Bringing Stella Home

by Joe Vasicek

  “Will she be disabled when we get there?”

  “At the current rate of attrition, yes.”

  “Good. And the fighters?”

  “They’ve completely broken up. Kill ratio is at twenty to one.”

  “Order the first and second squadrons to return to the Flame,” said Danica. “I want to be ready for a quick withdrawal.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Danica glanced at her screen and watched as they approached the Hameji transport. The floor stopped rumbling as the engines cut off, and the room fell truly silent.

  “We’ve reached the midpoint,” said Anya. “Turning around and preparing for deceleration.”

  It took her just under thirty seconds to flip them around. The maneuver made Danica feel queasy in her stomach—the gravitic dampers were not particularly good at countering rotational acceleration. Once the starfield stopped spinning, the engines engaged again, a distant roar through the metal walls of the Tajji Flame.

  “The Hameji transport is down,” said Vaclav, smiling. “Their forward window is shattered and leaking air. We won’t meet much resistance when we board.”

  Danica seriously doubted that. Still, the battle was all but over. The Tajji Flame had come out completely undamaged, with only the loss of a few dozen fighter drones—expensive, but replaceable. Much more replaceable than men. It looked as if they were all going to come out alive after all.

  As if in answer, all of the ship’s systems—lights, computers, everything—suddenly shut down.

  “What the—”

  “Oh, shit!”

  “What just happened?”

  “It looks like an ionized warhead, Captain,” said Mikhail. “Half our systems are out.”

  “But we just knocked out the second transport!” Vaclav screamed. “They’re leaking air, dammit! Their hull is breached! How could they hit us now? It’s suicide!”

  “Can we jump, Konstantin? Can we jump?”

  Mikhail gave her a grim look. “I’m afraid not, Captain; the jump drive’s completely scrambled.”

  Danica’s blood ran cold. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm.

  The third transport, she thought to herself. Of course.

  They were about to be boarded.

  Chapter 17

  A peculiar feeling seized the boy without a name—a falling sensation, as if the universe had turned itself inside out. It lasted for only a second, but it was enough to send a surge of adrenaline through his veins.

  Jumpspace. They were on the move.

  The next few minutes passed in an angst-filled tedium. Together with his brethren, the platoon started to feel claustrophobic—not much at first, but more and more with every passing second. Completely encased in his high-gee coffin, he was unable to so much as lift a finger.

  Without warning, oxygen filled his lungs, pushing the thick, syrupy breathing liquid out the respirator. The boy coughed and breathed deeply, clearing his lungs and filling them again with fresh air.

  Half a minute later, the coffin cracked open. The boy staggered out and braced himself against a wall. The taste of vomit rose in his mouth, but he fought it down and rose to his feet. The skeletal frame underneath his suit gave him the support he needed while he recovered.

  All around him, the boy’s platoon brothers emerged from their coffins, like alien creatures from mammoth-sized cocoons. They drew their weapons and assembled in the oversized airlock. The speakers in his helmet registered a loud clanking noise, coming from outside the door on the far side of the room. Inside his armored gloves, his palms began to sweat.

  Sergeant Voche marched to the head of the group. They knew it was him because of the red epaulets on his shoulders and the fact that he wore his visor up. The sight of his face encouraged them, the way a young boy feels encouraged by his father.

  “Stand by for boarding,” he said, his voice tinny in the boy’s ear. “Alpha squad, Beta squad, take positions.”

  The door behind them hissed shut, and the one ahead of them flew open, revealing a space-blasted airlock.

  The door.

  Flashbacks from the training raced through their hearts—feelings of dread and fear and death and terror. The boy dropped to his knees and leveled his gun, while all around him a chorus of clicks and hums filled the air as his platoon brothers did the same.

  It took the sapper bots nearly a full minute to break through the stubborn outer door. Their high energy lasers cut slowly through the hardened durasteel hull, sparks falling to the floor like waterfalls of light. A few carefully placed explosives finished the job, and the platoon moved forward, taking up positions behind the inside door—the final barrier between them and the enemy.

