by Richard Fox
Adams opened fire, using the weapon’s recoil to pull the aim across both Rangers. She stitched bullets across one’s chest, then took the other in the throat. The one hit in the chest staggered back, his armor taking the brunt of the impact and proving strong enough to keep the bullets from penetrating. He gripped his rifle and swung it toward Adams.
She slid to a stop and saw the ammo counter on her weapon flash zero.
Turcotte shot the staggered guard through the damaged armor plate and the enemy collapsed.
“Get up!” The Pathfinder swung his weapon at the Ranger clutching his face. The Ranger looked up. One eye socket of the skull visor was broken out and a bloody eye looked right at Turcotte. The guard slapped the Pathfinder’s carbine aside and swung a punch that missed Turcotte’s head but broke a chunk of the already damaged wall out.
Adams got her feet under her and jumped at the Ranger, swinging her carbine like a club and whacking him on the back of the head. The blow glanced off and Adams heard the creak of the pseudo-muscle layer beneath the Ranger’s armor plates as he swung his bulk around. His fist caught her on the arm and the blow sent her flying. She landed hard on her shoulder and skidded into cell bars.
Pain lanced up through her arm and breathing suddenly became very difficult.
The Ranger drew a pistol from a holster and shot Turcotte in the stomach. The Pathfinder fell with a yowl, arms clutched to the wound. The Ranger swung his weapon to Adams.
“Hey,” Labaqui said.
The Ranger glanced to his side just in time to see the legionnaire’s shoulder bash into his face. The Ranger made a brief flight into cell bars and fell to the floor. Labaqui raised a foot and stomped the Ranger’s damaged helmet. The visor shattered and there was a crunch as the Ranger’s skull fractured.
Labaqui pulled a grenade from his belt and lobbed it toward the guard shack at the base of Post Charlie.
“Can you move?” he asked Adams.
“Turcotte…” she said, waving to the fallen Pathfinder as she grabbed a cell door to help her up.
“He won’t survive,” Labaqui said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Adams said. “Pathfinder…wouldn’t leave you to die.”
“Noted.” The legionnaire tossed Turcotte over his shoulder and ran back to the breach. Adams followed with agony in every step from her badly broken arm and cracked ribs.
Drops of blood left a trail behind Labaqui, and Adams wasn’t sure if it was from the legionnaire or the Pathfinder.
****
Izuma twisted his helmet into place and joined the IR network formed between him and the rest of his power-armored troops in the guard post. He sat with his back to a workstation at the fore of the post’s command center, keeping Martian rock between him and Alpha.
“Status?” Izuma asked.
“They’ve got snipers in Alpha,” one of his Strike Marines said. “Not armed with a rail rifle, but he’s a good enough shot to tag us if we stick our heads outside the post.”
There was a snap as a gauss bullet cut through the windows and drilled through the wall into Izuma’ office. The top of his wooden desk blew into splinters, a spiderweb of cracks marking where the round penetrated.
“Sonsabitches, that was an antique,” Izuma said.
Izuma did a quick count of fighters on the network. Twenty-five power-armored individuals, another six coming on line from the armory. Not knowing how many enemy he faced was proving to be a planning obstacle.
“Sir,” said a Ranger sergeant as he scooted over next to Izuma, “the Ibarran prisoners are escaping to cellblock Charlie.”
“Doesn’t matter. This is Mars. They get outside, they’ll last thirty seconds before they suffocate and die. They ain’t going nowhere,” Izuma said.
“They have a Mule,” the sergeant said.
“One. They have one Mule for what? Two thousand?”
“Then they’re here for VIPs? Use the rest of their tube babies as cannon fodder?”
“I wouldn’t put it past the Ibarrans,” Izuma said.
“Missile!” someone shouted.
“Volume fire!” The sergeant popped up, weapon ready.
Izuma was a beat behind the sergeant. He saw the missile arcing up and away from his guard post…flying straight for the dome.
