The warship closest to the newly reformed Oneiri team, a destroyer, loosed an opening salvo, with two Banshee missiles targeting each mech.
They’re testing us. Seeing how we react. The destroyer was the Javelin, piloted by Bronson, who knew Jake had experience with space combat from when they’d fought a host of robots together out in the Belt.
But he’s banking on my pilots not having any experience.
And the man was right to do so. Outside sims, Oneiri had never battled with their mechs in space.
Worse, half of the team was now comprised of rookies, which was underscored when the second missile targeting Zed Gifford connected squarely with his lower torso.
“Gifford,” Jake barked over the team-wide channel. “Evasive maneuvers!”
Gifford was changing his position relative to the destroyer, but his course took the form of a spiral that looked as awkward as it was predictable. “Sir, the blast affected my thrusters!”
Jake was far from an officer, but he decided now wasn’t the time to correct Gifford about addressing him as “sir.” The Javelin had opened fire with kinetic impactors, bisecting Gifford’s wild circling in a way that was sure to hit him if he didn’t tighten up. “Your other thrusters are fully operational,” Jake said. “You need to compensate—”
It was too late. Kinetic impactors slammed into Gifford’s MIMAS, taking out still more thrusters, and seconds later more rounds hit him, perforating the mech worse than Swiss cheese.
Gifford’s vitals went black, and he didn’t respond to further transmissions. The mech’s thrusters deactivated, giving the final sign that the MIMAS had become nothing more than scrap floating through space.
Cursing, Jake rocketed toward the destroyer to exact some revenge. Oneiri Team had just reformed, and already Bronson had taken one of their members from them, knocking them down to seven including Marco.
Beyond the Javelin, the system’s only missile cruiser was maneuvering to get into position to start firing on Oneiri. Apparently Bronson noticed that too, as the destroyer went fully on the offense, sending a cloud of missiles at Jake while attempting to hit him with lasers.
Bronson remembers exactly what my mech is capable of doing to his ship.
Jake reversed thrust abruptly, sending thin energy bolts to meet the missiles before they could lay him open.
Then the missile cruiser, which Jake knew as the Alexander—its name had been changed to that when the planet, Alexandria, had received its name—moved into position and loosed two dozen Banshees straight at Jake.
They know that if they take me out, we’ll fall apart. Jake wasn’t one to overestimate his own importance, but he knew it was true. He was the only one with space combat experience, and without the benefit of his orders, the others would likely fall. Plus he was now Oneiri’s de facto leader, and his mech was by far the most powerful.
But he refused to let the attack stoke his rage to the point of clouding his judgment. Instead, he rallied himself, accelerating backward and picking off each rocket while conserving as much energy as possible.
He opened up a channel with Marco, whose likeness the mech dream inserted into the space before him, which was a bit jarring. “Spirit, why aren’t the station’s defense systems targeting these warships?”
With a bitter chuckle, Marco said, “I told you how long this would take. It just can’t be done that fast.”
“Marco,” Jake spat, dropping his teammate’s nickname, “your attitude right now is disgusting. What has being part of Oneiri taught us about facing impossible odds? Did it teach us to just lay down and die? Is that what you got from it?”
Radio silence followed Jake’s words.
“We’ve already lost a pilot,” he went on. “Within the first two minutes. We’re overpowered by just two ships, and more are on the way. One of our teammates is already dead!”
“All right,” Marco said tersely. “All right!”
“Make it happen,” Jake snapped. “Now.” He cut off the transmission, and Marco vanished.
At a glance, Jake saw from the data breakdown of his omnidirectional tactical display that a destroyer was about to join the battle, with two corvettes due to arrive fifteen minutes behind it.
Chapter 32
Miracle Timing
“We need to start hitting back,” Jake said over the team-wide. “Hard.”
“Difficult to do without the station’s turrets backing us up,” Ash said.
“I know.” Jake racked his brain for the optimal tactics for this situation. It was true that he had space combat experience, but outside of training and sims, he had zero experience with commanding a squad of mechs in space.
“Odell, Sato, and Miller, you provide missile defense for Sweeney and Arkanian as they focus fire on that missile cruiser. It’s causing us the most grief right now.”
“What will you do?” Andy said, and his tone had some bite.
“I’m taking on the destroyer that just showed up.”
The alien mech did everything it could to communicate the danger involved as he hurtled toward the newly arrived destroyer. Great, glowing rents appeared in the fabric of space, flashing with the red of hellfire. Insects covered him, their spindly legs skittering over his skin, and together they writhed like a living coat. The discordant violin note he’d first heard out in the Belt rose sharply until it was earsplitting.
But he was committed, even as the destroyer, called the McDougal, spat kinetic impactors at his mech, following up with lasers that played across empty space, trying to get a fix on him.
Jake wouldn’t grant them that, nor would he provide an easy target for the kinetic impactors screaming his way, or the missiles that came soon after.
He hurled energy bolt after energy bolt at the missiles, thanking God for the alien mech’s advanced targeting and predictive AI. Unlike the missiles, the energy blasts lacked the ability to alter their course after being fired, so Jake had to use everything at his disposal to anticipate where the missiles would be.
