“Blast those pirates, men,” he roared rushing over to grab the hands of a man who’d tried to jump clear of his weapon, only to have the blast doors sever his legs at the knees.
Pulling the other man clear, he took off his belt and wrapped it around one of the other man’s legs. Engaging the auto-tightening feature, he looked down at the other leg, which was still pumping out blood.
“Medic,” he yelled irritably, standing up. Collaring a rating, running around the deck like a chicken with his head cut off, he pulled the younger man’s head close to his.
“Use your belt to stop the bleeding on his other leg and then see that this man gets dragged over to a medical float,” he instructed the wild-eyed rating. Seeing the rating nod his head vigorously, he slapped him on the shoulder.
“Hold steady, boys!” he yelled over the whine of the weaponry and screams of the mortally wounded, “we’ll show those pirate dogs who’s the boss out here. Neither the Clover nor the Little Admiral’s out of tricks yet!”
The gun crews gave another cheer, but this time it was less energetic and not nearly as full of brash enthusiasm as before.
“This is what ships of the line do, boys,” he felt the need to add, staggering over to wall unit and activating the overhead speaker system, “we slug it out, right here, right now in the depths of cold space, so that complacent citizens everywhere and all those fat and lumbering luxury liners who roll their eyes at us in port don’t have to dirty their hands with the business of keep themselves safe. This is what battleships are made for!” he thundered, eyes flashing with fury and hands raised into fists.
“We won’t let you down, Chief,” yelled a grease monkey and the roar that followed this little exclamation produced a hungry cheer actually worthy of the term.
“Lucky Clover!” screamed the Gun Chief, running over to one of the turbo-lasers as molten hot hydraulic fluid started shooting out and spewing all over the decking. Hopefully Lesner managed to get in enough of those blanks installed to turn the tide before it was too late.
Chapter 17: In the Pirate Ships
The impromptu fire team had swelled to the size of a fully fledged squad, it was a testament to the leadership and mastery of small arms tactics evidenced by their acting squad leader that no one had been lost along the way.
Fortunately for the squad but unfortunately for the Marine Colonel, this meant that there had been no free communication’s arrays to swipe along the way.
Storming down several decks and cutting a swath through a crew of heavily armed but mostly unarmored pirates, everything was going well until they reached the last junction before reaching Main Engineering.
Unable to hear what was going on, because of an infuriating lack of working com-gear, the Marine Colonel kept in the proper position with the rest of the squad through dint of training and hand signals from the rest of the team.
Since he wasn’t able to hear the communication’s push, he was stuck in the back of the formation, blasting down heavily scarred metal heads, partial cyborgs and every other form of modified, mutilated or otherwise enhanced ‘human’ life infesting this former Caprian Battleship.
The first thing he knew of the trouble was when the flashing blue-white light of an Ion Cannon unloaded and the front rank started falling like flies.
Seeing his men start dropping ignited a fire in his belly and the fact that thanks to the ion cannon, the communication gear of anyone who fell was just as likely to be unusable as not, only stoked that fire hotter.
With his speakers internal, external and short range all disabled, everything seemed to be happening in deafening silence. Spotting a raging pirate charge out of a side passage with a vibro axe in hand, he crouched and blasted the woman down with a short burst.
Not even pausing to make a decision, the Marine Colonel grabbed hold of the dead pirate and lifted her up with his power enhanced muscles.
Leveling his improvised ion shield in front of him with one hand and maneuvering his blaster rifle so it was poking beneath one of her dead arms with the other, he charged.
Leaping over the bodies of fallen or crouching marines, he just had time to see the acting squad leader, the same marine who’d saved him from floating away from the hull, waving her hands in negation ordering him back before he was past her position.
The body in his hand jerked as a series of rapidly fired ion bolts from a tripod mounted, crew served rapid-fire ion cannon lashed out in his direction.
Screaming into his sound-deadened helmet, Colonel Wainwright serviced his blaster rifle from left to right.
