Hiko frowned. So, what was the niece of some billionaire ex-politician doing with a piece of space debris like Lonny Fargo? Had she run off with him? Maybe. Half the people on the Rim were on the lam from something. “And Fargo? What about him?”
Combi shook her head. “Nothing in the news, ma’am.”
Hiko sighed. The problem was that just about all of the stuff stored in the ship’s computers predated the mutiny and the moment when the ship’s original commanding officer ordered the long irreversible jump out to the Rim. Fargo could have been front-page news the next day, and Hiko would have no way to know.
“Okay, keep the Chien-Chu woman under surveillance and don’t let her see anything important. Her boy friend will be back in about seven hours. Thirty minutes before he comes aboard I want her placed under guard and brought to me. Understand?”
Combi didn’t understand, not really, but knew how to follow orders. She bobbed her head and used the same military lingo that the old-timers did. “Ma’am, yes ma’am.”
“Good,” Hiko said, pushing the matter from her mind. “Let’s work on a message to Captain Fesker. He, along with the cretins who decided to follow him, can either get with the program or wait to see which type of major malfunction will transform their ship into a death trap. I can’t wait to see the expression on the idiot’s face.”
It was uncomfortable inside the Solar Princess, very uncomfortable, but not for long. Fifty heavily armed Naa commandos, all dressed in space armor, had been crammed into the ship’s small hull.
Would they be enough? Yes, Booly decided as looked forward over Captain Mort’s shoulder, they would have to be. The heads-up display (HUD) was inoperative so long as his visor was up, so the officer checked the wrist terminal strapped on over his armor, and saw that twenty-eight minutes remained to touchdown. He thought about his wife, hoped she was okay, and tried to make time pass more quickly. It didn’t.
Maylo Chien-Chu was on the run. Hiko was on to the operation, to some extent at least, something which had become obvious when the escort she had been assigned called her by her real name. A sure sign that her cover had been blown.
But the petty officer wasn’t aware of his slip which gave the executive the opportunity she needed. They were about to pass through a hatch on their way to the ship’s commissary when Maylo executed a reverse kick, felt her boot connect with the sailor’s knee, and heard him grunt in pain.
The noncom landed on his butt, the business executive scooted through the hatch, and palmed a large red button. The emergency hatch slammed closed interrupting whatever it was that the crew member had been trying to say as he held his knee and rocked back and forth.
Maylo ran. The plan, such as it was, consisted of hiding until her husband retook the ship. They would be waiting for him, that much was obvious, but the Naa were tough. If anyone could secure the launch bay they could. But if the Syndicate had a gun to her head Booly might cave in. The though both pleased and horrified her which was the reason why she needed to hide.
Working in her favor was the fact that the renegades had dispensed with their original uniforms in favor of whatever each individual chose to wear. That would enable Maylo to blend in—but not for long as the search became more intense.
Now, as she took a series of random turnings, the executive looked for a place where she could take refuge. The opportunity came when she saw a sign that read, CREW QUARTERS, FEMALE PERSONNEL ONLY,” and followed a series of bulkhead-mounted decals into a communal lounge equipped with easy chairs, a large holo tank, and cubicles where women could tap into a broad range of on-line resources.
Half a dozen crew members were present but none of them even looked up from what they were doing as Maylo crossed the common area and entered the rack stacks beyond. The bunks were piled three high, padded to protect the occupants if the argrav generators failed, and equipped with privacy curtains. A sign cautioned QUIET! and the lights were intentionally low.
It quickly became apparent from the names posted over each rack, not to mention the personal effects stored within, that the bunks were assigned. Some appeared to be occupied by off-duty personnel although it was difficult to tell if the curtains were drawn.
That being the case Maylo looked for one that was unoccupied, prayed that its owner wouldn’t come back anytime soon, and climbed inside. The executive figured that anyone presently on duty was likely to remain so once the attack started.
