The Lazarus Particle

by Logan Thomas Snyder

“Right leg,” Breed growled. “Below the knee.”

  Torrey started to treat his partner when Fenton intervened. “I got it,” he said, stripping off his belt. He may not have been a medical doctor, but he knew enough to improvise a makeshift tourniquet. While he wrapped and notched the belt tight around Breed’s lower thigh, Torrey traded fire with the boarders.

  “One down,” he said, catching one of the boarders in the throat while he tried to cover the other two. With no one to lay down fire behind them, the others proved easy pickings for Torrey and even Fenton, who emptied the remainder of his clip into the third man just to be sure. “And two more makes three.”

  “Fuck yeah, Major. Nice shooting.” Breed gestured for the pistol, dropping the spent clip and snapping in another before handing it back. “We might just make a soldier out of you yet.”

  “I think I’ll go ahead and leave that to the experts.”

  They were a motley group by the time they finally got moving, if you could even call it that. Fenton did his best to help Breed while Torrey took point, but between his cranky hip and Breed’s wounded leg they were about the worst three-legged relay team imaginable. They needed to get to ground quickly or the next group of boarders they ran into would almost certainly be their last.

  Torrey held up a hand as they came to a blind intersection. Scattered reports of gunfire chased each other up and down the corridors, making it impossible to determine which direction it was originating from. Snatching a small mirror from his breast pocket, Torrey affixed it to the end of his combat knife, using it to get a look into the intersecting corridor without exposing himself. Nothing from the right. He switched grips to check left and was just about to come to the same conclusion when a group of friendlies rounded the corner, pausing to pop off a few shots behind them before taking flight again.

  Torrey quickly dismantled the mirror knife, sheathing the blade and replacing the mirror in his pocket. He nodded to Fenton and Breed, gesturing for them to ready themselves. Fenton nodded back. Breed just set his jaw, clearly ready to exact some revenge for his wounded leg.

  The friendlies pounded past the intersection. Moments later, the boarders followed, stopping every few feet to aim and fire after them. “Now!” Torrey shouted, swinging into the intersection and spitting lead at the Morgenthau-Hale Marines. Fenton and Breed followed suit. There was nothing honorable or glorious about shooting their enemy in the back, though few things about war actually were, Fenton reflected as he pulled the trigger again and again. To a man, the boarders flailed and dropped.

  The friendlies were an even more motley assortment. A few soldiers, an engineering officer, a flight mechanic, and a comm tech. The soldiers jogged up to Torrey and Breed while the others executed the surviving boarders and stripped them of their weapons and remaining ammo. Fenton might have found the whole thing shocking, even barbaric, if he hadn’t just seen Banks and Hennah murdered before his very eyes. He didn’t even hesitate when one of the boarders reached for the cuff of his pants. He’d just shot the man in the back, after all. Was it really so much more dishonorable to put him out of his misery, even if that meant shooting him in the face?

  Fenton pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He was about to pull again when Breed snatched at his wrist. He shook his head slowly. A moment later, the boarder coughed and gagged, drowning in his own blood from an internal injury. He was dead in a matter of seconds.

  “No turning back once you go down that road, sir. You’re better than that.”

  Fenton nodded, not even really hearing the words.

  “Alright, listen up,” Torrey barked, taking command of the situation. “All indications are the armory, engineering, and flight decks are holding out. That leaves the command module. I don’t need to tell you what happens if these motherfuckers get there in force before we do, so let’s move out, on the double!”

  Before moving out, Fenton made sure to grab the dead boarder’s sidearm.

  Fenton and Company arrived to find the command module already locked down. Torrey assured them this was a good thing, although not altogether convincingly, as he approached and banged upon the heavily reinforced doors.

  “Identify yourselves,” came an unfamiliar voice from the panel set next to the door.

  “Corporals Torrance and Breed,” he answered. “We have survivors and munitions. We’ve come to help reinforce the command module.”

  Several seconds passed with no response.

  “Hey!” He smacked the blast doors again. “Open these doors! We’re sitting ducks out here!”