Firing on the run and with your view obstructed by a corpse wasn’t the most ideal situation for aiming a rifle, but every Marine, even high and mighty Colonels knew how to deal with adversity.
One of the pirates went flying backwards, arms thrown in the air by the force of the blaster bolt, while the other continued to pour bolts into the charging Marine.
An ion strike hit his foot and Wainwright stumbled before catching himself, the actuators set in the heel going on the fritz. Undeterred, he unleashed a hailstorm of blaster-ignited fury on the remaining pirate.
Another bolt struck the hand holding the piratical shield he was using, locking it in place. Before he could worry about how he was to release the shield and regain the use of that hand, one of his blaster bolts struck home and the last pirate behind the ion cannon was launched backward in an cloud of blood and gore.
Stopping to pry the now useless human shield out of his locked up hand, he also shouldered his blaster rifle. Picking up the ion cannon in his single still functioning power-armored fist, he propped the long length of the barrel on the arm with his locked up hand.
Carefully maneuvering the long barrel around with his clumsy grip on the oversized weapon, he grinned inside his helmet at the sight of the acting squad leader frantically waving for him to put the thing down.
The Squad Leader, unaware that he wasn’t just some gung-ho fool, was doing the practical thing and trying to stop him from turning the crew served weapon on the main door to engineering. But he wasn’t about to try frying the door controls with a hail of ion fire.
Running at a trot and stopping only to unleash a rain of ionic fury on those pirates foolish enough to believe that hiding behind a tool crate would save them, he reached the main blast doors leading into engineering.
Turning to unleash a hailstorm of ion bolts down either end of the hallway intersecting the main blast door into engineering, he carefully propped the Ion Cannon up against the blast door.
Then he un-slung the pack still tenaciously clinging to his back and reached inside, pulling out a shaped charge. But this wasn’t just any shape charge. This one was a Caprian Marine, Mark 72c breaching package, nicknamed the ‘Yellowstone’ in honor of an especially explosive volcano from ancient history. It was specifically designed to penetrate and rupture a blast door or other form of heavy armor. Since these doors were designed and produced in the Caprian shipyards, he didn’t have to worry if their specs differed significantly enough from what the breaching package was designed to bust through. But just for good measure, he slapped a second Yellowstone against the blast door, and then series linked them. There were a few advantages of being a Marine Colonel, after all.
The other marines in his scratch squad had just started poking their heads around the corner when he snatched up his Ion rifle and went running back towards them. Waving them off, he held up the mustard yellow-colored detonator in his hand.
Flying past them he went back the way they’d come. After several twists and turns, he stopped to catch his breath.
The other marines came clanking up to join him.
The Acting Squad Leader was just about to come over and kick him in the hindquarters for hot-dogging it and violating the chain of command when he held up the detonator and pressed the flashing yellow button on the top.
A wave of force picked the entire squad up and threw them around like a bunch of hard peas in an old can t
hat had just been knocked off the table.
Rolling onto hands and knees, the aging marine shook his head to clear it. Looking around it took him a few seconds to realize where he was. When he did, he groped around until managing to get a hold of that crew served Ion Cannon again. Anyone not in armor wasn’t likely to have survived that blast, and he’d been in armor and several junctions removed from the explosion. He bared his teeth, as it was no less than this scum of the space ways deserved!
With an abrupt gesture he rallied several of the other marines and not pausing to see if they were following, he charged back down the halls toward the main blast door leading into engineering.
Seeing the giant hole blown into blast door, he decided it might just have been a tad overkill to use two of the devastating shaped charges.
Aching in too many places to muster much of a grin, Colonel Wainwright gritted his teeth and stormed in through the still smoldering doors.
A storm of blaster fire came his way, knocking him around so fiercely that it was a struggle just to keep his footing. Eventually he dove off to the side he landed on his shoulder, which erupted in agony as he was reminded of his previous injury and cut loose with his oversized ion cannon.