  Inevitably, the barrier exploded outward in a burst of light. The room went dark as the boy’s visor adjusted for the blast. As everything came back into focus, a bright flash of plasma fire lit the gaping hole where the door had once been.

  The boy screamed and pulled the trigger. His gun pounded against his shoulder, as if it had come alive.

  White hot plasma splattered all around him, hissing like drops of water on an open burner. Muzzle flashes flared in infrared on the other side of the breach. The sound of gunfire filled his ears. As the smoke cleared, human shapes became visible on the other side. They weren’t far—only a few yards away. Then, the rumble of feet began pounding through the floor as his platoon charged the enemy.

  The boy leaped to his feet and joined them.

  All fear left him. Nothing existed in that moment except the battle. He screamed and charged through the breach, gun blazing. The enemy soldiers scattered as if tossed about by a mighty wind.

  “Forward!” came Voche’s voice in his ear. “Annihilate them!”

  In the close quarters of the enemy ship, the firefight soon turned into a brutal fistfight. One of the enemy soldiers swung his rifle against a platoon brother’s head, toppling him. The boy barreled into the man and landed a punch square in his face. With the amplification from the skeletal frame, his fist shattered the enemy soldier’s helmet and pulped the inside of his skull. The man grunted, and his body went stiff. When the boy withdrew his hand, his gloved fingers dripped with blood and brains.

  The boy without a name grabbed his gun and leaped into the fray. The sound of gunfire and the screams of death filled his audio input feed. Around him, the dead and wounded lay writhing on the ground, blood oozing from cracked and blasted armor.

  The horrors of the battle meant nothing to him, however. Victory was everything.

  The enemy was in a rout. They scrambled away in confusion down the main corridor. A loud hissing noise sounded, and a pair of massive blast doors slid shut in the midst of them. Most of them passed through, but two failed to escape. Gunfire from his platoon brethren cut them up in seconds. One of them exploded as his RPV shield failed, his shredded arms ricocheting off the plasma-scorched walls.

  “Form ranks!” came Voche’s voice, steadying them all. “When we break through, I want Alpha and Gamma squads to fan out and flank their main force in the maintenance corridors. Alpha squad, take the left; Gamma squad, take the right. Positions!”

  The boy joined the five other platoon brothers in Gamma squad and hugged the right side of the wall. Like sprinters at a race, they trembled with anticipation as the sapper bots sent showers of sparks cascading to the floor.

  * * * * *

  James pressed his back against the wall of the narrow maintenance corridor and held his rifle tightly in his hands. The not-so-distant sound of explosions made his heart skip a beat. That wasn’t the sound of paintballs splattering on the walls—that was live ammunition, and it was getting closer.

  “We’re all going to die,” said Ilya, his voice trembling with fright. “We aren’t going to make it.”

  “Just shut up and hold your position,” said James. “Mikhail will get those jump drives fixed.”

  He said it as much for himself as for Ilya. Only a few dozen
yards down the narrow maintenance corridor, Mikhail was working feverishly to repair the ship’s nav-computer. If they could hold off the Hameji long enough for him to do his job, they’d be fine.

  At least, James hoped so.

  “We’re going to die,” Ilya moaned in a low voice, his face pasty white. “We’re going to die.”

  A blast came from down the main corridor. James and Ilya both ducked at the sound.

  “Oh God,” said Ilya, pale as a ghost. “They’ve taken the ship. We’re finished!”

  “Ayvazyan! McCoy!” shouted Danica in James’s earpiece. Off to the right, he heard the sound of gunfire.

  “Here, Captain,” said James.

  “They’ve infiltrated the main deck. We’re going to establish a line about twenty yards from you on the main hallway. We think they may try to flank us, but we can’t send you reinforcements for another minute. Whatever happens, hold your position!”

  “Right,” he called out. Flanking maneuvers. Hold the corridor.

  His hands felt numb. He glanced down and saw that they were covered in sweat, trembling uncontrollably. His body seemed to belong to someone else.

