by Alan Black
The unarmored piglets, each holding an engineer’s grease pencil used for marking pipes and bulkheads, walked around the room. Calmly and without haste, they marked a big X on everyone’s chest.
Butcher said, “Master Chief Thomas?”
Thomas shrugged, “Sorry, sir. I don’t know. I’ve already broadcast a Situation C.” Situation C meant the captain was in danger. Armed navy security forces and armored marines would come boiling to the bay in short order.
Butcher looked at the assembled piglets. “Are you sure? They don’t appear armed, Master Chief?”
Thomas said, “Armored is armed, sir. Those suits are small, but they could tear through us like wet tissue.”
Stone asked, “Shorty? What are you doing?”
Shorty just pointed a tiny piglet finger at the rapidly ascending clock.
Stone looked at Jay for a response.
Jay answered, “Mama, he asked me to translate, but he isn’t saying anything. He insisted that my girls come along, but even they won’t talk to me now. Look, they have their own communicators.”
Stone hadn’t noticed that all the unarmored piglets and Jay’s daughters had tiny dataports strapped to their wrists. Each dataport had virtual keyboard floating nearby that gave the drascos and piglets the ability to type in a few words for voice translation. He’d had the thought back on Allie’s World about doing just this thing, but regulations had prohibited him from following up. He was surprised the piglets and his drascos picked up the concept of typing, not that punching buttons was hard, but it involved learning to read and write Empire Standard.
Jay and Peebee could read because he’d been reading to them and teaching them to read since they discovered they could talk to each other. Jay’s favorite book was Jane Eyre, a book that made Peebee grimace, she preferred reading science fiction. He remembered Tim Dollish mentioning the piglets on Allie’s World reading an oven manual when learning to make their own sunglasses, so he shouldn’t be surprised that the piglets read and write.
Everyone stared at the clock. Instead of the numbers racing by with eye blurring speed, they seemed to slow to a speed reminiscent of a metronome set at its slowest speed.
Jay said, “Shorty just said that Sissie has taken control of the bridge. I don’t think he wanted me to translate that, but he was telling his own people.”
Stone repeated the statement to the startled group of officers. “Shorty? What —”
Shorty interrupted by tapping the edge of the clock. The frame turned a bright pulsing red.
A shout of “Ooo-rah” filled the air. The hatch flew open and a fire team of four armored marines crashed into the room, weapons at the ready, fingers on the triggers. Their camouflage was in full operation, but Stone easily saw their outlines. A flood of nearly invisible marines boiled through the room, spreading out to cover everyone and everything in the captain’s office. Though Stone could see the marines in camouflage mode, he couldn’t see name tags, dents, scrapes, or unrepaired combat damage that he usually used to identify who was who. He saw only a faint outline, not unlike a child’s coloring book line drawing. He saw their weapons. He saw their fingers on the triggers. No one else in the room could see that much.
Shorty tapped the clock again stopping it. Every piglet in the room and Jay’s daughters stood still. Each raised their hands in surrender. No one fired. Stone was thankful for that. Most marine weapons were designed to do one thing. Kill.
Friendly fire and dead hostages were events the military worked to avoid, but such regrettable consequences of live fire in tight spaces was often unavoidable. Scientists had tried for centuries to develop bullets that could tell the difference between a hostile combatant and an innocent bystander. So far, everyone had failed.
Stone felt a huge presence at his back followed by a heavy weight resting on his shoulder. Glancing back, he saw a camouflaged gauntlet laying there. The gauntlet was attached to a giant marine combat suit, but in their gilley setting, he couldn’t tell whether this was Tuttle, Hammermill, or any specific one of the two hundred fifty six marines on board. The hand gave a gentle squeeze. This marine was 1LT Allison Vedrian, his girlfriend.
A heavy weight rested on his other shoulder. A huge handgun was using his body as a support, it’s barrel pointed directly at Shorty. Even though the piglets had signaled surrender, the gun’s bore didn’t waiver a fraction of an inch and the marines remained in camo mode.
