But there was a price to be paid for attacking the war forms, as one of the Ramanthian pilots found out when a heat-seeking missile entered his port air intake and exploded. The fi?ghter came apart in midair, was consumed by an orange-red fi?reball, and transformed into metal confetti. Santana saw spurts of dust shoot up as pieces of debris landed around them and gave silent thanks as the badly mauled column made its way out onto the tarmac. “Pick up the pace!” he shouted. “Get in among those shuttles before the fi?ghters make another run!” There were four atmosphere-scarred shuttles parked next to the airstrip, and it was the legionnaire’s hope that the Ramanthian pilots would be reluctant to fi?re on them. The POWs responded as best they could, and the occasional rattle of gunfi?re was heard as Farnsworth and his detachment continued to mop up what remained of the airfi?eld’s security detail.
It wasn’t long before the cavalry offi?cer spotted Watkins and went over to kneel beside the body. The cyborg was lying on his back, staring sightlessly up at the sun, with a blue-edged hole between his eyes. Tragg, Santana thought to himself. The bastard is alive.
And as if to prove the offi?cer’s conclusion, there was a sudden burst of gunfi?re as one of the previously quiescent shuttles suddenly came to life and lifted off its skids. The copilot’s saddle-style seat was too uncomfortable to sit on, so Tragg had been forced to crouch next to the Ramanthian pilot. He aimed the gun at the bug’s head as a hail of bullets fl?attened themselves against the fuselage. “If I die, then you die, asshole. So get me out of here.”
Having seen his copilot gunned down in cold blood, the alien took the threat seriously and applied additional power. Thrusters roared as the shuttle gained speed and took to the air. The hard part was over, or so it seemed to Tragg, as Jericho’s surface fell away. Thraki ships were in orbit, or so he assumed, and the furballs would do just about anything for money. And, thanks to the heavy money belt strapped around the renegade’s waist, he could afford to pay. It was chancy, but Tragg was a gambler and always willing to place a bet. Especially on himself.
18
Never give up hope! Because when all seems lost, a hero will appear, and lead the way.
—Looklong Spiritsee
A Book of Visions
Standard year 1967
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
Dark gray smoke billowed up from what had been Camp Enterprise, a muffl?ed explosion was heard as fl?ames found their way into the armory, and engines screamed as a shuttle clawed its way into the sky. Santana had no way to know who was aboard, but assumed some of the Ramanthians were making a run for it, and he swore bitterly. Because the combined force of rescuers and POWs were going to require two shuttles, and only two remained. “Speak to me, Bravo Six,” the offi?cer said into his lip mike. “And tell me that the rest of those ships are secure. Over.”
“Roger that,” Lieutenant Farnsworth replied. “We weren’t able to capture any Ramanthian pilots—but the swabbies claim they can fl?y these things. Over.”
“I sure hope they’re right,” Santana responded, as the tail end of the column passed by. “It’s my guess that the fi?ghters will receive permission to fi?re on the shuttles any moment now, so load them quickly. Over.”
“I’m on it,” Farnsworth replied. “My platoon will provide security until all of the POWs have boarded. Out.”
Conscious of how precious each passing second was, Santana threw himself into the process of getting the POWs onto the shuttles. For a while it seemed as if the offi?cer was everywhere, shouting encouragement and lending a hand whenever one was needed. Vanderveen could hear him even though she was strapped to a stretcher and took pleasure in the sound of his voice. Then Santana was there kneeling beside her and checking the straps that would hold the diplomat in place once the ship was airborne. The offi?cer smiled. “I went to your home, but you stood me up.”
Vanderveen looked up into his eyes. “I know I did—
and I’m very sorry. Did you get my note?”
Santana nodded soberly. “Your mother gave it to me.”
“Were you angry?”
“No,” the offi?cer replied honestly. “But I was disappointed. You owe me.”
“Yes,” Vanderveen agreed, as tears began to well up in her eyes. “I do. We all do.”
She would have said more, wanted to say more, but that was when Commander Schell came into view. If he thought the tête-à-tête was strange, he kept his opinions to himself. “We’re ready, Captain. . . . Or as ready as we’re likely to be.”