This was a great year to be a Marine!
He hadn’t seen this much action in the past twenty combined… of course, it being a great year was predicated on him surviving the current engagement, an outcome which was still very much in doubt.
Chapter 18: Tis a Capture!
“Blood Lord, the fighting has been fierce but we’ve managed to isolate the invaders into three separate, and contained, breaching attempts,” reported Second in Command Krong.
“Sensors indicate a number of battle armored figures are spewing out of airlocks and onto the hull of that Confederal Battleship,” Connor Tuttle of the Blood Reavers and Jean Luc’s Master-at-Arms said grimly. He shot a look at the Captain meeting his eyes and giving him a significant look, “once they join the boarding action events might spiral out of our control.”
Jean Luc, sitting in the ornate Command Chair leaned back and crossed his fingers. Black leather, taken from the hide of an Elisyean Storm Dragon and crafted by his personal Armorer into an evil-looking (but quite blaster resistant) uniform creaked as he adjusted his position. The armor helped to enhance the desired aura of a ruthless pirate lord, but did little to help make his next decision any easier. Staring at his hands, he came to a decision.
The Commander cut in, “Let me summon reinforcements from the Omicron, Captain; these government invaders will be crushed underneath our boot heels in short order,” urged Krong.
“Blood Lord,” said the Master of Communications, “I’m receiving a message from one Lieutenant Colonel Brian Riggs, he says he is ready accept your surrender and escort you to the Lucky Clover.” The Master of Communications snorted after he finished relaying this message.
Jean Luc let loose a grim smile, “Inquire of the good Lieutenant Colonel, the status of his Commander, one Colonel Wainwright if you would, Communications Master,” he said lightly.
Looking perplexed at the question, the man did as ordered, before turning back.
“He says that Wainwright was in the first wave, and his suit transmitter went silent soon after his Grav-board was hit by point defense fire and crashed into the hull of our sister ship. Thus he, Lieutenant Colonel Riggs, is now in command,” relayed the Master.
“Excellent news,” Jean Luc said, a genuine smile taking the place of his formerly grim attempt. All around him members of the bridge crew stiffened. Everyone who had seen that look before knew it generally meant someone was about to die.
“I have to advise against this,” Connor Tuttle said, sounding unhappy.
“Advise against what?” demanded Krong, “Inside intel on the makeup of the enemy command,” his eyes narrowed. “What do you have planned, Capt—”
The bridge filled with the roar of an old chemical powered hand cannon and blood splattered out the back of the former Second in Command’s head, spraying the workers in the communication section with a splatter of brain and blood.
As the body of the ship’s former executive officer, Commander Krong fell to the deck, Jean Luc looked around the bridge.
“Any other questions,” he asked mildly. There was a pause, as many of the hardened pirates that made up his crew refused to even breath, let alone meet the gaze of the one eyed pirate king. “No?” there was another extended pause, “excellent,” he said, clapping his hands together for emphasis. “Communications Master, please relay to the good Lieutenant Colonel that I am now prepared to accept his most generous offer. Then instruct our hardened killers below decks that they are to return to their stations and await further orders.”
Despite a very recent example in the fruits of questioning their piratical master and commander, the bridge crew stirred unhappily.
Connor Tuttle, growled under his breath and while one gauntleted hand clenched and unclenched the other moved toward the sword strapped to his back.
In the face of their Blood Lord’s violently aggressive attack dog, the muttering stopped. Those members of the crew inclined to argue with Tuttle had either been killed or carved into pieces prior to being put into a regeneration tank and invited to join the Armsmen, or they could take a walk out an airlock without a rebreather.
From his Command Seat, Blood Lord Jean Luc, Tyrant of Cold Space surveyed his crew of cutthroats and die-hards.
Too bad, he thought, shaking his head sadly.
On the arm of his chair was a small, out of the way button. It was designed to make not even so much as a click when pressed, which he proceeded to do. He depressed the button and held it for two seconds before releasing it.
