Crewmen from the other direction opened up, catching the aliens in a deadly crossfire. The sounding ceased. I turned to get Skids when heavy footsteps, metal on metal, caught my attention. Two huge Gar-Crax, suited in metallic armor, approached. Like an armadillo’s overlapping bands, the armor covered them from snout to tail, and each hefted an ornate halberd similar to its unarmored brethren.
I didn’t have to see the elite soldiers’ grins as they strode closer. “Holy crap!” Shotgun empty, I drew my revolver, wanting to shoot myself for not loading AP rounds. “Skids, don’t come out!” The Crax duo increased their pace. I backpedaled faster, and fired once, generally for the crystal eye slits. The headpiece jerked slightly at the impact, but the round ricocheted off without leaving a mark.
I knew Gar-Crax were faster than any human, even one running for his life. Maybe the armor would slow them down. I broke into a sprint, holding onto my firearms, who knows why. Maybe training—maybe stupidity.
I made it to the last set of quarters and hurdled the pile of fallen aliens, fully expecting to be bisected in mid-leap. As I landed, a temporary wall crashed into the pursuing Gar-Crax, knocking one flat while the other staggered through the opposite wall.
Chief Brold hauled himself up and drove his pike through the walling, through the armor, and into the chest of a fallen Gar-Crax. Its snarl curled to a screech when the chief energized the pike’s tip.
Chief Brold didn’t have time to gloat. The second Gar-Crax recovered and swung its halberd at the servo-armored human. The chief ducked and the alien’s molecular blade struck his pike. Somehow the chief retained his grip.
Unfazed, Chief Brold lowered his shoulder and drove into his eight-foot opponent, hauling the pike behind his churning feet. I took the opportunity to load lead slug rounds into my shotgun. They wouldn’t penetrate but might jar the alien a bit, if I got a clean shot.
The chief came around with a right fist to the head, toppling his opponent. The Crax got its left foot under the chief, kicked and sent him flying into the meal benches twenty yards away.
Blam! Blam! I sent two rounds slamming into the Crax before it got up. That got its attention. Swell. “How ’bout another.” Blam! That one deflected off the faceplate.
“Keesay!” shouted the chief. “Get the hell out of here!”
“You look a little overmatched, Chief!” I circled to my right. The Crax would have to turn his back on the chief to face me. It leveled its halberd. Knowing what that meant, I dove and rolled. Three caustic pellets whizzed past, inches off target.
It turned back to face the charging human. The chief knocked aside the halberd and slammed his pike’s shaft into the Crax’s midsection, driving it back a step. The Crax swung its weapon, slashing just over the crouching human. Chief Brold responded by plunging the point of his pike through the armored abdomen, driving the elite soldier back.
The chief activated the tip, sending energy through the impaled alien, but not before it brought the halberd down, shearing through the chief’s leg and into the floor. I slid two buckshot rounds into my shotgun and scanned for more aliens. I spotted Kalavar crewmen climbing from behind a barricade.
“Chief’s down,” I yelled. When I got to him, the chief had thrown the alien aside. It lay stiff, with armor locked in place. I knelt next to the chief. His leg had been severed at mid-calf, down at a sixty degree angle.
Blood gushed out. “Lie back, Chief.” I examined the leg armor for the release catches. With it in place I couldn’t apply pressure or other first aid.
“Report. Where’s the boy?”
“Right there, Chief.” Michael crept forward. “See, now lie back.” The pool of blood spread. Chief Brold was going into shock. With two quick snaps, the armor fell back. Carver Potts shoved a cord into my hand. “Anybody have a first aid kit?” I asked.
Potts shouted, “Tahgs, hustle up!”
“Colonist Potts,” I said. “Post guard. Still aliens about.”
He checked his assault rifle. Changed clips. “Sure thing, Specialist. Knew that was you blasting away. Glad I never really tangled with ya.”
I looped the cord and tightened it over the leg stump.
Tahgs slid next to me. “Kra, not too tight. Hold the leg up.” She pulled a packet of synthetic skin. “Mer, open this.”
The old man peeled it open. Tahgs sprayed an antiseptic followed by a blood vessel constrictor. “Quick, Mer. Place it over the wound.”
