by Will Crudge
I reply.
I reply. I’m not sure where all those words came from. They just flowed out of me like a river. I suppose when my mind is clear enough, then my decades of training translate directly into a sense of tactical clarity. Neat!
“Listen to you!” Throat says with a simulated round of applause through internal speakers. Thankfully, the good folks on the Nova can’t hear him act a fool.
Now it all makes sense. One of our cadre must have launched an emergency beacon drone into FTL. It’s the only means by which we can bypass time dilation.
I choose my words carefully. If the Nova has Crimson Infantry drones on board, then they can dissect the data, and be able to prove that the Crimson Alliance is operating in UAHC protected space. That’s when it hits me...
Too late, to explain. The gunship comes to life. Streaks of missiles fly out of launch tubes, and at this relative close proximity, they’ll cover a thousand clicks in under five seconds. It was their plan all along. Get in close, provide a more immediate threat, and then pounce.
Throat didn’t waste any time. He lit up the shuttles with particle beam fire, and their shields flare out in a flash. The LRF’s beams are over-powered for a ship this size, and the shuttles must not have known what kind of danger they were in. And now they never will. The beams turn the thin-hulled shuttles into slag, and they burst as their pressured atmosphere combusts.
“Do we have anything on board to take down that gunship?” I ask Throat.
“Negative. All my big ‘bang-bangs’ are used up. All we can hope to do is burn through their shields, and cut a hole in their hull.”
“Do it!” I shout. Absent of a better plan, I decide to not allow hesitation to rue the day. We burn at a wide arc, so as to try and draw the enemy fire. But the gunship crew isn’t stupid. They’re obviously well trained. Too well trained to be pirates.
The Nova is executing evasive maneuvers in order to give their shields time to recharge. I can’t see any major hull damage on visual, so I assume they’re intact.
“Any word from the Nova?” I ask.
“No. The missile strike was targeting their shields. The impact pattern was maximized to put them in a state of avalanche, and their shields flared out right before the final missile took out their coms array.” Throat replied.
“They’re covering their tracks. They are Crimson after all.” I surmise.
“No shit, Sherlock!” He scoffs.
“Who’s Sherlock?”
“Never mind! Just hold on to something. It’s about to get bumpy!”
Bumpy is right. He’s diverted energy from the A-grav system, and then routed it to the forward shields. Right before my eyes, I can see the shield frequencies going berserk. He’s matching frequencies. We’re going in!
My head is shoved back into the headrest on impact. Matching shield frequencies is difficult to do. Even the most advanced AI’s have trouble pulling it off. And I would eventually learn that LRF NAV’s are radically more advance than most Mil Spec AI’s could ever hope to be.
My stomach is on the verge of hurling, and my hair begins to float. The only redeeming sensation from the A-grav being powered down, is that I feel dramatically less bloated.
Throat’s particle beams target a dorsal mounted airlock. The outer door is slag, and rapidly cooling chunks of molten metal drift harmlessly away in response. He rotates ninety degrees to allow the hatch-side of the fighter’s hull to face downward relative to the top of the gunship. Without hesitation, I spin the pilot’s seat around, unlatch the harness, and grab my sword. Onslaught and Kyle are floating freely, and neither seem to be any good at it.
“This is going to suck!” Throat shouts, and then reengages the A-grav. But this time he redirects it to allow us to fall out of the hatch, versus dropping to the deck plating. The slight inertial boost from the A-grav launches us through open space, and into the airlock.
Right now you’re calling bullshit. I know. We aren’t wearing EVA suits of any kind. But we don’t need them as long as we don’t pass out from oxygen deprivation. Our bodies go into an anti-trauma mode when exposed to rapid decompression. Even the ice cold vacuum of space can’t freeze us fast enough for us to lose our wits... Besides, it’s a myth that humans would rapidly freeze in space, anyway. Without any surrounding matter, or atmosphere, for our body heat to transfer to, it would take hours before freezing to takes hold.
We drop into the airlock, and Kyle activates the energy field over War Master Barnes’ sword. He quickly cuts through the inner door, and we drop to the deck below. An emergency energy field snaps into place to protect the ship from venting atmosphere, and we find ourselves in a well-lit corridor.
Now I need a tampon. Of all times to spring a leak!