  Still no response.

  Reluctantly, Torrey readied himself, gesturing for the others to do the same. Fenton and the others followed suit, fanning out to cover the whole expanse of the corridor.

  The doors began to retract. Fenton flinched, waiting for that first burst of fire that never came.

  “Hurry,” a voice from inside ordered as the nearly two-foot-thick doors parted just enough to allow them single-file entry.

  Fenton was barely through the doors before he was wrapped in a fierce bear hug. His first thought was that he was being restrained, that after everything they had stumbled into a trap. He started to thrash, to resist, until he felt her fingers on his cheek. “Roon?!”

  “I’m so glad you’re okay,” Roon whispered as the blast doors closed behind them. “I’ve been so worried.”

  “How?” he wondered dumbly, gaping at her. “How did you get here?”

  Roon smiled and gestured over her shoulder with a little flick of her head. “You can thank my guardian angel.”

  It was only then that Fenton took note of Xenecia’s presence in the command module. She sat at one of the unmanned stations, drawing a whetstone across a nasty looking blade as long as her forearm. “What can I say?” she asked, showing her teeth in a feral smile. “For some ridiculous reason I have taken a liking to you two.”

  Not knowing what else to say or do, he took Roon’s advice and simply mouthed, “Thank you.”

  She nodded just so. Then she returned her attention to the blade, the stone, and the battle to come.

  “What is happening out there?” Soroya asked, the concern for her crew evident in her voice. “We initiated lockdown protocols as soon as the breaches were detected. Since then we have been largely in the dark.”

  Torrey shook his head. “We weren’t able to do much of a head count, ma’am, but apparently we’re hanging in there. When did the bombardment stop?”

  “Twenty minutes, give or take.”

  “They must think they still have a chance.”

  Marshal Harm furrowed his brows. “A chance at what? You know what they’re after?”

  Torrey looked to Fenton pointedly.

  “Me,” Fenton said. He explained how he, Banks, and Hennah were ambushed and the latter two killed, how he’d nearly been abducted at the direction of the boarding party’s leader before Torrey and Breed came to his timely rescue. Roon remained stitched to his side all the while, squeezing harder and harder with every ugly detail he let slip forth.

  Afterward, the command module was silent, thick with tension. Marshal Harm nodded slowly, digesting everything he’d just been told, then looked up. “Well it’s just a real damn shame for whatever tin pot shit out there that we happen to be pretty damn fond of Major Wilkes, isn’t it, people?”

  “Fuck right, it is,” Breed was the first to say.

  Perhaps most surprisingly, Xenecia was the next to speak up. “Let the fools come,” she said, smiling as she ran the flat of her thumb across her blade. It actually sang out in response, a mournful wail that sent a shiver down Fenton’s spine. “Twice they have tried to take him from me and twice they have failed. I like those odds.”

  Fenton couldn’t help smiling a little. “For once, I actually do, too.”

  The rest of the command module agreed. No way they were giving him up without a fight. So they passed out what little spare arms they had while Torrey briefed them on what to expect. “We’ve ac
tually got some pretty good angles here, plus we have enough people to cover both sets of doors.” He set up sharpshooters, including Breed, at the far corners to cross-cover the entire module, then assigned teams to the blast doors on each side. Xenecia was practically salivating, standing over one of the prone soldiers who were ready to start taking angled shots into the corridor the moment any targets presented themselves on the far side.

  When it finally happened, they were ready.

  As soon as they began to force the port side doors open, Breed pulled the trigger and clipped the crown off the head of one of the boarders. He took aim and snapped off another round, catching the next man in the neck.

  A flashbang grenade rolled through the starboard doors. One of the few unarmed personnel on the deck dove out, snatched the grenade, and winged it back just as the boarders started to swarm in. The grenade exploded just in front of the boarders, staggering many of them in spite of their protective gear. At Torrey’s signal, he, Fenton, and Xenecia popped up, peppering the incapacitated incoming force from head to toe until all their clips ran dry.