Maylo heard a commotion, guessed that a search was under way, and jerked the curtains. Then, having rolled over to face the pictures taped to the bulkhead, she pulled a blanket up over her clothes. And that’s where she was, staring at a picture of a woman with two children, when someone knocked on the metal above her rack. Rings rattled as the curtain was pulled to one side. The voice was female. “Chief Hosker?”
Maylo answered without turning. “Yeah?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be on duty?”
“Yeah, but I’m not feeling well. Some kind of bug.”
“Okay, but be sure to log out next time.”
“Sure, sorry about that. I had to barf, and it slipped my mind.”
“No problem. We’re looking for a stray . . . A Eurasian woman with hair like yours. Call security if you see her.”
“Roger that,” Maylo said, allowing the pillow to muffle her words.
“Good,” the voice said, and Maylo heard the other woman continue down the corridor. The businesswoman looked at her watch. Her husband was due to arrive in the launch bay in about three minutes. Her heart beat like a kettledrum. She lay on the bunk and prayed.
The launch bay was open to space and armored crew members were still in the process of spilling out onto the deck when the Solar Princess swooped in through the widely yawning hatch. Booly knew the operation had been blown the moment he saw the heavily armed troops exiting the internal locks and forming up on the deck. Should he run for it? Leaving both Maylo and chance of success behind? Or risk everything and go for it? The decision had to be made in a matter of seconds and he made it. “Strafe the deck,” Booly ordered grimly, “but don’t destroy the locks. We need a way to enter the rest of the ship.”
Though not known for his innovative leadership style Captain Henry Mort knew how to follow orders and did so. The Princess had two secondary weapons turrets. Dozens of renegades fell as both burped blue light.
Captain Hiko swore as she witnessed the devastation from her location in the Traffic Control Center. It had been her hope to capture the parts without firing a shot. “Close the outer doors! Trap the bastards inside! No heavy weapons! I want those parts intact.”
“Aye, aye,” the ship’s master at arms acknowledged from the deck below, and went to work.
The Solar Princess had landed by that time and commandos were jumping down onto the steel plating. A group of renegades opened fire on them and they fired back.
“I’m about to bail out,” Booly said, still addressing his comments to the ship’s master. “The moment the last legionnaire clears I want you to place the ship directly under the port hatch. It’s pretty obvious we won’t be able to access the controls in the next few minutes and we have to block at least one door so the assault boats can get in.”
“She’ll be crushed,” the retired naval officer replied, “those doors are heavy.”
“So be it,” Booly responded. “Maybe my wife can write it off somehow . . . Make sure that the crew gets clear.”
“Roger that,” Mort replied grimly. “There’s four troopers to go. It looks like you’ll be the last.”
Booly took the hint, turned, and made his way to the lock. Energy bolts splashed the hull as he jumped, and his boots had barely touched the metal deck, when the spaceship rose on its repellors, slid across the deck and stopped under a blastproof door. It was halfway down by then which meant it was only a matter of seconds before durasteel met durasteel. There was no sound, not in a vacuum, but there was no mistaking the way the door knifed into the freighter’s reentr
y-scarred hull and forced the metal to fold before eventually grinding to a halt.
The remaining opening was no more than fifty feet high. Large enough for a well-piloted assault boat to squeeze through? They would soon know the answer.
More renegades flooded out onto the deck, small-arms fire lashed back and forth, and Booly left that part of the battle to Lieutenant Hardkill, an extremely competent officer who definitely knew his business.
The more pressing matter, from Booly’s perspective at least, was to secure at least one of the two locks that opened into the launch bay, both to gain access to the rest of the ship, and as the first step in finding his wife.
And that’s where he was, watching a demolition charge being placed, when the first assault boat slipped in under the now-blocked door, completed a full circuit of the cavernous bay, and touched down off to one side.
Both the Guerro and the Imbulo were equipped with interceptors, at least fifty each, but so was the Kendo. Booly could only assume that there was one hellacious battle taking place outside the ship’s hull and knew that each assault craft that made it through the gap had run a gauntlet of fire.