“You’ve all done well, my Bloody Reavers,” he said standing up and momentarily bracing to attention.
“Tuttle, Communications Master,” he said motioning abruptly toward the blast doors leading from the Command Bridge.
Left behind in the Command Bridge of the pirate battleship, the bridge crew of the Vineyard exchanged furtive looks before one genetically-engineered pirate with metal sticking out the back of his head stood up…as soon as the blast doors had cycled closed, of course.
“I say there’s no way the Blood Reavers surrender our flagship to a bunch of steaming Confederals still tied up by our wolves in the main cargo hold,” the modified pirate began, starting out tentatively but gaining steam as he listened to the sound of his own voice.
Around him other less bold members of the bridge crew grumbled their agreement.
“Maybe it’s time we had a new Pirate King,” barked the brutal looking, genetically engineered pirate.
“The Blood Lord isn’t known for his…” the ship’s Tactical Officer started to say, hand on his pistol.
He was interrupted when one of the assistant tactical officers stuck a knife in his back.
“What are your orders... Captain,” one of the junior communication operators asked of the genetically engineered new leader.
“Signal the general crew and tell them they are not to go to quarters, but instead stand fast. We’re going to send in the Armsmen,” he instructed grimly.
He would have continued but just about then several of the bridge crew started to cough.
Looking around suspiciously at what could be the first sign of discontent and disagreement with his orders, he pulled out a blaster pistol.
“Quiet when I’m speaking,” he barked, only to break off in a cough of his own.
All around him the rest of the bridge crew started to cough.
“The blooming' backstabber’s betrayed us,” he yelled, running for the exit.
Several other pirates made to follow him. However, the silent but deadly gas left behind by Blood Lord Montagne had already done its job, and he and the entire rest of the pirate command team started dropping like flies.
Collapsing to the decking, the would-be new pirate lord was left gasping out his last few breaths like
a fish out of water.
Chapter 19: The Great Surrender
“An extreme gesture, my Lord,” Connor said solemnly, as the blast doors slid closed behind them.
Jean Luc slitted his eyes as he considered his long time companion and Master-at-Arms.
“A gesture, Connor?” he said shaking his head slowly, “a necessary move, regrettable perhaps, but a gesture?” he made a slashing gesture with his hand. “No. A gesture implies I do what I do under the pressure of another. This is entirely my own decision.”
Connor nodded slowly, “Then I fail to understand…” he paused and smiled direly, “which is only as it should be, my King.”
“Yes, Connor, all is as it should be,” replied Jean Luc, striding down the corridor, “Let us go greet this Lieutenant Colonel and get the next part over with. You see I am eager to get to know my old ship again. Our time of exile out here in the far reaches of cold space has extended longer than even I expected, and it is time to put it behind us. Besides, I desire to meet this nephew of mine, a manling brash enough to try bearding me in my own lair with only a single ship.”
“As you say, Sir,” said Connor falling in a step behind and to the left of his master.
When the lift doors opened, spilling out Royal Caprian Marines, the Master and Commander of the Vineyard along with his faithful shadow were waiting, weapons out of reach and leaning against the wall behind them.”
“Hands on your heads,” screamed a Marine Sergeant.
“I hardly think that will be necessary, Sergeant,” the Lieutenant Colonel said mildly.
The Marine growled under his breath but stepped back.
“Down, boy,” Jean Luc said mildly, casting an amused look at the Sergeant.
“By special order of Parliament I am to escort you to the Lucky Clover while a battalion of my men secure this ship, your Highness,” Lieutenant Colonel Brian Riggs said stiffly.
“The Bridge crew has been neutralized, as has Engineering and the Gundeck, some of the general crew might still give your men a bit of a time, but any that have ignored my orders to return to their quarters should be shot for the disloyal dogs they are,” the Pirate King said with a nod.
Spineward Sectors 03 Admiral's Tribulation Page 13