That was when Santana felt the vibration beneath his boots and realized the shuttle’s engines were running. “I’m glad to hear it, sir. Let’s load the rest of my team and get the hell out of here.”
Schell grinned. “My thoughts exactly.”
An additional fi?ve minutes were required to get Farnsworth and his people aboard the other shuttle and strap everyone in. Santana stood at the top of the ramp as the last T-2 lumbered aboard Ship 1. And, when he lowered his visor to get a look at the heads-up display, the offi?cer was shocked by what he saw. More than half of his thirty-person team had been killed on the surface of Jericho. The knowledge was suffi?cient to dampen any sense of jubilation the legionnaire might otherwise have felt as the ramp came up, and the shuttle wobbled into the air. It wasn’t easy for the navy pilot to manipulate the strange knob-style controls at fi?rst, but she soon caught on, and it wasn’t long before the ship began to gain altitude.
“Well done!” President Nankool said heartily as he appeared at Santana’s elbow.
“Thank you, sir,” the legionnaire replied as he reached up to grab a support. “I’m sorry it took so long—and I’ll be damned if I know where the pickup ships are.”
“Batkin fi?lled me in on the political aspect of this,”
Nankool said bleakly. “And it’s my guess that the mission was canceled. But that’s for later. We have a battleship to steal fi?rst!”
There was something infectious about the chief executive’s cheerful optimism, and it gave Santana an insight into how Nankool had been so successful in the past and why Vanderveen believed in him. Before the cavalry offi?cer could agree, however, both men were thrown to the deck as the pilot put the shuttle into a tight right-hand turn.
“Sorry about that!” a female voice said tightly. “But the bugs want to play. . . . So, hang on to your hats!”
Santana didn’t have a hat, but he had a helmet, which he clutched under one arm as he helped Nankool crawl over to a bulkhead where one of the more able-bodied POWs helped strap the chief executive down. And just in time, too, as the shuttle banked the opposite way and shook as it passed through the turbulence created by a Ramanthian fi?ghter. And so began an airborne game of cat and mouse as the Ramanthians attempted to shoot the hijacked shuttles down while the humans sought to clear the atmosphere, knowing that the conventional aircraft wouldn’t be able to follow. Of course space-going fi?ghters might very well attack the moment they entered space, but that couldn’t be helped, and the pilots could only cope with one problem at a time.
And it wasn’t easy, especially for Lieutenant Jerry Woda, who was fl?ying Ship 2. Partly because of the unfamiliar controls but mostly because of a bad engine, which explained why crude staging had been positioned next to the ship when the legionnaires took possession of it. And that pissed the pilot off because both he and the other POWs had been through a lot and didn’t deserve to die. But deserving or not it soon became clear that they were going to die as a fi?ghter locked on to the ship’s tail and began to fi?re its energy cannons. “Okay,” Woda said, as blips of blue energy tore past the control compartment. “You wanna dance? Let’s dance.”
There was only one way the uneven contest could end. That’s what all three of the Ramanthian fi?ghter pilots believed as they took turns shooting at the severely underpowered shuttle. And they were correct, or mostly correct, as Woda put Ship 2 into an extremely tight turn. Suddenly two of the enemy pilots found themselves rushing straight at t
he unarmed shuttle at a combined speed of eight hundred miles per hour. There was time, but not very much, as Woda steered Ship 2 straight at one of his pursuers. “I’m sorry,” the pilot said over the intercom. “But at least we’re going to take one of the ugly bastards with us!”
There was no opportunity for the POWs and the legionnaires to react as both aircraft merged into a communal ball of fi?re. But they would have approved, especially as a second fi?ghter ran into the fi?ery debris and sucked a chunk of metal into its engine. The resulting explosion was visible from many miles away but didn’t mean much to the nymphs who witnessed it from below. Because all they felt was an abiding hunger—and the momentary roll of thunder was soon forgotten.
