by David Weber
"Open fire!" he shouted, and five pulse rifles poured darts back down the hill. The Marines were running low on ammo, but there was no point conserving it now, and they blazed away furiously. Their one surviving plasma rifle walked its fire across the slope, painting the pre-dawn dark with brief, terrible sunrises, and he could hear the shrieks of wounded and dying pirates even through the thunder of battle as the wave of attackers shredded under that savage pounding.
Still they came on, and he wondered what in God's name they thought they could accomplish now. They were done, damn it! Didn't they even realize what those explosions overhead had meant?!
Maybe they thought they could take some of their enemies alive, use them as hostages or bargaining chips. Or maybe it was simple desperation, the move of people too tired and too tightly focused on the job at hand to think about anything else. Or maybe it was simple stupidity. Not that it mattered either way.
Private Justinian died as a pirate-launched grenade detonated almost directly above her, and Private Williams went down as a head-sized lump of rock was blasted into the breastplate of his unpowered clamshell armor. But the armor held, and Williams dragged himself back up and opened fire once more.
The attack rolled on up the hill, melting under the defenders' fire but still coming, and Gutierrez saw Abigail drop her pulse rifle as her last magazine emptied. She drew her sidearm, holding the pulser in a firing range, two-handed grip, and he realized that even now she was choosing her targets, spending each round carefully, refusing to simply blaze away in blind, suppressive fire.
And then, suddenly, there were no more attackers. Perhaps thirty percent of the force which had come up the slope survived to retreat back down it, but they were the lucky ones. The ones who had just discovered what professionals like Gutierrez already knew. You did not charge into the teeth of modern infantry weapons, however outnumbered the defenders were. Not without powered armor or a hell of a lot more support than those yahoos had had.
He raised his head cautiously and peered out and down. Motionless bodies and writhing wounded littered the frosty hillside between the roaring pockets of flame the plasma rifle had left in the underbrush in its wake, and Gutierrez blinked in disbelief.
They were still alive. Of course, that could still change, but—
"Now hear this," the voice rattled from every com on the planet, hard as battle steel and broadcast over every frequency, "this is Captain Michael Oversteegen, Royal Manticoran Navy. Any pirate who lays down his weapons and surrenders immediately will be taken into custody and guaranteed a fair trial. Any pirate who does not lay down his weapons and surrender immediately will not be given the opportunity t' do so. You will be shot where you stand unless you surrender at once. This is your first and last warning!"
Gutierrez held his breath, staring down the hill, wondering.
And then, by ones and twos, men and women began to step out of cover, lay down their weapons, clasp their hands behind their heads, and simply stand there as Tiberian rose above the eastern horizon at last.
"All right, Sergeant Gutierrez," a soft Grayson accent said beside him. "We've got some prisoners to take into custody, so let's be about it."
"Aye, aye, Ma'am!" Gutierrez gave her a parade-ground salute which somehow completely failed to look out of place, despite his filthy, bloodstained uniform. Or hers. She looked up at his towering centimeters for a moment, and then she returned it.
"All right, people!" Gutierrez turned to his survivors—all three of them—and if his voice was just a little husky, of course it was only due to fatigue. "You heard the Midshipwoman—let's go take these bastards into custody!"
"Ah, Ms. Hearns!"
"You wanted to see me, Captain?"
"Indeed I did. Come in."
Abigail stepped through the hatch into the captain's day cabin, and it slid shut behind her.
The man sitting behind the desk in that cabin was exactly the same man she'd seen at that first formal dinner, down to the last non-regulation touch of the superbly tailored uniform. He still looked exactly like a younger version of Prime Minister High Ridge, and he still had all of the maddening mannerisms, all the invincible faith in the superiority of his own birth, and that incredibly irritating accent.
As if any of that mattered.
"We'll be dockin' at Hephaestus in about three hours," he said to her. "I realize that you'd prefer t' remain aboard until we hand the ship over t' dockyard hands. In fact, I requested permission t' retain you on board until that time. Unfortunately, I was overruled. I've just been informed that a personnel shuttle will be arrivin' in approximately forty minutes t' deliver you, Mr. Aitschuler, Ms. Korrami, and Mr. Grigovakis t' the Academy."
"Sir, we'd all prefer to remain aboard," she protested.
"I know," he said in a surprisingly gentle voice. "And I sincerely wish you could. But I believe there are people waitin' for you. Includin', if my sources haven't misled me, Steadholder Owens."
Her eyes widened, and he permitted himself a slight chuckle.
"It's traditional for immediate family members t' be present for the award of the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal, Ms. Hearns. Naturally, I feel confident that that custom is the only reason your father has seen fit t' become the first Grayson-born steadholder ever t' visit Saganami Island. I believe I may also have heard that the Queen intends t' be present, however. And I understand there was some mention of Steadholder Harrington's administerin' your oath as a Grayson officer."
The young woman on the other side of his desk blushed darkly, and his deep-set eyes twinkled. She seemed at a loss for words, then shook herself.
"And will you be present, Sir?" she asked.
"I believe you may count on that, Ms. Hearns," he told her gravely. "I'm informed that there will be more than sufficient preliminary festivities and family greetin's t' give me time t' hand Gauntlet over t' the yard dogs and still make the award ceremony."
"I'm very glad to hear that, Sir," she said, and hard though it would once had been for her to believe it, she meant it.
"I wouldn't miss it for the world, Ms. Hearns," he told her, and rose behind his desk. "Some of my compatriots have seen fit t' express contempt for Grayson. They seem t' feel that such a primitive and backward planet can't possibly have anythin' t' offer a star nation so sophisticated and advanced as our own. I never happened t' agree with that position, and if I ever had, I certainly wouldn't now. Especially not after havin' the honor and considerable privilege of seein' firsthand just what sort of young women Grayson will be calling t' the service of the Sword. And havin' seen it, I intend t' be there when the first of them receives the recognition she so richly deserves."
THE END
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