Shorty tapped a few commands on his keyboard. The gruff voice said, “Three minutes and twelve seconds response time, Captain.” He pointed at the Xs already fading on the officers stain proof uniforms. “Each X represents a dead officer. You’re dead. You’ve lost your executive officer and your chief engineer. I will admit we mistimed our attack and only managed simulated kills on seven additional junior officers. However, Sissie reports that you lost every officer on the bridge except for Major Numos. We were unable to surprise him, but we did manage to capture him and get him tied up. Boy is he pissed!”
Shorty glanced around the room, unable to see the camouflaged marines, but everyone knew they were in the room and more were gathering every moment. “I hope you all give me time to apologize and explain.”
Butcher said, “I’m giving you leeway because you’ve been an asset to me and this ship, but I’ll admit that I’m baffled, curious and a little bit pissed myself.”
Shorty said, “It took me and a small group of my people a little over three minutes to take your ship. Oh, Sissie reports that —”
Butcher’s dataport comms blared. “Numos here. We were invaded by armored piglets. They took the bridge, didn’t say anything — well, anything I could hear. They were here for two minutes and then they just left. No injuries on our side, although a few of the piglets may need some medical attention. Damn things attacked me and —”
Butcher interrupted, “Sorry to cut you off, Major. We’ve had much the same thing in my office. As long as you’re good for now, get the marines on guard, in armor and lock the dammed door.”
Shorty said, “Captain, you humans reacted slow to our invasion. Three minutes is too long. But, you responded twice as fast as a Hyrocanian would react. I know. I’ve studied them for years.”
“And?” Butcher asked.
“And in all of those years as their captive, I didn’t have the equipment I needed to do what I needed to do. Now I do.”
“And?”
“You know what my people call me, right? I’m a pirate. I don’t deny it. I’m proud of it. I want to use one of the captured shuttles. Some of my people and these three young drascos want to take that warehouse ship away from the Hyrocanians.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Stone glanced at the armored marines lining the captured shuttle corridor. They appeared relaxed, joking and jostling each other as marines often do when combat is imminent. The rookies of Charlie Platoon joked harder than their veteran counterparts — mostly to cover their own nervous energy.
This wasn’t Stone’s first time in combat, with or without a suit. His nose itched. The irritating tickle was the same one that had plagued humans for thousands of years. The minute one’s hands were occupied elsewhere, the nose rebelled and started to itch. Being inside his armor didn’t stop his nose any more than it did anyone else’s. He leaned his head forward slightly, scratching his nose against the probie bar, relieving the itch.
The customized armored suit wasn’t built exactly to navy specifications, though it did have a proboscis scratch bar just below the faceplate and all of the other standard equipment. Navy suits were slight upgrades from commercial grade EVA or miners suits, except for the weapons. His suit wasn’t designed to combat marine specifications as a weapons platform because Grandpa urged him to avoid combat. However, Grandpa had sent a note along with the man who delivered the suit stating that if he couldn’t avoid combat, the family wanted him protected and able to shoot back.
A marine’s suit was designed to handle dozens of different weapons. Stone�
��s suit was the weapon and its armor was thick and puncture resistant. Stone doubted a male drasco in a rape-fuelled rage could damage it. The pressure reactive interior would keep Stone from rattling around inside should he do anything more taxing than dropping from a few kilometers up onto a plasticrete shuttle pad. The specialized interior significantly shortened the breaking in period, making it almost plug and play, or wear and kill, depending on your point of view.
His suit also had a camo setting. Stone didn’t ask how his grandfather managed to get the classified design specifications. He never discussed that feature with anyone lest Grandpa had done something unethical to protect his grandson. Everyone knew he had camouflage, but they tactfully ignored how he might have gotten it. He also didn’t discuss how his firepower was a match for any marine without the need to carry handguns, rifles, grenades, or even a thick stick. The suit’s enhanced visual capabilities and odor receptors worked in conjunction with Stone’s own abilities, although he trusted his own senses more than the suit.