When the synth-skin attached to the wound, blood proteins activated the bonding seal. Tahgs moved around and checked Chief Brold’s pulse. She reached in and pulled an emergency injection syringe and administered pain meds.
“He’ll make it,” Mer said.
“Kra,” said Janice. “Potts claimed you’re a brave SOB. I’ll have to admit, crude but true.”
“Did you miss the running part? Chief did all the work.”
She looked around. “And who shot those Crax and Stegmars?”
I looked to Mer who was holding a marine-issue hand radio to his ear. “I’ve got to get to the exploration shuttle,” I said. “Captain’s orders.”
He looked determined. “Club says we can expect company. Two decks below moving up. She’ll try to send help. And good news, four pods on approached, turned back.”
I searched my pockets, and switched loads in my revolver. “AP rounds,” I said to anybody who was listening, “for what they’re worth.”
“A couple of Crax with shields got past us,” said Mer. “Some Stegmars, too. Might’ve been heading for the cargo bay. There’s a squad of colonists up there.”
“Any marines?”
Mer shook his head. “Them and the shuttle crew. Might have been some gunfire, but hard to tell.”
“Engineer McAllister and Tech Gudkov, too,” said Tahgs. “Just before they hit us.”
“Skids, my shotgun. We’ll get by them.”
“Lefty got two of them,” Skids said, pointing. My sec-bot had deployed its stun net over two Stegmars before becoming an acid-pitted husk.
Mer ordered, “Colonist Potts, go with Keesay.”
“No,” I said. “You’re expecting company, remember? I’ll need you to hold them while I figure a way around the Crax.”
“Raccoon,” said the chief, propped up on an elbow. “Damn foolish of you. I’d been stalking them since they boarded. Chicher’s been shadowing them, too.”
“Glad to flush them for you, Chief.” I finished loading my shotgun and said to Potts, “Help me haul the chief to the barricade.”
Mer, Tahgs and Skids followed. “Get my leg,” ordered the chief. “Maybe Sevanto can sew it back on.”
Mer retrieved it, shaking his head. He wrapped it in a sack and set it in a dish tub.
“Thanks,” said the chief, and pulled his laser pistol.
Mer followed by slamming a fresh clip into an old-style .45 semi-automatic pistol, and holstered it before grabbing an assault rifle. “You ain’t the only one with Relic weapons, Kra.” He grinned. “We’ll hold’em.” Potts affixed a fresh laser module under the barrel of Mer’s rifle. Mer spoke into his hand radio. “Club, Keesay escorting package to expo.”
Tahgs looked up from two wounded colonists. “Kra,” she said stoically, “be careful.” The frightened, desperate expression betrayed what her voice hid.
“Will do.” I winked. I took her right hand. “We’ll have dinner again sometime. Promise.” I wanted to ask about Benny, but didn’t. Before she responded I nudged Skids forward. “Unfold that riot shield.”
The chief issued orders as we trotted away. “Mer, colonist, over there. Tahgs, you know how to use that laser carbine?”
Skids looked back. “I won’t lie to you,” I said to him. “But if they don’t make it, they’ll take a lot of Stegmars and Crax with them.” I urged him on. “If we don’t make it, their bravery will be wasted.”
We slipped past more colonist quarters and the rec area, all the time circling upward toward the cargo bay. “My ears are ringin
g a bit,” I whispered. “You hear anything, let me know.”
We crept through the diesel farm equipment, avoiding several dead Stegmar and colonist bodies, and one engineer identifiable only by a few tatters of dull orange fabric. “Listen, Skids.” He’d already stopped. A voice or two echoed. “I think it’s coming from the cargo bay door.” Skids nodded in agreement.
We crawled around several carts, a large tractor, and a combine.
“Go warp-screw yourself!”
“That’s Maintenance Tech Gudkov,” I whispered.
“Information or the female ends, human,” ordered a synthetic voice. It accented the command with a gurgling hiss.
I crawled forward. Backed against the main door stood Gudkov, facing three Gar-Crax. Behind him stood McAllister. One Crax was an elite in armor. The others appeared to have defense screen generators on their belts. Posted were two Stegmar Mantis. One Gar-Crax faced the access terminal, manipulating a boxlike device.
