“Thank you, Little. Standby, we have a few loose ends to tie up here first.” Robin turned to Tactical. “Their shields are a mess, load HE and fire at will.”
“Loading HE, aye, ma’am.”
The three remaining enemy cruisers had large shield gaps and deep holes in their structures. At this point, even the secondary batteries would start to overmatch with kinetic rounds, passing straight through the ship with minimal vaporization. The high explosive rounds had been designed for just this purpose.
The first rounds started chewing into the cruisers. They penetrated a bulkhead or two before the outer shell deformed enough to activate the detonators. The ten-kilogram charges converted to gas with incredible energy in the enclosed spaces, turning bulkheads and stanchions into projectiles.
The spherical area of destruction was far more effective than the relatively linear path of damage created by the kinetic rounds, but they needed their kinetic cousins to ‘open the door’ for them.
“First two are scrap,” the tactical officer judged. “Taking fire from the secondaries on that last one but not for long…”
The remaining enemy ship came into the firing envelope as the Brawler finished her turn. Two plumes of plasma accompanied the thrilling howl of the main guns, one shortly after the other. Robin was surprised at how quickly she’d grown to like that noise. This had been her first fight from the captain’s station. Her other fights had been from the helm and she’d never liked the sound of the guns.
Now that they represented an extension of her own will…
“Good hits!’ Tactical exclaimed.
The first hit impacted the already failing shield and tore one of its generators loose. Not having a firm, overlapping grip with the other shield segments, the generator’s mounts took the full force of the detonation, rather than sharing it equally with the mounts of all the ship’s shield generators.
The loose generator would have tumbled through the ships bulkheads, causing even further damage, but it wouldn’t make much difference at this point because the second round detonated its one-hundred-fifty-kilo charge at a point near the vessels centerline. Large sections of hull were blown off, taking their shield emitter nodes with them. Critical connections throughout the ship were severed by the force and debris of the explosion, cutting all controls and isolating the engines from the cooling plants.
“Reading a heat buildup,” Tactical announced. “Their engines are about to go critical.”
“Helm,” Robin called out, “line us up and jump when ready.”
She should say something to the crew. She looked at her holo and realized she might not get a chance later. The Brawler was almost aligned for her jump and the jury was still out on the state of her propulsion systems. Small though the chance of catastrophic failure might be, she didn’t want to die without congratulating the crew.
“Comm, open channel – ship-wide address.”
“Ship-wide channel open and ready, ma’am.”
“Brawlers, this is the Captain.” She liked the name, so she might as well tie it to the victory they’d just won. It would make the eventual vote on the name more likely to swing in her favor. “Considering that this isn’t the same ship we brought to the fight and that we managed to get the drop on four enemy cruisers, I’d say we all did a hell of a job today.
“Chief Engineer Little and his away-team managed to destroy one of those cruisers with nothing but some ingenuity, a few wrenches and an insignificant little nuke!” She paused to let the inevitable laughter run its course.
“Their quick thinking gave us the opportunity to lay low for a few crucial moments and strike the enemy once they were committed to another fight. If you see one of them planetside, buy them a drink.”
Cheers rang through the hull.
She felt a shimmer run through the Universe, something most people never sensed but a small minority were able to feel. The tension began draining from her shoulders. “And now that we’ve jumped, I can safely say that we’re going home! Well done, Brawlers!”
She worked her way around the bridge, shaking hands, punching shoulders and slapping backs. There was another hour till they dropped out at the rendezvous point, then a thirty hour hop to their next attack.
She wanted nothing more than to return to her quarters, take a shower and crash. She frowned, stifling a curse.
Her quarters, her clothes, the modular shower unit they’d been installing in captured frigates – they were all on the frigate they’d left behind. She looked down at the coveralls she was wearing. Her only clothing.
This would take them out of the fight. The usual retrofits that made the Gray ships usable were more than just comforts. The shower modules, the laundry facilities, food service – they were necessary for the health of the crew.
