly gained the upper hand over the civilians. A woman clutching an electrical tool dropped it as several power-armored marines closed in, and resistance ceased.
Heart pounding, Nishimura turned back toward his fallen Marine. The life-sign indicator showed a red line, and once he’d turned the body over, he saw why. The torch had burned through half of the man’s skull. Damn, Private Schultz, you deserved a better end. Rage exploded within Nishimura. He drew his sidearm, ensured it was loaded with lethal ammunition, and advanced on the man who’d snuffed Schultz’s life out.
“Sir, what are you doing?” O’Conner asked, suddenly appearing at his side.
“Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth,” Nishimura replied and raised the weapon.
The woman—who was the only Leaguer not stunned—raised her arms and started jabbering, but the words didn’t make sense. She was evidently pleading for something. When the Marines didn’t react, she seemingly worked up the courage to stand and pointed at the cross symbol on Nishimura’s armored suit.
He stared at her with a stern expression. “I don’t speak whatever you're going on in, lady.” Nishimura’s finger moved to the trigger. This piece of shit doesn’t deserve to live. None of them do.
“Do you speak English?” she finally asked with a hint of an accent. “Please, if you can understand me, don’t harm him. If we didn’t resist, the political commissars would kill us all and our families.”
“He killed one of my Marines. No one walks away from that.”
Again, she pointed at the cross on his armor. “Are you a Christian? You must be a Terran.”
“Yeah, on both accounts.” Nishimura’s finger rested on the trigger. Why aren’t I just putting two in this asshole’s chest and one in the head?
“I’m a Christian too.” The declaration caused every Marine on the bridge to stare at her.
“What?” Nishimura blurted out. “The League of Sol is a communist empire that pipes propaganda into our space all day, talking about how enlightened you all are and that there’s no superstitions allowed.”
“And if they ever found out, I’d be sent to a reeducation camp along with my husband and children. Please, have mercy.” She practically knelt in front of him, hands still raised.
Nishimura felt like a surreal curtain had fallen over the bridge. The book doesn’t have anything in it to cover this. He held his left fist up—the signal to stop. “Okay. Help us obtain a full load of helium-3 fuel from the automated refinery in this system, and you’re all free to go. Take it or leave it. That’s the best deal you’re getting out of me.” Nishimura set his jaw. “And for crying out loud, stand up.”
“Thank you.”
Nishimura stared at the woman. “Don’t thank me yet.” I already regret not offing this guy. He slid the pistol back into his holster as a Marine slapped flexicuffs on the stunned civilians.
15
Twelve tiny wormholes ripped open the fabric of space near Mars, and twelve Ghosts appeared, including Justin’s craft. He gripped the flight stick tightly as he opened his eyes. It seems like the aftereffects from a Lawrence drive jump build up when you’re in these things. Justin scanned his HUD, confirming everyone else in the Red Tails squadron was nearby and forming up.
“Nice of you to join the party,” Green said over the command commlink channel. “Black Hogs are present and accounted for.”
“Good,” Justin replied. “Lieutenant Martin, what about your squadron?” Additional friendly icons appeared on his sensor readout—the twelve Ghosts from Green’s unit.
“Yeah, Cap. We got caught up dealing with a few Leaguers. I’ve got a fighter kill.” Martin sounded especially pleased. “Maybe I’ll catch up with the rest of you one of these days.”
“Probably got us all beat on raw kilos destroyed, though,” Green said with a chuckle. “But I’ll put my guys up against both of you any day for taking out League bombers.”
Justin grinned, even though no one could see him. “We all bring strengths to the team, as the major has been trying to hammer into our heads.” He zoomed the sensors in, focusing on a cluster of space installations. “I’m designating this station as our primary target. Deep scans from the stealth raiders suggest it’s a military command of some sort.”
“You’re forgetting something, mate. A station like that will have heavily reinforced shields,” Martin replied. “See the field of cargo containers and short-range haulers a few kilometers away? A far better target for our merry band.”
He’s got a point. Justin spent a few seconds staring at the screen before he cued the mic. “Okay, let’s still take a shot at the station. One Javelin, say. If it doesn’t make a dent, we’ll switch to the cargo yard.”
“Sounds good, mate.”
Justin flipped his channel back to the Red Tails. “Alpha One to all pilots. Form up in finger-four formations and follow me in. Lieutenant Martin and the Winged Lightnings have point.” He pushed his throttle up to maximum speed. It seemed unbelievable that the League hadn’t responded with overwhelming force. This is our last attack. I’m not pressing our luck any further than needed. Four separate assaults on Sol’s major planets would go a long way to delivering a huge morale boost for the Terran Coalition. And some payback to these communist bastards.