It wasn’t long before the Alexander seemed to take notice of how close Jake was getting to the McDougal and sent an immense salvo of missiles his way. The destroyer sent its own barrage, and Jake knew immediately that he wouldn’t be able to pick them all off with his energy guns.
So he lowered his guns and waited, continuing his course toward the destroyer but otherwise doing nothing to deal with the ordnance hurtling toward him.
At the last second, he repeated a trick he’d picked up in the Belt. Thin spikes exploded from all over his body, but this time they flew through space to intercept the missiles, whereas before they’d remained attached to him, each impaling a Ravager.
Within the space of twenty seconds, every missile was neutralized. The maneuver had cost Jake some of his mass, but he knew he could reclaim it, given access to the correct raw materials.
But how in Sol did I do that? He’d hoped the move would be possible, but he hadn’t been sure. High-risk situations often seemed to bring out capabilities in the alien mech that he’d known nothing about.
If we merge, you will have ready access to them all, the whispers told him, but Jake ignored them as he closed with the McDougal, the bullets from the point defense system smacking against him like gnats.
Just before he landed, he sent an enormous energy blast at the hull, blowing open a hole wide enough for him to pass through.
He found himself inside a mid-size cargo hold filled with towering stacks of metal crates. Knowing it wouldn’t be long before damage control teams arrived with marine escorts to seal the breach, he sprinted toward the exit, prying the doors open with wedge-shaped appendages he’d grown for the job.
Marines were already in the corridor outside, and Jake made short work of them with high-velocity rounds.
His journey toward the destroyer’s CIC went similarly. It reminded him of how depressingly easy it had been when he’d stolen the alien mech from the Javelin’s shuttle bay. Except, his success today was eve
n more disproportionate. Now that he was inside the ship itself, there was almost nothing the McDougal’s defenders could do to stop him. They had no mechs of their own, and no tanks. Jake reached the CIC with ease, blasting apart the security door meant to protect the captain and CIC crew from intruders.
Inside, almost all of the faces of the McDougal’s officers had gone white, and those that hadn’t shone with sweat.
All except the captain, Joseph Baird. He appraised Jake coolly from the captain’s chair, eyebrows arched.
“You’re at my mercy,” Jake told them all. “I wield the power to rip this ship apart from the inside. But I won’t do that if you do exactly as I say.”
“I know you, boy,” Captain Baird said, sneering. “Bronson told me all about you, and I even came across you a few times during your training. You’re a lot of things, but you wouldn’t kill the crew of a ship you’ve taken hostage. You—”
Jake planted a high-velocity round inside the captain’s skull, causing it to rupture like an overripe melon and spraying his Tactical and Coms officers with brains and blood. They recoiled, raising their arms and wincing.
Shifting the gun toward the Tactical officer—a stooped, graying woman with red and pink speckled across her face—Jake said, “Commander Stephanie Yates, is that correct?”
“That’s right,” she said, her voice shaking only slightly.
“You’ve just been given command of this ship. Are you willing to do as I say, or do I need to give the command to someone else?”
“I’ll do it.”
Jake nodded. “Hit the Alexander with twenty Banshees and follow up with kinetic impactors until she’s neutralized.” Turning to the sensor operator, Jake said, “Put up a tactical display showing the battle.”
The sensor operator said nothing, but he did as Jake told him. A brief study of the viewscreen told him what he wanted to know: Marco had finally managed to compromise the safeguards for Valhalla’s defensive arsenal. The station turrets were already firing on the Javelin and the Alexander.
The destroyer shook. “What was that?” Jake barked.
“Valhalla’s turrets,” the sensor operator said. “They’re firing on us, too.”
“Damn it,” Jake spat, opening up a two-way channel with Marco. “Spirit, I need you to stop the turrets from firing on the McDougal.”
“Are you serious? I just finished convincing them that every warship it sees is an enemy! Now I have to persuade them that one of them is on our side after all?”
“That’s right,” Jake said.
“And what timeline would you like this miracle to adhere to?”
“Five minutes ago would be ideal.”
Chapter 33
Gated Community
Tessa popped over a low garden wall, sent an uncontrolled burst in the direction of the Darkstream soldiers entrenched around the entrance to the gated community, and then ducked back down in time to avoid the hail of bullets the enemy soldiers sent her way in return.
She poked over the wall to fire again, but this time her SL-17 jammed, and she cursed, crouching to dismantle the weapon on the grass as quickly as possible.
The force she commanded had hit an impasse, unable to push forward with the numbers left to them after the constant fighting they’d endured on their way across the Core and into Epsilon Quadrant.
If she’d had more human soldiers, she might have been having more success—the cover available in this position was too squat and cramped to allow Quatro to push forward without taking unacceptable losses. Hers was the most advanced position, and the pressure the enemy soldiers were putting on her prevented her from retreating to join the Quatro in position around the homes behind her.
There’s something inside that gated community. Something they’re awfully eager to prevent us from accessing.