She looked over to an officer leaning over the damage control panel, racking her brain for the name. He was senior enough and he was here. “Leong, go to the captain’s cabin for now and rack out. I’ll send for you to come take the conn once we’ve jumped from the RV point.”
She didn’t want to be half asleep while explaining the situation to the commodore. She could hang on long enough to talk to Klum and then get the ship underway for Roanoke. A huge yawn escaped.
She was pretty sure she could stay awake.
Fighting Chance
“We’ll be there in a centi,” Daffyd assured Paul. “Get your shuttle moving as soon as you can.”
Paul closed the channel and stood from where he’d been crouched in the shadow of a transmission array. As long as you stayed on the right side of the thing, you wouldn’t get fried. He started back toward the berth where his shuttle was still docked. Oliver was already aboard. No need to go back in the station, just get permission to break umbilicals and get moving.
He was thinking about his pending departure from Cerberus as he rounded the corner of something large and grey only to find himself face-to-face with a Marine sentry in HMA.
This was bad. Paul might be fast, but the Marine had been carrying his weapon in his hands like any self-respecting Marine on hull sentry duty. That weapon was now aimed at Paul’s center of mass.
“Oliver, I’ve got a problem out here,” he warned. “A sentry has the drop on me.”
“Just walk away – you’re wearing that fancy dragoon armor.”
“Not your best advice ever, Ollie. He’s a Marine. His weapon stands a good chance of firing through my armor. Better than good, actually.”
Nonetheless, it was a good thing the dragoons had outfitted their favorite cop with a suit. A chime sounded in Paul’s helmet. The sentry was pinging him with a comms request. He accepted the link.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” The Marine’s tone made it more statement than question.
“I’m from the Eye.”
“You’re from the… cai bu shi? The Eye?” His weapon didn’t falter. “How do I know you’re not using that dragoon armor to play me for a fool?”
Paul had caught a note of hope in the man’s skepticism. He might just be looking for a way out of his current situation. He activated his transponder. “Read me,” he said simply.
There was a pause as the Marine picked up Paul’s signal.
“Wo de ma!” the sentry exclaimed. “It’s you!”
Paul was used to being recognized as the man who’d executed Seneca on the podium of the Grand Chamber but this was something else.
“You could probably fake a transponder,” the man hedged, “but if you are who you claim to be, then you’ll know why I’d let you live. You met my brother-in-law a while back – Harry Clark.”
Paul’s CPU kept track of that sort of stuff for him, but he didn’t need it to remember Harry Clark, Lance Corporal, 538 MEF. He nodded, the gesture visible through the visor. “Yeah, I met Harry. He helped us out by not detonating the nuke meant to destroy the factory ship on Santa Clara.”
The Marine lowered his weapon a fraction. “There was a compelling reason behind Harry babysitting t
hat nuke.”
“His daughter,” Paul confirmed. “Kinsey was holding the girl somewhere to ensure Harry didn’t lose his nerve at the last moment.”
“That’s right,” the Marine said, “and you got her out. Never even promised Harry you’d do that, but you found her and got her back to my sister. After they made an example of Harry, I told Eve I’d try to take up a collection, keep her and little Emma from going into indentured servitude. Y’know what she told me?”
Paul shrugged, though he knew what was coming.
“She said some fancy-ass knight had come to her place. Told her how her man had given his life to save the Imperium and that a hero’s widow shouldn’t have to live in poverty.” He paused for a moment, his weapon returned to cradle in his left arm.
“She’s set up with a nice apartment with six-foot ceilings, her own little shop down on the main floor and little Emma’s getting a proper education. D’you know what I think, Inspector?”
“What?”
“I think I’m looking at that same knight. Your senator friend got you made an equestrian, and they say you’re rich as Roland himself…”
Paul laughed. “I was rich,” he corrected, “but that was in the Imperium and I don’t plan to go back. I might be rich again someday, though. We’ve got a few ideas that might take hold out this way.”