A few minutes later, Martin put a single Javelin anti-ship missile in space. It flew straight and true, directly toward the League station. The giant structure was shaped like a double torus, with an outer and inner ring. Docking ports jutted out from it, and a few had ships attached, th
ough no combat space patrol was in evidence.
The blue dot representing the active warhead on Justin’s HUD got closer and closer to the installation. He willed it forward, hoping they would catch the enemy with shields down, asleep at the helm. When the Javelin exploded in a bright flash of brilliant white light, a red energy effect ringed the station. Justin checked the sensor readout, hoping to find that perhaps the League hadn’t invested in strong protection for its assets in Sol. No such luck—the shield appeared on his display, and the computer gathered enough information from the attack to determine it had lost half a percent of its structural integrity. Yeah, we’re not getting through that. “Alpha One to all pilots. Switch to secondary targets.”
“Wilco,” Feldstein replied quickly.
“I wanted one of those commie stations to my credit,” Martin grumbled. “I’ll have to settle for raining hell on their import-export holdings.”
Justin snickered. “You do that, Lieutenant.”
As the thirty-two Ghosts zoomed toward the sea of cargo containers, a stream of new contacts emanated from the nearby station. They quickly accelerated outward and formed into groups of three. Justin’s HUD flashed with an alert. “Alpha One to all pilots. We’ve got twelve to fifteen bandits bearing three-two-five. Assess enemy does not yet have a hard sensor lock on us.”
“The moment we open up, they will,” Green interjected.
Staring at the screen, Justin shook his head. He had no great answers, and he was determined to take a risk in hopes of putting an exclamation point on the damage already inflicted by the CDF’s strike. “Then we’ll shoot them down like we’ve shot every other Leaguer down,” he snarled. “All pilots, break and engage containers.”
The Terran Coalition fighters juked and weaved toward the zero-G cargo yard. Modular pods were stacked on top of each other as tugs moved them around to waiting vessels, while other ships waited in what appeared to be an unloading area.
Justin lined up one cluster of containers and waited for the missile-lock-on tone. “Alpha One, fox one.” His next-to-last Javelin missile dropped out of the internal stores bay and zoomed away.
Most of the friendly craft loosed their Javelins, while some tried neutron-cannon blasts to varying degrees of success. A few pods exploded—or more accurately, disintegrated—from missile hits, then the Javelins struck home. Entire groups of cargo containers ceased to exist along with the tugs moving them. Spectacular explosions of blue-and-orange flame filled the sky.
Justin scanned his HUD, satisfied with the wave of destruction they’d wrought, then all of a sudden, one last warhead hit a structure in the middle of the field of pods. As it blew apart, the containers began to move. What the…? Justin’s fighter wrenched under him. It took every ounce of concentration he had to keep control.
“Take that, you damn commies!” Martin yelled.
Coming out of what could only be described as a gravity wave, Justin returned his gaze to the HUD. The scene amazed him. Hundreds of cargo pods had scattered, and a few were already entering the atmosphere of Mars. Bright plumes of flame leaped off them, a telltale sign of parabolic reentry.
“Not sure what we did or who did it,” Justin said. “But nice work, folks. Okay. Time to get out of here and head back to the Greengold.” His gut said it was time to make their escape.
“We’ve got incoming. Bandits, bandits, one-seven-zero, range seventy kilometers. Twenty-plus bandits on an intercept course,” Feldstein called with alarm. “I’m being spiked.”
“My entire squadron’s spiked,” Green muttered.
Overlaying the sensor readout on his HUD, Justin realized the Leaguers were too close for them to make a run for it. Those damn Shrike fighters of theirs have afterburners. We don’t, and they’ll catch us before we hit the Lawrence limit to microjump. No choice but to fight. “We can’t run, people. Squadron leaders, reform elements and prepare to engage.”
Feldstein cut in on a private commlink channel. “I hope to God you know what you're doing.”
“Trust me, Dvora,” Justin replied. “We blow through these guys. They probably can’t get more fighters out before we break contact and get to the limit. Then we’re home free.”
“From your lips to God’s ears.”
“If there is one, sure.” Justin flipped the channel back to Alpha element. “Alpha, finger-four formation. Use double missiles to engage. We need to knock out as many hostiles as possible in one pass without turning this into a dogfight.”
“Wilco,” Adeoye replied as he rolled his craft toward Justin’s wing.
The range between the twin groups of fighters closed rapidly. Multiple lock-on warning tones sounded in Justin’s cockpit as he settled onto a vector to intercept the onrushing enemy craft. Using the mental interface with his Ghost, Justin selected the twin-fire mode for his Vultures. The moment the Leaguer entered weapons range, he squeezed his missile-launch button. “Alpha One, fox three.”