SLASH AND BURN
The corridor has uniformly colored surfaces with polished metallic deck plating, and matching bulkheads. They are a greyish charcoal color, and appear to be of recent construction. Our prototype theory is beginning to hold water.
“We stay together at all costs!” Onslaught says. I’m thankful for it. After all, in action flicks the first thing they do is decide to split up. It always ends in disaster. Even Napoleon knew this. His famous ‘Divide and Conquer’ strategy holds true throughout the ages.
Neither Kyle, nor I disagree. I can feel our mental connection deepening. Staying together will not just give us a more concentrated combat strength, but it will allow us to be of one mind.
Wordlessly we head towards the port side of the corridor. It comes to an intersection that has a wider corridor leading
fore and aft. Our mission is to take this thing down, and get answers, so we decide to go towards the fore section. It’s an educated guess, really. None of us has a clue about the deck plans in this newly built bucket, so we’re guessing there’s a CIC, bridge, or situation room towards the bow.
The airlock was mid-ship, so it’s not like we can realistically clear one half of the ship any faster than we can the other. Another educated guess, but a sound one.
It’s eerily quiet. Too quiet. It’s not that we don’t know there’s an effort to spring a trap up ahead. Modern ships like this probably have good sensor sweeping tools, and the enemy is most likely tracking us with confidence. There’s no point in sneaking slowly, or trying to keep our noise levels down. The likelihood that sound discipline will be of any advantage to us is outweighed by the fact that we need to move quickly. Not knowing where we’re going means that we can’t afford to take our time.
Choke point ahead. I see it. Kyle sees it. Onslaught smells it. I smell it too. I don’t have his olfactory capabilities, but I can sense what he’s sensing to a degree. I don’t have the brain structure to fully process it, but I can get an approximation either way. I smell lubricants. Foul human breath. Sweat. Fear.
There must be some troops with powered armor up ahead. They’re nervously anticipating us. They’re breathing heavy, and the pheromones in their sweat reflects significant stress levels. Now I know why melding with a Zodiac is so handy. Probes and drones can be spoofed or hacked, but millions of years of evolution can’t be fooled so easily.
I can’t dissect his senses as well as he can, however. It’s impressive. But his brain is wired that way. We have no choice but to treat it as gospel.
The so-called ‘choke point’ is just a slightly narrowed section of the bulkheads. It gently funnels into the space behind. It’s likely some kind of engineering sub-station which allows the ship’s engineers to perform certain tasks without having to go astern. That means there are a significant amount of delicate electronics that may prove useful to us.
Kyle surmises.
I can’t disagree. I would have proposed something similar. But I would have been the one charging.
Um, hello? I’m right here! But the plan is solid. Onslaught is right. This is likely a multi-staged ambush. The enemies are using a small scale version of Russia’s defensive strategy in the Second World War. Whereby, drawing the enemy in to a seemingly easy victory, while adding thicker layers of defenses as they advance. Eventually grinding them to a halt, and opening up the opportunity for a counter offensive.
Kyle sprints forward. He’s a natural runner. His frame is light for a male member of our kind, but his body is flexible and symmetrical. He takes after his cousin, The Mighty Kaylen. Kaylen being the greatest War Master to have ever lived… If you didn’t know that already.
I can sense the enemy stir. Their breathing increasing. They’re one sneeze away from shitting themselves. But the hold firm. I can hear the low whine of plasma cartridges beginning to charge. They’re about to spring their trap.
Onslaught bolts forward, as Kyle skids to a halt, and gets into a loose sword stance. I swivel my footing, and face the rear. My hands lower my sword into a low ready position, and I visually scan for threats. But I keep my other faculties focused on the action up front.
The energy pack in Barnes’ sword comes to life, and I hear the scraping of metal armor against bulkheads. The enemy is coming out of cover to take aim. The first two are dead within a split second.
I sense the copper taste of blood running down my furry snout. Onslaught is ripping throats. The sounds of slashes tells me that Kyle is in his element. I may be the superior swordsman, but my preference is to make full use of my footwork, and use the area around me. Kyle’s is more like a caged animals that uses short and furious slashes. I have to admit, he’s better at the close up game than I am.
I decide it’s time to join them. I scan the after corridor once more for threats. Confident it’s all clear, I spin around and bound for the choke point. But I missed the party.
Just as Onslaught said there was, six enemy soldiers were motionless on the deck. Blood spatter was everywhere, and not one of them got a single shot off. They were too cramped to line up a clear shot, and they were dead before they could line one up.