He nodded over his shoulder. “Why not come with us?”
“Hah! Like you’d be keen on somebody from the 538 tagging along. You’d be nuts to trust us.”
“We’ve already got a few of your boys that’ve seen the light,” Paul told him. “Armstead and Rodrigues joined us on Roanoke and they were holding my niece hostage. If I could trust them, I’d sure as hells have more reason to trust you, wouldn’t I?”
The heavily armored shoulders shrugged. “Well, I sure as hells have good reason to want to throw my lot in with you, after what you did for my sister.”
“Well, we’ve got a rendezvous to make,” Paul turned and started walking. “Let’s go.”
He could feel the heavy feet hitting the decking behind him and he added the man’s link to the channel with Oliver. “We’re all good out here, Ollie. A new recruit’s joining us from the Imperial Marines.”
He used the IFF code to bring up the man’s data from the records he’d used to stop Seneca’s plot. “Private Sean Orlowski, meet Oliver – no last name, apparently – a Maegi who’s been helping us clear up a lot of trouble with the Grays.”
“A Maegi?” Orlowski exclaimed. “I thought they were just a fairy tale folks on the Rim told their kids.”
“Welcome to the land of legends,” Oliver quipped. “I’ve got clearance, Paul, so as soon as you boys are aboard we can cast off.”
“Suits me just fine,” Orlwoski said cheerfully. “The sooner I get away from that goucaode hundan Kinsey the better.”
Paul turned and waited for Orlowski to stop. “Are you saying he’s actually here?”
“Better part of a year. Why?”
Paul could think of a dozen questions he’d like to ask, all at once, but he’d rather do it without helmets and comm-links getting in the way. He turned and resumed his progress toward the dock where Oliver waited.
They climbed in through the escape trunk and shut their suits down, stepping out of them as they folded away. Orlowski’s HMA took roughly twice the space that Paul’s dragoon armor required in storage.
Oliver came through the passageway linking the crew compartment from the cargo area. He held out a hand. “Welcome to the team, Orlowski.”
Orlowski waved his hand over Ollie’s, his face showing mild surprise, perhaps at his easy acceptance. He turned back to Paul. “So why did you stop out there when I mentioned Kinsey?”
“He’s responsible for a lot of dead people,” Paul told him. “In the Imperium and out here in the colonies.”
“We need to find him,” Oliver insisted. “Let’s get in there and punch his ticket.”
“It’s not as easy as just walking up to him and shooting him,” Orlowski warned. “He’s been here for close to a year now, with a sizeable contingent of Marines. They’ve taken over a major crime syndicate to cover his expenses while he waits for his Gray masters to show up.” Orlowski spat on the deck.
“So he’s hard to get to?” Paul asked.
“I haven’t seen the guy in six months.” Orlowski sat on one of the benches that ran the length of the cargo space on both sides. He stretched his legs. “Even in HMA, sentry duty can be a real pain in the legs.”
A barely perceptible shake of the head. “He’d been getting increasingly paranoid the last few months. Kept insisting that folks wanted him dead…”
“He wasn’t paranoid,” Paul interjected. “He’s right.”
The Marine shrugged. “Anyway, it got so you’d have to have a pretty damned good reason to talk to the guy. Used to be he’d make the rounds, keep in touch with the boys from the 538. We were his power-base, after all. If he lost us, he’d have a hard time keeping his new criminal pals in line.
“Then he stopped dealing with us directly. Gunny Laval would bring us our orders, even though the silly bastard had to climb out of his bottle to do it. He’s been sober a lot more lately, now that he’s been forced to do some work.”
“But we can find him,” Paul insisted. “We don’t need a lot of his time, just long enough to…”
“You won’t get it,” Orlowski said harshly. “If Kinsey thinks you or General Urbica is closing in on him, he’ll go to ground. He’ll rabbit and you’ll be back to square one.”