The commandos blew the lock as the third assault boat landed and a nasty compartment-to-compartment battle ensued. It lasted for the better part of two standard days and ended 257 lives before Captain Hiko finally agreed to surrender.
Fesker, who attempted to escape in an interceptor shortly after the battle started, had been captured by then, as was his heavily damaged ship.
All of which was nice but nothing compared to the moment when Booly found Maylo safe and sound, wearing someone else’s space armor, and helping care for some of the Guerro’s casualties.
Things were busy after that as the Naa struggled to deal with thousands of prisoners, prize crews were put aboard the recaptured warships, and plans were made to return the vessels to Earth orbit.
The better part of a week later, while headed for Legion headquarters on Algeron, there was time to talk. The Guerro’s gig wasn’t especially fancy, but it was spaceworthy, and that was all the couple cared about. Booly’s bare chest made a pillow for Maylo’s head. The NAVCOMP was piloting the ship and the gig was in hyperspace. The soldier stared at the nondescript overhead. “Sorry about your ship . . . but it made one hell of a doorstop.”
“You mean our ship,” his wife corrected him, “you married into money, remember? But I’ll submit a request for compensation.”
“You’ll be an old lady by the time the Senate gets around to approving that.”
“Probably,” Maylo agreed, “so I won’t hold my breath. In the meantime, there’s plenty to do.”
“Like what?” Booly inquired lazily.
“Like this,” his wife replied, “and this, and this.”
“Oh,” Booly said contentedly. “That. We could certainly spend some time doing that. And they did.
PLANET HUDATHA, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
As if exhausted by the turbulence elsewhere the air around the castle was clear and still. There were clouds to the north, south, east and west but none over Cragmount, the castle built by Hiween Doma-Sa’s ancestors more than a thousand years before and still guarded by members of the clan.
It was a large keep, perched on top of a crag from which it took its name, and accessible only by air or the long winding trail that originated in the fertile valley below. The path was so narrow that it was known as “the squeeze” and forced enemies to approach the fortress two abreast.
It was cold, very cold, and the Triad could see puffs of his own lung-warmed air as he stepped out onto one of the castle’s many balconies to begin his morning workout. The sword called the Head Taker was nearly as old as the fortress itself having been born in the castle’s forges hundreds of years before. As with all such weapons it had two edges, one straight, and one with razor-sharp teeth. The highly polished metal reflected shards of sunlight as it swept through the air.
Doma-Sa remembered the duel he had fought with the War Orno, one of Senator Orno’s two egg mates, and the feel of the sword sinking into the Ramanthian’s belly. Head Taker had gone hungry since then, and that was a good thing, since enough blood had been spilled. A new viewpoint, since there had been a time when Doma-Sa would have cheerfully murdered every alien he could lay his hands on but his attitudes had changed. For the betterment of the race? Or to its disadvantage? Only history would tell. Still, to practice the art of war was as natural to the Hudathan as breathing, and the puffs of vapor came more frequently as the Triad fought a file of imaginary enemies.
The War Commander sensed a presence behind his back, brought his right foot down, and used it to pivot. The page, a youngster of fifteen, stood absolutely motionless as the razor-sharp blade flashed through the air and stopped a finger’s width away from his throat. Doma-Sa held the sword to the youngster’s throat for a period of five heartbeats before allowing it to fall. “That was close . . . you could have been killed.”
The youth shifted his weight subtly. “I was never in any danger, sire.”
Doma-Sa considered the answer. Toro-Sa was correct, since he had no intention of killing his own son, but others of his rank were not so safe. Familial murder, especially in the pursuit of power, was an accepted tool in Hudathan society. The Triad offered an expression so subtle that only another member of his race would have recognized it as a smile. “No, son, you weren’t. But don’t grow lax. What do you have for me?”
“A message, sire, from Triad Infana-Ka.”
Doma-Sa frowned. “From Ifana-Ka? That’s unusual. What did he have to say?”