  Across the module, the port-side breaching party was having more success. A handful of personnel were already down before her as Soroya staggered back, squeezing off round after round until her sidearm ran dry. When at last her pistol failed to respond, she bared her teeth and reached for her blade a second too late.

  Or rather, a second too late if Xenecia had not leapt shrieking to her sister’s aid. Her razor-honed edge took the boarder’s head clean off with a single swing. A fountain of blood geysered up as what was left of the body fell awkwardly to its knees, then flat forward. Xenecia landed in a three-point crouch, immediately whirling low and slashing across the legs of the men who followed. As the last of them fell, she ended each of them with a violent, plunging strike to the gut.

  By the time the smoke cleared, the air was thick—even slick—with the scent of spilled blood and viscera.

  Behind them, a tortured wail shook the command module as they took stock of casualties. Torrey was kneeling before Breed, cradling his partner’s head in his hands. A single weeping crimson dot below Breed’s left eye told all the story anyone needed to know. “No, no, no, no, no,” Torrey intoned again and again, as if it might make some difference. It didn’t.

  Breed was gone.

  … And then, just as quickly as the battle ended, the bombardment resumed anew.

  “Damnit!” Harm voiced as that first detonation rocked the deck, nearly throwing him off his feet. “We can’t take much more of this!”

  Soroya sneered. “They must know their boarding teams have been neutralized.”

  “Ma’am,” one of the helmsman said as he slid back behind his console, “the Tyroshi fleet is advancing!”

  “They are looking to finish us,” she said flatly. “They cannot have Major Wilkes or the nanites, so no one will.”

  “No,” Fenton said. He finally knew what he had to do. He understood why he had been spared. He had all the power, so much more than they knew. “Which one? Which one can’t we hold out against?”

  No hesitation. “Tyroshi,” Harm said. “Those plasma cutters will slice us to ribbons if they get close enough. Now, it’s your turn: What the hell are you planning?”

  “Whatever it takes to save us.” He looked to Xenecia. “I need an escort to the flight deck.”

  She smiled and pumped a fresh round into her carbine. “Oh, how the wyrm has turned.”

  “Please don’t go,” Roon begged, clinging to him. “Please. Not now, not after so much.”

  “I have to. If I don’t, we all die and none of this matters for anything. It has to, though. It has to matter for something.”

  She closed her eyes tight, fighting back tears and nodding solemnly. “Okay. I understand. I love you, Fenton.”

  “I love you, too, Roon. So much more than I can ever say.”

  Xenecia scowled as another blast rattled the ship. “Can we please move this along?”

  “Not without me,” Torrey declared. Snatching up Breed’s rifle, he racked in a fresh round. “Let’s do this.”

  44 • ATTRITION

  “You’re mad!” Trufant said with all the bravado of a man on the wrong end of a mutiny. “The Admiralty will never stand for this… this treason!”

  “The Admiralty?” Orth scoffed. “The same Admiralty that sent the likes of you to mop up the Tyroshi threat? An up-jumped legacy with more name than brains? I beg to differ.”

  The realization dawned visibly upon Trufant’s pale, fleshy face. “You’ve been planning this all along…”

  “From the moment Admiral Bakhtiari informed me you were to be my relief.”

  “But why?”

  “I’m no fool, Armand. Do you think it lost on me that you received command of the battle group for which we were both vying? My posting to Tau was exile by promotion, punishment for my testimony in the Xavier Affair. No doubt your posting was compensation for whatever web of lies you parroted in yours,” Orth said contemptuously before returning to his rationale. “But if Tau was punishment, it was also my home. My command. Those were my people the Tyroshi slaughtered—good people, one and all. Had the Admiralty allotted me more than three aging Arbiters for a perimeter defense fleet, we might have saved more. And then, of all people, they send you. My people deserved better.”

  “My battle group happened to be best positioned to respond!”

  “It was a slap in the face and you know it!” he roared. His voice echoed sharply throughout the command module while he composed himself. “And you forget, old friend, it is no longer your battle group.” He smiled as he stepped in close, kneeling to meet the man eye to eye. “I knew if I played the dutiful soldier I could manipulate your oafish vanity to place myself in a position to seize command. All I had to do was bide my time and feed your delusions of grandeur. You always did have more ambition than sense. And now—” Arms spread wide, he stepped back to encompass as much of the command module as possible. “—here we are. I stand vindicated.”