“What in the hell…”
“Brace for decompression!” The sergeant threw himself on the floor.
Izuma stood still and watched as the missile exploded against the dome. Fault lines wove up the composite glass and alarms blared through the prison…but the dome held.
A realization struck Izuma.
“Commo! The automated alerts should be screaming to Mount Olympus, right?”
“Yes, sir,” said the tech, getting up onto his knees at the workstation. “That message went through…I can piggyback on the line, get some help.”
“Do it.” Izuma ducked back down just as a sniper bullet burst against the glass. He looked over at the doorway to the logistics rails. An idea came to him.
“Strike Marines, Rangers,” Izuma said, “you ready to take this fight to the enemy?”
“Hoah, sir,” the sergeant said.
Chapter 19
Alarms blared in the Destrier’s cockpit and Walker fumbled her e-reader away in surprise. Masha snapped on her flight helmet, brought the ship’s engines online, then raced through the preflight checklist.
“Not a drill, that’s for sure.” Walker touched a screen and tossed a file onto the forward HUD. An icon flashed on a location well south of Mount Olympus. “Does Mars Command have a screw loose? This can’t be right. Restricted zone. No orbital tracks over that area at all…they’re sending us to make a rescue?”
“Not just us,” Masha said. “The whole ready flight of three Destriers…medical teams are loading. Wheels up in sixty seconds.”
Warning lights warbled around the bay doors as the massive metal plates slid aside. The force field separating the hangar from the deadly Martian environment shimmered as blown dust swept over the energy wall.
“But there’s nothing out there,” Walker swiped across a screen with video feed around their aircraft. “The whole flight would only launch for something as big as a disabled cruiser or a mass-casualty event at one of the macro cannons.”
A scarlet text box popped up on every screen and the HUD.
“Delay?” Walker shook her head. “Delay for security teams?”
“To hell with that,” Masha said. “Command pushes the panic button and they want us to sit around and twiddle while they find some jarheads?” She dismissed the alert and opened a channel.
“Crimson flight, this is call sign Gezur,” Masha said. “Standard search-and-rescue protocols are in effect. Whoever’s in trouble needs our help right now, not when our ducks are in a row. I’ll take point. Wheels up in five.”
“Commander Hard Ass is calling us,” Walker said. “Pretty sure he’s about to countermand your order.”
“Bah.” Masha powered up the repulsor engines and the massive shuttle lurched forward. “Let that lard ass try and squeeze into a flight suit and come find me.”
The Destrier slid through the force field and blasted off into the red skies.
“You may get the record for fastest time between in processing and out processing the squadron,” Walker said.
“Well shucks…” A half smile crept across Masha’s face. She bit her teeth together with a quick code. “ETA is nineteen minutes.”
“I know that. I’m looking at the same flight path you are,” Walker said, slightly annoyed.
“Confirmed,” Medvedev said through the quantum dot communicator in her tooth. “By the Saint, I pray your patsy delivers. Else this prison will be our home, and we’ve already proven to be poor houseguests.”
“Faith the size of a mustard seed and all that,” Masha said and clicked her teeth five more times.
“What?” Walker asked.
“Is that you?” Masha heard Freeman ask with a muffled whisper
. “Is it time?”
“Saint Kallen, save all sinners from the fires of Hell,” Masha said. “Forgive blackened souls. Help them to see the light.”
“I didn’t know you were religious.” Walker crossed herself quickly.
“Got it…I got it,” Freeman said. “Just get Salina out of there and remember to take me with you.”
Masha increased the Destrier’s elevation as they came up to a ridgeline and leaned forward to look up at the Martian sky.
“Never hurts to ask for a miracle,” Masha said.
****
Freeman’s hand trembled as he drew a small data drive from a pocket hidden in his sleeve. He looked around the Crucible’s control room through the dais’ holo panels, wondering which of the crew was braver and smarter than he was.
He swallowed hard and snapped the drive into a port.