With a few minor exceptions, Stone didn’t look any different than the marines surrounding him in this corridor, though his suit cost more than all of theirs put together. He knew the price because he’d tried to get his grandfather to order one for Allie. As much as his grandpa wanted to provide a suit for someone who might become the mother of his grandson’s children, Allie refused to stand still for a fitting. Allie said marines party together, eat together, and fight as one. Until every marine had a special suit, she wouldn’t wear something that wasn’t marine issue.
The marines around him lined the bulkheads. Their camouflage was off as the shuttle slid into the hangar bay of the Hyrocanian warehouse ship. Many of the marines had their faceplates up. Stone smelled a wide variety of odors. He caught the fragrance of lime from a young marine, his sense of fear and caution evident on his face. Sergeant Janson leaned into the marine saying something that caused the young man to laugh.
Stone smelled rancid grease as more than one marine worked up his hostility against the Hyrocanians. He identified a strong odor of roses dipped in maple syrup indicating murderous intent, but he couldn’t work up any sympathy for the aliens who would face those particular marines. The familiar smell of pepperoni pizza with jalapenos reminded him of a pretty young marine he’d known a few years ago. She was dead now. Combat marine forces attracted more than their share of borderline sociopathic killers. Stone didn’t mind having them along as long as they focused their urges toward the enemy.
“Hey, Boss,” a voice popped into his ear through his suit’s communications net.
He turned and saw Spacer Dollish looking up at him through his closed faceplate. His armor looked like a walking armory with dozens of weapons hanging off every possible hook. “Going somewhere, Tim?”
“I’m off duty, so I thought I’d take a little walk. What about you?”
“I’m just going along with these fellows as a translator.”
Dollish’s comms gear relayed his disbelieving grunt. His disbelief was well founded now that the piglets and drascos could communicate through their new dataports. “Is that why they’re coming along?” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. Three marines dropped into the corridor from the deck above.
“Hello, sweetie,” Tuttle said through her open faceplate. “We really should stop meeting like this.”
Stone grinned, “Sweetie? Is that how marines greet officers these days?” He nodded at the other marines, “January, al-Julier, it’s good to see you two.” Even though the couple had been married for a few years, he still had a tendency to call the woman by her maiden name.
Tuttle laughed, “When they’re sweet little navy nuggets, yeah, we do.”
Stone asked, “Why aren’t you with Bravo Platoon?”
Tuttle answered, “LT Vedrian said we should keep an eye on you so you don’t do something stupid.”
Dollish said, “That seems likely to me, sir. Given your past history, I mean.”
“Really? You, too?” Stone asked Dollish.
Tuttle said, “I told the LT that she has me watching over your body so often that she ought to let me use it once in a while. She said that I can use any part that I let get shot off.”
Stone said, “Shot off? What did you say?”
“I’m thinking about it. Don’t rush me.”
Stone waved his gauntlet-covered hands around him. “I’m embarking with Charlie Platoon. Doesn’t Lieutenant Vedrian think that Hammer’s whole platoon can keep me safe?”
Tuttle looked over his shoulder. “Sir.”
Stone turned back around, coming face-to-face with 1LT Hammermill.
Hammermill said, “Sorry for listening in, folks, but Lieutenant Vedrian is right. Charlie Platoon has our own orders and objectives.”
Stone smelled the strong mint fragrance of loyalty wafting from the small crowd around him. He wasn’t worried about any of them deliberately putting him in harm’s way, but combat was as close to chaos as any human endeavor. The plan was for Stone to stay with Charlie Platoon, but as every sane combat veteran knew, no plan ever survives first contact with an enemy.
Hammermill continued. “Corporal Tuttle. Stick with Ensign Stone no matter what the rest of Charlie does.”
“Sir, that’s my —”
Stone quit listening when Ell started shouting, “Mama. Mama. Mama. I can smell them. Wheeeee! Like, they have b.o. bad!” He spun around to see Ell hunched low to the deck, her back legs planted, with her front legs dancing in excitement. Her neck craned upward as she stared at the closed hatch. Stone slammed his faceplate closed and activated his suit’s enhanced fragrance receptors. He caught the scent of hostility, a normal Hyrocanian odor.