  Trufant blinked as he absorbed the totality of Orth’s diatribe. “My god. You really are barking mad.”

  Orth sighed, letting his hands slap against his sides. “You never could see the big picture. A pity.” And just as quickly, he was done with the man, turning to the communications station. The officer previously stationed there had been relieved by a Marine specialist. “Have the infiltration teams boarded the Irregulars’ flagship yet?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Patch me through. I want to speak to the team leader personally.”

  “Commander Orth? This is Corporal Euric, sir. I’ve assumed command from Sergeant Larkin.”

  “Very well, Corporal,” Orth said. “Report.”

  “Sir, we’ve suffered moderate casualties but have tracked the targets to the flagship’s command module. They’ve sealed the blast doors and are most likely reinforcing against the possibility of a breaching operation. I recommend we open communications with those in charge and negotiate the surrender of the targets.”

  Pruitt had served under Orth long enough to know that negotiation was not an option, not after all they had lost. “Unacceptable,” he declared, sure enough. “Prepare to breach immediately.”

  Reluctantly, Corporal Euric complied. “Yes, sir. Prepare to breach,” he ordered his Marines.

  “Remember, Corporal: Fenton Wilkes, Roon McNamara, and Xenecia of Shih’ra are priority number one. They are be taken alive by any means necessary.”

  “Understood, sir. Charges are in place. Confirm order to breach?”

  “Order confirmed, Corporal.”

  “Yes, sir. Breaching in three… two…”

  The sounds of pitched battle rang out over the comm—the boom of the breaching charges; tinny bursts of rattling fire; an overlapping chorus of shouted commands, guttural war cries… the sounds of men and women fighting and dying for a cause that was not and would never truly be their own.

  As the battle reached
its inevitable conclusion, silence prevailed in both command modules. “Report!” Orth demanded. No reply. “Euric? Anyone? Report, damnit!”

  “What do you think of my methods now, Commander Orth?” a sultry, familiar voice purred over the comm. “By all means, send me more of your people. I shall be glad to add their heads to my growing collection.” The laughter that followed was slow and throaty and deeply unnerving, punctuated by a sudden, sharp burst of static feedback before the communications specialist shut down the link.

  Orth was clearly furious. “That Shih’rahi cunt,” he seethed, fists balled white-knuckle-tight against his sides.

  “Well, that was cathartic,” Trufant said, smirking. “You see, Knolan? Your messianic complex will only take you so far. Your Marines couldn’t even overpower an ad hoc band of misfit rebels. It’s only a matter of time until you and all those under your alleged command meet the same fate.”

  “Lieutenant Pruitt, get this fool out of my sight. I’m sure he’ll find the brig most accommodating. After all, it used to be his.”

  Trufant’s smirk turned to sneering contempt at the notion of being confined to his own brig. For such a proud man, the insult to his ego would surely sting as badly as the injury. “Mark my words, Knolan: You may think your little mutiny successful, but you shall rue the day you crossed Armand Trufant III.” He spat at Orth’s feet. “That is a promise.”

  “Noted.” He looked to Pruitt. “Lieutenant Pruitt, please escort the prisoner to his new quarters,” he said, emphasizing the word with a malicious grin. “I’ll decide what to do with him shortly.” To the weapons officer who had been overseeing the tactical bombardment of the Irregulars’ fleet before being rousted from his station, he asked, “Your name?”

  “Lieutenant Dyson, sir.”

  “Are you convinced I am firmly in command, Lieutenant Dyson?”

  “Quite convinced, sir.”

  “Excellent. You may retake your station. And the rest of you,” he said to the helmsman, the communications officer, the sensor operator, and the rest of the sundry command personnel, “I shall learn your names in time. Swear your loyalty now and you may continue to serve. Otherwise you may join your former commander in the brig.”