Power failed across the control room. Holo screens snapped off and the lights became erratic strobe lights. The bridge crew sat at empty workstations, like they’d all reverted to children at an analog elementary school and were staring at their teacher on the dais.
“Emergency reboot!” Freeman shouted and reached down to touch a still-working panel out of sight from the rest of the crew. He tapped in a nine-digit code and the entire command center lurched to one side, tossing Freeman against the railings.
“Wormhole realignment!” A crew member pointed to the circular view port in the ceiling. The gigantic thorns that made up the smaller Crucible gate realigned, and a white plane formed in the gate’s center.
“That’s not on the schedule.” Freeman reached under a control panel and jiggled a wire, doing his best to look busy. “Alert Mars Command!”
“Everything is still off-line,” a commo tech responded.
The wormhole aperture widened suddenly and a massive ship appeared, perilously close to the bridge. Freeman ducked out of reflex and looked up, mouth agape, as rocket pods attached to the carrier ignited and the ship accelerated toward Mars.
Screens flickered to life and Freeman lost his focus as he was inundated by a mountain of data and shouts.
A vid capture of the ship popped up in front of him, the computers designated the ship with a red hostile icon, and a callout box zoomed in on the name painted on the blue and white hull.
The Warsaw.
The rocket pods fell off the carrier as it swept toward Mars.
“That’s an Ibarran ship,” a crewwoman said. “What the hell are they doing?”
“Not our problem,” Freeman said. “Get this station back online so we can bring in help from the Ceres Crucible.”
Just don’t do it too quickly, Freeman thought.
****
Admiral Makarov gripped her armrests as the Warsaw dipped into Mars’ atmosphere. Heat shields flared as pink skies formed around the ship, the upper band the dark of the void. Two key officers flanked the admiral while the rest of the bridge crew focused on their stations in open-topped bays just below her command platform.
Makarov longed to go to the deactivated holo table behind her, but the g-forces pressing against her entire body were an unpleasant reminder of just how rough this mission was going to get.
“Shields are holding,” said her XO from his station to her right. “Vector in line with projections.”
“Give me a course plot and timer to our exit window,” Makarov said, and the Warsaw’s projected path wrapped around Mars and traced back to the Grinder. “Gunnery, status on our insurance policy?”
“In place,” said a stern-faced woman from Makarov’s left. “Shall I bring it online?”
“Don’t tip our hand just yet. We’ll see—”
“Admiral, we’re being hailed by Mars Command,” came from the crew bay.
“We’ll see how they want to play this.” Makarov doubled-tapped a key on her armrest and the holo of General Laran came up on the inside of Makarov’s visor.
“Ibarra Nation ship,” the general said, “you will take up orbital anchorage immediately and surrender or I will blow you out of my sky.”
“I think not.” Makarov tapped her armrest with her fist to get her XO’s attention, then pointed to the deck. “We’re here for our citizens. The ones you’re about to murder.”
Laran shook her head. “The Terran Union did not create this situation, but we have the strength of will to see it through, to preserve the peace. Did Stacey Ibarra dump you out of the tubes with any ability to reason, or am I talking to a stump?”
“We serve the Lady,” Makarov said. “Her will is ours. Don’t test it.”
“I remember your…namesake,” Laran said. “A hero of Earth. For Ibarra to spit on that legacy by churning out some sort of cheap imitation to—”
“My mother would have gone to Navarre with the Lady,” Makarov said. “And she would never have left any of us behind. I’m not interested in surrendering. You’d just kill us all as ‘unauthorized productions,’ wouldn’t you?”
“It would be my duty.”
“Well, then let’s not pretend I’m in any hurry to surrender this ship,” Makarov said. The Warsaw rattled as it descended. Even with Mars’ thin atmosphere, the stress of sliding through the skies was taking a toll on her ship.
“Really hope the landscape hasn’t changed since we planned this mission,” the XO said, “or else this will go down as the most embarrassing rescue attempt in history.”