“Well, we have to try,” Oliver said. He turned for the cockpit with a sigh. “I’ll cancel our departure clearance.”
“Sure,” Paul nodded absently, staring at the decking. He frowned, looking up at the Maegi’s departing back. “No, wait! Ollie, we’re going. We’ll keep our rendezvous with the Rope a Dope.”
“Paul,” Oliver protested, “Kinsey’s right here. You saw the holos from Uruk. That hundan had his men assisting with the wholesale slaughter of anyone who couldn’t be brainwashed.”
“And if we go after him, he’ll run.” Paul reached out to put a hand on the Maegi’s shoulder. “So we’ll make him come after us.”
Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “And you have a clever plan to make that happen, do you?”
“So clever,” Paul assured him, “you could put a tail on it and call it a weasel.” He laughed. “Actually, it’s pretty simple, which is the hallmark of a good plan. What’s the one thing a crime lord can’t abide?”
Ollie’s eyes showed understanding, but it was Orlowski who answered first.
“A rival.”
“Man like you,” Paul said, nodding at the Marine, “should have had his majesty’s commission a long time ago. Out here, you can make something of yourself, but first…” He looked over at Ollie. “…We need to get going. We’ve got a turf war to wage and we need some muscle of our own.”
Incite
“They have dozens of collectors,” Orlowski said quietly, even though the thug was too far away to hear them. “Once a shop owner resigns himself to paying protection, they don’t bother sending a larger group. He knows what’ll happen to him if he gets feisty.”
Paul watched the man walk into a pastry shop. “And this is the end of a route?”
“It is. He’ll be on his way back to his aggregator now with the week’s take.”
“Good.” Paul left the mag-train station with two of the fifty dragoons he’d brought back to Cerberus station. Orlowski, even with a fresh haircut, was too recognizable and stayed on the platform. He’d take the train to their temporary command center and wait for them there.
They were roughly twenty meters away when the thug left the shop and headed toward Paul and his two comrades.
Paul had rehearsed this with all of the dragoon volunteers before choosing who to bring. The thug saw nothing alarming in the three approaching men. They all seemed wrapped up in their own problems, like any ordinary citizens.
The distance closed steadily.
Paul had dealt with hundreds of guys like this as a military policeman on a dozen Rim worlds. Low-level muscle, used to milk hard-working people of their ability to pay the Emperor’s taxes. An Imperial citizen’s entire reason for existing was to pay taxes.
The law was understandably aggressive in such cases. A cop only had to document their activities. Trials represented an even greater strain on the Imperial Exchequer and so law enforcement had very clear protocols regarding guys like this one.
Paul had no qualms as he reached the correct distance. He wanted powder burns. He brought his pistol out of his pocket and shoved it up against the startled man’s forehead. The small-caliber weapon made a pneumatic popping noise as the man’s head pitched backward. The round was too small for any sort of dramatic exit wound. It fragmented as it tumbled through the man’s brain, not even reaching the skull on the far side.
He kept watch as his two compatriots went through the dead man’s pockets.
Mason held up a currency chip.
Paul nodded and they turned down a side alley, jumping an alumifoam-panel fence and strolling nonchalantly onto the street in the next block.
The attack would be interpreted as the act of a rival syndicate. The station was a big place; the point where it curved out of sight was nearly lost in the haze of distance. There would be several groups vying for control at any given time and the local police, if they were allowing Kinsey’s group to operate, would almost certainly brief him on the death of his collector before he’d be missed by his own aggregator.
One attack might be interpreted as the result of a rash decision. A junior member of a rival group might try such a thing to prove his abilities, although it would almost certainly earn him a new hole in the back of his head. Management couldn’t afford to have subordinates starting wars on their own initiative. Such things had to be planned out.
And the result of a planned war would be multiple attacks coordinated by a central individual.
Advance
The Gray Matter (Rebels and Patriots Book 3) Page 18