“Skids,” I whispered. “Sneak over to the right, past the diesel engines.”
“Access door?” he asked.
“Correct. I’ll distract the Crax. You sneak in, get to the shuttle and go.”
“That armored Crax. He’ll kill you.”
“Keep your voice down. I’ve no intention of letting him catch me.” Skids was smart enough to know the odds. I reached into my breast pocket. “Know what these are?”
“Shotgun shells.”
I shook my head. “Popcorn nukes.” His eyes widened. Distant gunfire erupted. “That’s the chief and Mer. Now go.” I collapsed his shield. “Fast as you can. Be silent.” He crawled back behind the carts and began a circular approach.
“Time gone,” said the elite Crax, and knocked Gudkov aside with a backhand.
I took aim at the Crax with the computer, hoping his screen was drained or facing forward. Blam! It went down with a hole in the base of its skull. I fired twice more, the first round of buckshot whizzed into the Stegmars, knocking one down and injuring the other. The follow up slug struck the injured Stegmar in the lower thorax, knocking it back. It kicked and spun, but never got up.
To my right, Skids was slinking, making for the door. I ducked as caustic pellets raked the intervening tractor. I slung my shotgun and drew my revolver. I climbed and took aim at the advancing elite soldier. Crack—Dthzthing! The AP round struck the helmet, didn’t penetrate, but left a mark. I stood my ground and fired again, hitting its chest without slowing it.
The elite Crax leapt on top of the tractor. I jumped down and faked to my right, before diving under the tractor. The Crax went for the fake giving me the chance to roll under. I didn’t have time to fire before the elite spun and sent caustic fire my way. Tires and metal sizzled.
I made for a cart, the Crax pounding in pursuit. I felt a round impact my helmet and I flipped it off before acid reached my flesh. I slid under the cart wildly returning fire.
I saw the Crax’s feet leave the ground, and I scrambled to reverse my momentum. Thunk, in the wagon. Clump, the Crax hit the floor. I scampered back under, and holstered my revolver. My only hope was to get the eye slits. I unslung my shotgun. Diving and rolling with bayonet fixed had been reckless, but I was happy to have it now—sort of.
The elite soldier took my action as intent to engage in armed combat. His A-Tech blades against my bayoneted shotgun. I had no intention of honor and let loose. The steel buckshot rattled harmlessly off its elongated faceplate.
I backed away. A flick of its halberd clipped away the tip of my bayonet. I fired again with no results. The elite Crax charged, swinging its blades down. I braced my shotgun above my head. The blow drove me to my knees, but the barrel’s perforated sheathing held. Like the chief’s pike, the Umbelgarri alloy withstood the molecular saw.
Surprised, the Crax pressed down. I gritted, resisted. His bulk and armor-enhanced strength tore at my shoulders, compressed my entire body. Something landed on the armored soldier’s back.
It was the Chicher diplomat. In a flash he whipped his tail blade around and drove it into a vulnerable spot. The rat-like alien left the quad-blades imbedded in the Crax’s armpit and vaulted off the elite soldier’s back before it could react and grab him. From on top of a tractor cab the Chicher spit on its remaining hand blades in defiance.
The soldier grasped at the quad-blade. I rolled away and fired upward before it succeeded. The Crax snarled and turned on me.
I scuttled back, seeing a thin stream of red running down from under its arm. “We hurt it,” I yelled. “It’s bleeding.”
The Chicher clucked and chattered something, drawing the injured Crax’s attention. The soldier turned, stumbled, then lunged at the taunting Chicher, but didn’t quite make the top of the tractor hood. Still, it deliberately swung its halberd, slicing through the cab, sending the Chicher scurrying over the side.
I slid a flare round into my shotgun and aimed for the faceplate when it turned. Blam! The yellow flare ignited, blinding the soldier. It dropped its halberd and fell to the ground. A gauntlet clumsily knocked the ignited chemical paste aside. I sidestepped, drew my revolver, and took aim. The AP round penetrated the crystal eye slit. The body slumped before the armor locked in place.
I sighed before turning toward the bay door. A Gar-Crax was still up, engaged in hand-to-hand with Gudkov. I holstered my revolver, not chancing an AP round into the bay door. Instead, I slid two slug rounds into my shotgun.