  “Oh God,” said Ilya. “They’re going to flank us? Oh God!”

  “You heard the captain,” James hissed. “Shut up and help me hold this position.”

  He crept forward and set up where the corridor jogged in a few feet. In the darkness of the power loss, he couldn’t see all the way to the far end.

  We have to protect Mikhail, he told himself. With his gun pointed ahead, he motioned to Ilya to advance. Ilya slunk out from his hiding place and ran ahead, to the corner of a narrow passageway that connected the maintenance corridor with the main hallway.

  Ilya hugged the wall while James crouched and made his way forward. The sound of footsteps grew louder.

  Another explosion sounded off to the right, followed by screams and gunshots. The noises filtered through the ventilation shafts, echoing in an eerily windy tone.

  James glanced down the connecting passageway and saw shadows dancing on the wall, cast by plasma bursts on the other end. The Hameji were advancing—he could hear their footsteps as they charged.

  “They’re everywhere,” moaned Ilya. “Oh God.” His face was completely bloodless, as white as death. He dropped his gun and curled up against the wall, hugging his knees.

  “Shut your mouth and get up,” said James. His heart raced in his chest—he couldn’t fight off the Hameji all by himself.

  “We’re not going to make it.”

  “I said get up!” He bent down to pick up Ilya’s gun.

  That was what saved him.

  A searing burst of plasma screeched over his head, hitting the wall directly behind him. Ilya screamed and covered his face with his hands, while James dropped to the floor and rolled around the corner, into the connecting passageway.

  “Aiee!” screamed Ilya. In a burst of panic, he leaped to his feet and ran towards the bridge, away from the fighting. Before he could make it far, a bullet caught him in the leg. He fell on his face a few feet short of the jog in the corridor, while over his head, a barrage of plasma hit the wall and sizzled with acrid smoke. James watched him crawl the rest of the distance, under fire, to safety.

  With heavy gunfire sounding from either end of the connecting passageway, James was trapped. His hands and feet felt numb as adrenaline surged through his body.

  I don’t want to die here, he thought to himself. Not like this.

  For a brief moment, the plasma fire along the maintenance corridor let up. Now’s my chance, he realized. If he could follow Ilya and make a dash around the corner, he just might make it. No time to think—it was now or never.

  He checked his RPV shield and ran out into the corridor, spinning around to fire. The muzzle flash from his weapon illuminated the darkness just enough for him to see the Hameji soldiers charging. Bullets sizzled on his shield, filling the air with an acrid metallic smell as they vaporized.

  James stumbled and fell.

  Time slowed to a crawl as his body tumbled in midair. He could make out each individual bullet as it hit his shield and fizzled. The RPV unit began to beep, a warning that it was about to blow. He let go of his rifle and reached out with his hands to brace himself. His muscles moved so slowly that he felt as if he were swimming in a bowl of thick porridge.

  Pain flared across his shoulders and back as his body hit the floor. Above him, bullets cut through the air. He reached for his gun, but before he could grab it, a Hameji soldier loomed over him, rifle leveled at James’s chest.

  I’m sorry, Stella.

  * * * * *

  The boy without a name stood frozen to the spot, finger on the trigger. The enemy soldier lay sprawled on the ground, staring up at him in fright, completely helpless.

  Before he could fire, though, something deep in his subconscious stopped him. In that split-second of hesitation, he got a good look at the soldier’s face. One moment, the battle lust filled his body. The next, a shockwave of emotion blasted through him. It felt as if someone was inside his head, screaming out in pain and horror. Time slowed, and all the disjointed memories of his past life flooded back to him.

  I am not a crybaby!

  Yes you are.

  Shut up—I hate you!

  The boy without a name shuddered and let his weapon fall to the ground. Recognition exploded in his mind like a bomb, making his head reel.

  James, he realized. That is James, my brother. And I am—

  I am Ben.