“I’ll make you a deal, General,” Makarov said. “You sit on your hands until we leave with all our people and no one gets hurt.”
“I am armor.”
“You are a disgrace,” Makarov cut the transmission.
“Rail batteries on Arsia Mons coming to bear,” the gunnery officer said.
Ahead, a line of fire snapped across the ship’s flight path as a hypervelocity round ignited the thin air with its passing.
“Guns?” Makarov asked.
“Shot went four hundred meters over our direction of travel,” she said. “In line with projections, we’re below defilade. If we keep this altitude, they shouldn’t be able to hit us.”
“They built Mars as an anvil,” Makarov said. “Meant to punish anyone that got into a fight overhead. General Laran and the rest of the planet didn’t plan on a guest sneaking through the keyhole of their shiny new Grinder and ducking beneath their defenses before they could react. The rail batteries are all built into elevated positions to engage orbital targets, not a ship flying with her belly scraping against the ground.”
“I’ll feel more smug once we’re back through the gate,” XO said. “There are still four more things that have to happen perfectly or this’ll end in a complete disaster.”
“Ferrum corde,” Makarov said.
“Ferrum corde,” the bridge crew intoned.
****
General Laran reached into a holo tank with all of Mars projected within and turned the planet around with a pass of her hand. The Warsaw’s flight path, current location and projected course around the red planet flashed with priority.
Her staff, and the crew of the command center, waited silently as the general studied the situation.
“Ground batteries?” the general asked.
“None can engage,” replied an army officer, somewhat sheepishly. “Not until they try to break orbit.”
Laran swiped through a menu and icons for combat air patrols around Mars populated the holo. Her hands tapped the fighter patrols and dragged them to points along the Warsaw’s projected path. She shook her head as estimated flight times popped up next to each proposed route.
“Our fighter coverage is too thin and their ship is moving too fast,” Laran snarled. “Bastards did their homework on us.”
“Their end game has to be to rescue their personnel at Tholis,” her chief of staff said. “If they wanted to destroy the prison and kill the prisoners, they could have done that from the Grinder with a single rail battery salvo.”
“Land their carrier? No, they’d never make orbit again.” Laran pic
ked at her bottom lip. “They have to take in the prisoners while they’re still on the move.” She zoomed in on Tholis and touched the dome. Status reports sprang up in the holo: a solid red box for the facility’s communications, a blinking amber one for its life support.
“No contact with the guard force,” the chief of staff said. “Some sort of structural integrity issue triggered the emergency evac protocol. The S&R flight en route hasn’t responded to hails either.”
“Clever,” Laran said. “They’re using our own standard operating procedures against us.”
“We can scramble fighters from Olympus. Take out their transports,” said a void force officer from the crowd of staff.
“While they’re empty?” Laran asked. “The Ibarrans are bold, but they’ve handed us an opportunity. If we scratch the S&R, then there’s still a prison full of problems to…solve, and Makarov might feel inclined to lash out if she realizes she’s on a fool’s errand. No. They’ll be most vulnerable while their people are trying to get aboard the Warsaw. We strike then. Take them all out with one blow.”
Laran zoomed the holo tank out and swiped a palm across the planet. Icons for warships in orbit blinked.
“We have artillery ships at anchor,” she said. “Alert Trebuchet and Ballista squadrons to charge up their rails and work up a firing solution for…here.” The general drew a box along the Warsaw’s projected path back to the Grinder. “They can fire without leaving their anchorage. Don’t alert the Ibarrans by moving any of our ships to intercept. But we need another angle of attack. Ready interdiction fighters with capship missiles. They’re to engage as the Ibarrans break orbit…we should see them burn up from here.”
“Yes, general,” said the void force officer as he looked down at his forearm screen. “I’ll have the alert fighters’ load out changed right away…just one thing. The alert fighters are all piloted by Dotari.”