The Crax’s jaw hung at an odd angle, but Gudkov looked worse off. Blood poured from a head wound, his blood-soaked uniform was rent from shoulder to hip, and his right arm hung, dangling. McAllister lay dazed behind him.
I fired from the hip just as the Crax leapt and spun, slamming its tail into the battered human. My slug took the Crax in the thigh as it landed, causing it to stagger and fall. My second shot clipped it in the tail.
The Crax climbed erect with a snarl. Its screen intercepted my next shot. It hobbled forward to retrieve its halberd. I searched for cover as it took aim.
From behind, a red-haired dervish leapt onto the Crax’s back, grasped its broken jaw and yanked. The Crax snarled and screeched. Instinctively it spun, grasping for its attacker. I fired another lead slug into its ribs. The Crax’s wounded leg collapsed and it crashed to the floor. McAllister rolled away while I charged and fired again, and again. Click. I drove what remained of my bayonet into the alien’s neck and twisted before it could rise. Blood sprayed. It grabbed the shotgun muzzle, then fell limp.
I loaded more shells and searched for enemies. “Skids,” I yelled. Maybe he hadn’t made it into the bay yet.
“No!” cried McAllister. “Keesay, help me.” Covered in blood, one eye swollen shut, she looked up. “He’s dying!” Frantically she applied pressure to his chest and abdomen. Blood welled over her fingers.
I jumped and leveled my shotgun at two approaching forms. I nodded to the Chicher and said to Skids, “Post. Yell if you see anything.” I knelt across from McAllister. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
“No,” she sobbed. “Help him.”
I surveyed Gudkov’s injures. “Right shoulder dislocated,” I mumbled. “And forearm broken.” I looked further. “Lacerations, a bite to the scalp. No cranial penetration.” I recalled the tail blow. “Ribs broken, possible punctured lung.” I lifted McAllister’s hands. “Deep abdominal wounds.”
“Shut up and help him!”
Somehow Gudkov had retained consciousness. “Never liked. You rugged damn Relic.” He knew he didn’t have long and locked eyes with McAllister. “Nova, go with Keesay.”
She cradled his head. “No! Don’t leave me.”
“Can’t help it.” He looked back to me. “Keesay?”
“I’ll protect her.”
Fading, he searched with his good hand for McAllister’s. “Relic, say something. A prayer for me, for us.”
I was at a loss. McAllister hovered close, listening to Gudkov’s faltering words. “I love you, too.” She looked to me. “He’s
dying,” she cried.
I placed my hand on his head, and recited as best I could from memory, a verse from my grandfather’s funeral. “For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to be born. A time to die.”
McAllister sniffled, eyes locked with her companion. Until that moment I hadn’t even considered Gudkov as her love.
“A time to plant,” I continued, “and a time to pluck that which has been planted. A time to kill, and a time to heal. A time to break down, and a time to build up. A time to weep, and a time to laugh. A time to mourn, and a time to dance. A time to embrace, and a time to refrain.”
McAllister was calming. Gudkov was struggling to hang on, somehow smiling.
“A time to get and a time to lose. A time to rend, and a time to sew. A time to be silent, and a time to speak.” I took a breath. “A time to love, and a time to hate. A time of war, and a time for peace.” I slowed. “Anatol Gudkov. It’s now your time for peace.”
His hand clenched McAllister’s. Then his eyes rolled up and closed. She pulled him to her. “No!”
Her cry haunted me, same as years before. I got up and looked around. Skids had watched Gudkov die while the Chicher stood guard. The alien signed, “Move.”
I signed, “Agreement,” and pulled McAllister away from Gudkov. “We’ve got to go. More Crax and Stegmar on the way.”
“So?” she asked.
Empathy would get me nowhere. I spun her around, clenched the front of her shirt and pulled her close. “I just made a promise to a dying man. I intend to keep it.” I let her go. “You might consider survival. It’s what he wanted. Otherwise his sacrifice means nothing.”
She gazed down. “Now,” I said. “Get us into that bay!” I tugged a platinum ring from Gudkov’s finger and slapped it into her hand. “Put this in your pocket and get moving.”
Skids ran up and yanked on my vest. “The system says the bay’s depressurized.”
Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles) Page 46