Tessa knew Darkstream. She didn’t just know their tactics; she knew how to read them, too. As she encountered more and more push-back during her advance into the Epsilon Quadrant, she’d become increasingly sure: there was something here that would prove decisive in the conflict being waged between the resistance and the corporation.
Epsilon was home not only to Valhalla Station’s famous Endless Beach, but also its most affluent residents. Mostly Darkstream executives.
Tessa highly doubted the company would keep sensitive data here, or valuable weaponry. Not so close to its top executives’ homes.
No, she knew what she expected to find here: the members of the board of directors, huddled inside their homes within Valhalla’s most sumptuous gated community.
Of course. Where else would they hide but the place they’ve always felt safest, the place where they were always able to keep the rabble out?
“The rabble’s come for you,” Tessa muttered as she clicked the last part of her assault rifle into place, reloaded, and bobbed over the garden wall to fire again.
“Tessa Notaras.” It was Rug, coming in over a two-way channel.
Tessa crouched back down, mentally sweeping aside an alert from her implant that told her the ambient temperature was dropping steadily. “Rug. Do you have some good news for me?” She’d contacted the Quatro twenty minutes ago, about the possibility of sending more troops her way. At the time, nobody had considered it worthwhile to fight through the station’s residential areas.
“I do. Marco Gonzalez has succeeded in hacking the station’s defensive arsenal. In doing so, he stopped them from targeting the shuttles carrying our reinforcements.”
“How many of them can you send me?”
“Twenty Quatro. Most of them armed.”
Tessa resisted the urge to curse again. It wasn’t nearly as many as she would have liked—apparently, her allies still weren’t convinced about what she was doing. But Tessa was sure that the mere fact that Epsilon was so heavily guarded meant it was worth attacking.
“At least most are armed, I guess,” Tessa said. “Send them my way. I’ll do my best to hold on till they get here.”
“They are already en route.”
The transmission ended, and Tessa grimaced. She’d been about to ask Rug if she knew anything about the plummeting temperature. Hopefully the life support systems aren’t failing on us. In the meantime, her jumpsuit would keep her warm.
She did her best to keep up the pressure on the enemy soldiers, to prevent them from swarming her and ending her little campaign before it harvested the fruit she knew awaited it.
She’d been doing a lot of thinking, lately—about her future. Tessa wasn’t young by any stretch, but she would have given herself ten more good fighting years, and two or three decades of life beyond that, given current technology.
Her ideas about where she’d likely end up spending those years had started to solidify on the space elevator, while she watched the end of Eresos take shape.
The end of the entire Steele System, probably.
If this system was going down, then survival meant fleeing from it.
She’d spent a lot of time with the Quatro, enough to know how unlikely it was that they’d be willing to return to what they called their Home Systems. That meant there was only one safe haven left to any Steele System refugees:
The Milky Way.
Whether humanity’s home galaxy was actually a safe haven depended on several factors, especially for Tessa. What would facing human society mean for her, at whose feet many people laid the hundreds of thousands of deaths that had resulted from the failure of dark tech? She’d been the one to let the Ixan, Ochrim, access the master control for every warship’s wormhole generator, and in doing so, she’d inadvertently signed the death warrants of all those military men and women.
Of course, whether she’d face consequences for that depended on whether humanity survived in any form back in the Milky Way. The year Darkstream had fled the galaxy, victory over the Ixa had seemed far from likely. Just a few months before the company’s departure, the Ixa had devoured the Coreopsis System with thousands of advanced warships.
>
As Tessa continued to fire on the Darkstream soldiers guarding the gated community before her, she couldn’t decide which would be worse for her: returning to find the Ixa had won the war, or that humanity had.
It didn’t matter. Today had involved the drawn-out process of realizing what had become their only option: they had to risk a return to the Milky Way, and it wasn’t reasonable for her to impede that effort because of her own past. For her friends—her brothers- and sisters-in-arms—she would accept whatever awaited her.
When she ducked down after delivering her latest salvo, pressing her back to the garden wall, she saw signs that the Quatro reinforcements had arrived—large forms flitting between structures, shadows flickering behind vine-covered trellis walls.
Without warning, a fifty-strong Quatro force charged toward the gated community, around a third of them armed.
“Stop!” Tessa yelled. “Go back!” The Quatro charge amounted to pointless suicide, but her warning was lost in the roar of gunfire as every Darkstream soldier opened up on the aliens.
None of them seemed affected by the volley, though, and Tessa blinked in confusion. A soft clattering sound reached her ears, and suddenly, she realized what it was: the bullets the enemy soldiers had fired were falling uselessly to the ground.
She got it, then. The station’s falling temperature was not an accident. It had been engineered, to grant the Quatro full use of their fullerene-laced brains.
Poking her head over the garden wall, Tessa was just in time to watch as most of the Darkstream soldiers were thrown forcefully against the three-meter brick wall surrounding the gated community. Other enemy combatants had their guns wrenched from their grasps by the same invisible force, and a couple even had their skulls caved in with their own weapons.
Within seconds, it was over. Tessa stood, then, walking calmly toward the gate, which was dragged aside by the same force that had taken care of the soldiers.
Mech Wars: The Complete Series Page 68