Toro-Sa activated a vocorder and held the device up so his father could hear. There was no mistaking the other Triad’s gruff voice. “It’s past midnight, and I have visitors. It seems that Hasa-Ba is here and wants to see me. Chances are that it’s nothing, but if I turn up dead, don’t believe whatever dra they tell you.”
Typical of Ifana-Ka there was no good-bye—just a hard metallic click.
What felt like ice water trickled into Doma-Sa’s veins. His voice sounded no different than it had before but Toro-Sa knew that his father was upset. He could see it in the subtle tightening of the clan leader’s jaw. “Call the captain of the guard, put the entire complex on alert level one, and send the following message to Ifana-Ka: ‘Are you alive? If so, prove it.’ Do it now.”
Toro-Sa knew that “now” meant “now,” and was gone in a flash.
Doma-Sa eyed the sky and wondered how many satellites, spy drones, and rock-crawling remote-imaging robots were watching him at that particular moment. An attack if any would almost certainly come from the sky.
But logical though the theory was the real danger had already passed the outermost ring of defensive sensors and was climbing toward the keep above. Not just climbing, but running up through the squeeze as if the narrow passage were level, never pausing to take a rest. That was because the entire assault force was comprised of Hudathan cyborgs all of whom were members of the Ba clan.
They were huge creatures each armed with an electronically driven six-barreled fully automatic projectile weapon plus a fast-recovery missile launcher. They were fast, they were armored, and they were mean. Something the humans had learned during the last Hudathan war. They were also barred from participating in military actions on Hudatha’s surface—a prohibition that Hasa-Ba had chosen to ignore.
The captain of the guard dispatched a fast-reaction force that moved to block the invaders just as thousands had been blocked before.
But the defenders were biobods, and the mechanized troops cut through them the way a hot knife cuts through dak, and the cyborgs continued to climb.
Doma-Sa was in the castle’s Command and Control Center by then. Cameras mounted on the surrounding cliffs provided the Triad with an excellent view of what was taking place. Doma-Sa noticed that the third cyborg back was different from the others. A design he had never seen before. This particular unit moved on four feet rather than two, and carried
a heavily armored rider.
Toro-Sa appeared at his father’s side just as the lead borg fired his rocket launcher. There was an explosion as one of the many gates vanished in a flash of light. “A message arrived from Ifana-Ka, sire; he says he’s fine.”
“So,” Doma-Sa said sadly, “they killed him. There was a code—and if Ifana-Ka was alive he would have used it. Their leader, the one riding the specially designed cyborg, that will be Hasa-Ba. It appears that he wants to rule alone.”
Toro-Sa eyed the screens. “What will you do, sire?”
“Kill him,” Doma-Sa said grimly, “because there is no other way.”
The Triad turned to the captain of the guard. “Use the mines. Allow the first four units to survive. Kill the rest.”
Meanwhile, a second contingent of defenders had emerged from a side tunnel, only to be blown away in a welter of flesh, blood, and bone. The wash of airborne biomatter splattered across Hasa-Ba’s visor as his cybernetic mount galloped through the gruesome spray. He gloried in the moment, the way his force had penetrated deep into the Sa clan’s territory, and could practically hear his ancestors as they shouted, “Blood! Blood! Blood!”
But the moment of combat-induced elation was terribly short-lived as Doma-Sa ordered his captain of the guard to selectively detonate the mines which lay not only below the passageway’s surface, but within side of the mountain.
The highly directional charges went off in sequence, starting just behind Hasa-Ba and rippling down through the squeeze. The command-detonated mines exploded upward and ripped into the cyborg’s legs. And, even as that was taking place, similar devices concealed within the mountain spewed thousands of steel spheres out across the narrow trail. Some of the troopers were cut in half, some were decapitated, and others were thrown off the cliff that bordered that section of the trail. It was a two-hundred-unit drop to the bottom of the sheer rock face and none of those who fell survived.
For More Than Glory Page 42