I find console, and proceed to peck away at it. What I lack in space ship skills, I make up for by my electronic aptitude. Onslaught and Kyle didn’t need an explanation, as to what I was trying to do. They were melded with my mind enough to accurately gage my intensions. Luckily, these consoles were so new, they still had factory default log in parameters. The crew was likely thrown together for their op, and they likely didn’t take the time to develop their own internal security protocols.
I’m in their ship’s network. I pull up a deck layout, and find our location. I motion for the other two to look at the display, and we study the schematics together.
“We’re only one hundred meters from the CIC.” I say as I track the path to it with my finger. There are only two intersections to clear, but the final corridor is broad, and is likely heavily defended.
“Check these men for grenades. We’ll need them.” Onslaught says to Kyle. Kyle nods and does as instructed. “While you’re doing that, see if there’s anything to indicate who these men are.”
“I’m on it.” Kyle replies.
I continue to scan the deck plans, and skim over anything that isn’t likely to aid us. I could care less about the specs of their automated mess unit, after all. Then I find something unnerving.
“They have their own infantry drone manufacturing deck.” I say. “That could be bad.”
“Then why defense with humans if they have fodder on board?” Onslaught asks rhetorically. Then it hits me.
“Conrad said they’re recovered infantry drones from the temple. They may have come from this ship. Perhaps they’ve already deployed, and likely lost, most of their drones. Perhaps even all of them.” I say.
“Good instincts, Kat. I think you may be right. That’s why they’re targeting the Nova. They don’t want the forensic evidence to trace back to whoever they are.” Onslaught says with a wink.
I’ve never seen him wink before. But then again, I’ve never see him rip out anyone’s throat in seventy years, either. There’s a first time for everything, I guess.
“If they depend on infantry drones for ground ops, then they’ll likely have limited numbers of human defenders.” Kyle adds.
“Have you found anything?” Onslaught asks him.
“Oh, oh yes.” He nervously replies. “We’ve got three concussion grenades and two frags. Plus, this tech might be new, but it’s far from state of the art.”
“Most likely Crimson.” Onslaught says. “They’re craftsmanship is decent, but they’re behind the power curve with tech. They often prefer quantity to quality.”
“Which means, the ship’s captain may face execution if they failed to cover their tracks. This would create a massive scandal, to say the least.” I say.
“Then we have one mission. Take the ship’s crew out, and get this hull back to friendly hands for analysis.” Onslaught says with an autho
ritative tone.
We discuss our next moves, but only very briefly. The longer we wait to act, the better chance they have at solidifying their defenses. Since I enjoy references to World War Two so much, we are cleaning inspiration from the American General, Patton. His methods focused on keeping constant pressure on the enemy. That way they could never occupy any one area long enough to fortify it. He probably saved thousands of his own men’s lives in the process.
We follow our pre-planned route, and run into only light resistance. I rounded the first corner before the others, and reflexively rip out a soldier’s throat with my bare hand. Eagle Claw form of Kung Fu ain’t nothin’ to fuck with! Or was that the Wu Tang Clan? I can’t remember.
Everything turns a bluish hue, and my Primal Rage is back. But this time it seems less chaotic. It activated when I encountered the enemy, and likely owe my throat ripping to its raw power. Not that I’m not strong enough to do it on my own, but I would have never been able to do it so intuitively… or savagely without it.
Confident my Rage is presently in check, I press forward. I ignore the bounding action we’d just agreed upon, but Onslaught doesn’t protest. It’s as if he’s decided to welcome my Rage into the fight.
Good. For once I’m welcoming it too. As long as he can help me keep it under wraps, then it’s possibly our greatest weapon.
We reach the final turn. It's where the corridor widens right before the CIC, and we can all sense the defenders. But now it’s different for me. I’m not solely relying on Onslaught’s senses. They are present, to be sure. But I’m seeing the world around me in a wondrous mosaic of impossible energies, and mind boggling mathematics. Perhaps this is what the physical universe really looks like when you don’t have the limits of biological senses.
I see them all. Twelve soldiers. Eight with plasma rifles. Two with heavy ballistics rifles, and two more with semi-lethal pulse pistols. I guess the last two were the bottom of the barrel. They’ve reached the end of the manpower they can spare to defend. Good.