  In that instant, something shattered deep in the recesses of his mind. He staggered and braced himself against the wall, slipping off his helmet to get a breath of fresh air. His platoon brothers were gone—he could no longer feel their emotions, no longer reach out to them with his own. He felt empty and alone and weak—

  And free.

  “Ben?” James said, eyes widening in surprise. “Ben, is that you?”

  Ben’s mouth turned up in a smile. “James,” he said. “Brother.”

  Without warning, a hot pain seared through his stomach. The eerie sizzle of plasma came to his ears, the smell of melted flesh to his nose. A wave of adrenaline swept over him, nearly making him swoon. He glanced down and saw a black hole in his belly, white-hot plasma eating out his smoldering intestines.

  “Ben? Ben!”

  Someone had shot him from behind. As he spun around to see who, his legs gave out underneath him. James ran to his side as he collapsed on the floor.

  “Ben! No! Don’t die—someone, help! Help me!”

  Ben’s strength was fading; not much longer, and it would all be over. As his broken body slipped into unconsciousness, he reached up and touched his brother on the cheek. James stopped and looked down at him, panic in his eyes.

  “James,” Ben groaned. “I love you.”

  With those last words, his world turned to darkness.

  * * * * *

  Danica huddled with her men behind a makeshift barrier of old crates and spare parts. Gunfire flew over their heads, while the acrid smell of plasma-scorched metal filled her nose and mouth.

  “Get ready to fall back!” she shouted to her men. Vaclav stopped returning fire long enough to glance over at her.

  “Where?” he shouted.

  “To the bridge.”

  He shot her a hopeless look that said it’s over already. Perhaps he was right, but Danica wasn’t about to give up—not when any of her men might still survive. She gritted her teeth and set her rifle to plasma, then ripped a grenade from her belt.

  Before she could throw it, the gunfire stopped.

  Danica frowned. An eerie silence fell over the smoke-filled ship, broken only by the sizzle of cooling plasma and the cries of the wounded and dying. Cautiously, she peered over the edge of the makeshift barrier. Her eyes narrowed, and slowly, carefully, she stood up from where she knelt.

  The Hameji soldiers stood in place, as dumb and unmoving as statues. Even though they all had a clear shot a
t her, none of them moved to take it. Encased in their armor, they looked like so many robots shut down in the middle of operation.

  Off to the left, she heard an unearthly scream. It sounded like James.

  Danica didn’t know what was going on, but she wasn’t about to stand around and ask. “Forward!” she shouted to her men. “Charge!” As her men leaped over the barrier, she returned the grenade to her belt—no use tearing up her ship any more than she had to—and opened fire. The dozen Hameji soldiers in the middle of the hallway went down like mannequins, gobs of white-hot plasma melting through their armor in a matter of seconds. One by one they toppled over, motionless as statues even as her men blew them apart.

  Then, movement to her left. Without thinking, she dove to the ground. A plasma burst flew over her head, barely missing her. She hit the deck and fired at her attacker. The shot missed, but she got a good look at him—red epaulets, with a black, razor-thin beard running along the edge of his jaw.

  The screaming came again, this time much closer. It was James—no doubt about it. His cry rose in pitch from a wail of mourning to a bloody scream of rage. He barreled out of the corridor like a juggernaut, firing at everything in his path.

  His shots went wild, however. The officer ducked behind his motionless soldiers and sprinted for the end of the hallway. James screamed again and gave chase.

  That kid is going to get himself killed if I don’t stop him, Danica realized. She rose to her feet and ran after him.

  Flashes of gunfire and plasma illuminated the hall, and the Hameji began to stir. “Kill them all!” Danica shouted. “Take no prisoners!” Off to the right, Maria ran out from a connecting passageway with a squad that had somehow survived the initial firefight. They whooped as they blasted the confused Hameji soldiers to pieces.

  Beyond them, Danica watched as James followed the Hameji officer through the airlock. She cursed—attacking the Hameji on their own ship was the height of stupidity. If the enemy undocked, he would be gone—the only way to stop that was to seize control of the transport before they could.