A marine private shouted over Charlie Platoon’s communications net. “Drasco alert, LT. Ell went on alert.”
The marines couldn’t hear any of the drascos, but all eight had worked with the marines since they were youngsters. Their body language was easy to read. Ell was so excited she’d completely forgotten she had a new communicator.
Peebee’s talons scraped on the deck as she slid to a stop next to Stone. “Easy, daughter. Don’t rush too far ahead. Stay with your marines. They need your protection. Right, Mama?”
Stone said, “Teamwork, Ell. You’ve trained with the marines. Your job is to protect them.”
He patted Peebee on the head, “She’ll be fine. Your daughters will all be fine.” He looked down the long corridor. Tee was hunkered down like her sister. Bea was up on her back legs, wings flapping, wonking loudly.
“I know, Mama. They’re just excited.”
Stone didn’t look around for Jay. She was with Charlotte, Emily, and Anne attached to the piglet assault troops. He flashed a quick thumbs up to Hammermill as they heard over their comms, “Helm, here. We’ve crossed their hangar bay threshold. Thirty seconds to clearance. Marines on my mark.”
The thirty seconds were gone before Stone could take a second breath. The call came loud and clear. “Mark.” He was chomping at the bit to flick on his gilley setting, race forward through the hatch, and drop into the Hyrocanian shuttle bay. But, he held his place, trying hard not to dance from one foot to the next like Ell and Tee.
Drs. Wyznewski and Emmons were spoofing the alien comms, so they should be expecting the shuttle. The plan was to block all outgoing comms from the warehouse ship until they had complete control. The Hyrocanians wouldn’t expect Alpha, Bravo, and Delta Platoons to come rushing out of the shuttle. Almost two hundred invisible marines in full armor were about to drop from the shuttle, swarming through the big bay, locking it down to secure it.
Stone had hoped to activate his camouflage mode and drop in behind one of the front assault waves. That hope died when Dollish joined him. He didn’t have the heart to send the spacer away and Dollish’s suit didn’t have a gilley setting. His presence with the front assault group would give away the initial surprise. Besides, his part of the plan was to stay with Charlie Platoon, Peebee and her daughters, and act a
s translators for Shorty’s troops. He tagged Dollish and the three marines on his HUD so they could all see him, even when camouflaged.
They didn’t have to wait long. A slight vibration shivered through the bottom of Stone’s feet. The comms popped on, “Shuttle, tactical here. They know we’re here. Their weapons have gone hot. Go. Go. Go.”
Stone didn’t wait for anyone. Vaulting through the closest hatch, spinning in midair, hitting his gilley setting, he landed on his feet. Things were blowing up all over the shuttle bay with Hyrocanians of all sizes falling to the deck in limp piles of dead flesh.
The marines remained in gilley mode moving about almost unhindered except for an occasional Hyrocanian shooting at random trying to hit what it couldn’t see.
Peebee landed next to him. Ell, Tee, and Bea dropped to the deck from the bottom of the shuttle. Each was accompanied by a team of marines in gilley setting. Hyrocanians could only see four drascos dropping into their bay. A loud screech echoed and a piece of deck plate peeled away at Ell’s feet.
Stone spun around spotting a Hyrocanian on a high catwalk. He pointed a finger at the creature and squeezed his pinkie finger closed. A small bullet described a straight line from the palm of his other gauntlet to the chest of the four-armed freak. Six-inches after impact the small bullet exploded, leaving a pair of Hyrocanian legs standing on the catwalk after a rain of body parts.
Stone watched a marine take a direct hit to the middle of his chest, blowing him backwards in a tumbling somersault. The marine managed to stop his skid and crawl behind a stack of shipping containers. His gilley setting had failed and Stone saw a deep dent in his chest. The marine gasped for air, flipping up his faceplate trying to breathe. The man was lucky the hit was on the chest plate covering his torso. An impact that hard would easily tear off a body part if it hit a limb or a joint. He was gasping for air, but he was in one piece. The suit’s medical system would have to suffice for now. Until they completely secured the shuttle bay, Major Numos wouldn’t allow the medical corps into the combat zone.