Anti-fighter missiles sped away from both sides, with the Ghosts having an edge in volume of fire thanks to their higher numbers. Electronic countermeasure systems went to work, jamming several warheads while chaff blossomed from aft-mounted dispensers. Several League fighters ceased to exist as they took multiple hits, and the two formations met in a wild melee. Blue neutron-cannon bolts and red plasma balls crisscrossed in space, and shields lit up from direct impacts as well as glancing blows.
One of the Vultures Justin fired hit its intended target, but the other exploded harmlessly, taking the bait of enemy countermeasures. He rolled his fighter, struggling to keep the Leaguer in his sights. Its pilot was better than most and successfully dodged most of the neutron-cannon fire he sent its way. I don’t have time for this. Justin toggled his stores selector to heat-seeking missiles and squeezed the trigger. “Alpha One, Fox two.” Guns-D that, asshole.
Another four League craft exploded as more friendly fighters entered energy weapons range, while the enemy Justin tracked tried to juke out of the way. Flares erupted from it, decoying the inbound HT-53D Eagle. But while the pilot avoided one threat, another materialized. Feldstein obtained a guns solution and fired a stream of neutron-cannon bolts. A few moments later, the Shrike exploded violently.
“You looked like you could use some help, sir.”
Justin let out a sigh. “Yeah, thanks, Dvora. That one was slippery.” Why am I using her first name?
He had no time to think about the subject further. Noting that four friendly icons were dark, indicating lost craft and pilots, Justin engaged the tactical overlay on his HUD. Only one League fighter remained in the near vicinity, and it wasn’t moving to pursue. Now’s our chance. “All pilots, break left relative. Come to heading zero-three-three, mark positive ninety. Max speed to the Lawrence limit.”
A few light-years away, Nishimura stood guard with the Marine squad as MacIntosh and the captured civilian who’d promised to help them toiled at a console. The rest of the crew had been rounded up—hands and feet flex-cuffed together—and moved to an empty compartment under heavy guard. Nishimura had little confidence in the League turncoat, regardless of her story. Only MacIntosh’s insistence that they could use the help in deciphering the engine and flight controls kept Nishimura from shooting her along with the rest of them.
“Status report,” he barked for the third time in five minutes.
“The same as it was a minute ago, sir,” MacIntosh replied. He turned from the console. “We’re almost done unlocking them.”
Nishimura stroked the butt of his sidearm. “How do I know you’re not secretly sending a message to your Leaguer buddies?” he asked the woman.
She turned and glared at him. “You have no reason to trust me, but I suspect this gentleman here will know if I do anything untoward and promptly shoot me.”
“Ya got tha’ right, miss.” MacIntosh’s brogue had become considerably thicker in the last half hour.
Silence followed as she tapped away for several more seconds. With a flourish, the woman
hit a final key and slid back from the console. “You should find yourself able to maneuver the ship now.”
MacIntosh gave the thumbs-up with his armored gauntlet. “Confirmed, Major. We’re able to navigate freely.”
“Next step, the helium-3 refinery.” Nishimura crossed his arms. “Walk us through how your ship takes on fuel.”
“It’s entirely automated,” the woman said. “We dock, an arm extends, and once our access codes are accepted, an hour later, we’re full.” She shrugged. “The job could be automated, but the League prides itself on full employment. Everyone has a place, you see.”
Nishimura gestured out the windows at the front of the bridge. “Take us in, then. There’s no time to waste. Do you have a name?”
“I thought you’d never ask. It’s Candace Flores. And yours?”
“Major Kosuke Nishimura.” He furrowed his brow. “What planet are you from?”
“Earth.” She wiped a piece of hair out of her eyes.
Nishimura’s mind raced. The idea of a civilian POW randomly being a Christian and willing to help them was so far beyond the realm of possibility that he couldn’t wrap his head around it. “How do we even know you’re what you say you are?”
“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. If you’re a Christian, why don’t you tell me what book of the Bible that’s from.”
“Uh…” Nishimura stared blankly. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. When was the last time I even opened my Bible app?
“The Beatitudes. Matthew, I believe,” MacIntosh finally interjected.
“Yes. That’s so strange to me. You’re allowed to worship freely, yes?”
They both nodded.
“Yet one of you, who displays a cross on his uniform, doesn’t know one of the most important teachings of Jesus.” Flores shook her head. “We have to memorize the Bible and internalize it. To be caught with a religious text of any type results in an immediate transfer to the reeducation camps.”