Everyone aboard Ship 1 had experienced weightlessness before, and welcomed it, because they knew that conventional aircraft couldn’t follow them into the vacuum of space. Not that they were safe given the fact that any warship larger than a patrol boat was sure to carry fi?ghters designed for combat outside planetary atmospheres. But how would such units be deployed? Santana wondered. Would they be ordered to attack the stolen shuttles? Or kept close in order to protect whatever ship they belonged to? Because the bugs had every reason to expect a Confederacy task force to drop hyper. The legionnaire’s thoughts were interrupted by the pilot’s voice.
“This is Lieutenant Tanaka,” she said somberly. “I’m sorry to announce the loss of Ship 2 and all those aboard. They took two fi?ghters with them, however—and allowed us to clear the atmosphere. Our ETA aboard the Imperator is fi?fteen minutes. There are no fi?ghters on the way as yet. . . . More when I have it.”
Farnsworth and fully half of the company’s surviving team members had been aboard the other shuttle, so the announcement hit Santana like a blow to the gut. But it was important to try and neutralize the emotional impact associated with the loss and get ready for what lay ahead. The legionnaire freed himself from the tie-downs and made his way out to the center of the cargo compartment. The running dialogue was intended to distract the mixed force of sailors and legionnaires from the loss of Ship 2 and focus their minds on the task ahead. “Okay,” Santana said. “If you don’t have a weapon, and you’re healthy enough to fi?ght, then draw one from Sergeant Ibo-Da. And remember . . . There are some very good reasons why boarding parties rarely use projectile weapons. Like the possibility that you might destroy the very thing that you’re trying to capture. So be careful with those slug throwers.
“Once we put down inside the landing bay, the T-2s will exit fi?rst,” Santana continued. “Sergeant Fox and Private Urulu will neutralize whatever kind of reception party the bugs have waiting for us. Commander Schell, if you would be so kind as to supply some qualifi?ed people to blow that space elevator, you can count on Sergeant Snyder and Private Ichiyama to get them there.”
“No problem,” the naval offi?cer said approvingly. “However, I suggest that the demolition team avoid fi?refi?ghts, and go straight to the space elevator.”
“Roger that,” Santana agreed. “Once the landing bay is secured, the rest of us will head for the control room. And it would be a good idea to keep our pilots out of the fi?ghting unless you’d like to walk home. Does anyone have questions?”
“Yes, sir,” Shootstraight put in. “How are we going to get off this tub without pressure suits?”
It was an obvious problem, or should have been, except that the legionnaire hadn’t thought of it. Fortunately, Schell was there to fi?eld the question. “Rather than blastproof doors, the Imperator’s launch bay is protected by a permeable force fi?eld. So the landing area will be pressurized. Unless they have the means to bring the ship’s overshields back online that is. . . . In which case we are in deep trouble.”
“Aren’t you glad you asked?” Bozakov inquired, as he slapped a fully loaded mag into his assault rifl?e. That produced some very welcome laughter, for which Santana was grateful, as the shuttle began to close with the ancient dreadnaught.
Confi?dent that preparations were under way, the cavalry offi?cer went back to check on Vanderveen. All of the naval personnel were better at zero-gee maneuvers than the soldier was, but by being careful never to release one knob-style pincer-hold before securing the next, Santana managed to pull himself back toward the stern without coming adrift.
Having received some pain tabs and antibiotics from the legionnaires, not to mention plenty of water to wash them down with, Vanderveen was feeling better by then. So when Santana arrived, he found the diplomat working side by side with a navy med tech to prepare for the likelihood of additional casualties. One of the RAVs had been taken aboard, and with some help from the diplomat, the supply-starved corpsman was in the process of looting it.
“Isn’t this the same woman I found nailed to a cross?” the cavalry offi?cer wanted to know.
“It is,” Vanderveen admitted. “But that was then—and this is now. One of the navy docs looked me over and says I’ll be fi?ne. . . . Assuming nobody shoots me.”
“I want you to stay on the shuttle until the fi?ghting is over,” Santana said sternly.
“Or what?” the diplomat wanted to know.
Santana recognized the same defi?ant look he had fi?rst seen on the planet LaNor. He smiled sweetly. “Or I’ll tell your mother and let her deal with you.”
Vanderveen laughed, the shuttle slowed, and Tanaka’s voice came over the intercom. “We’re sixty seconds out—
prepare for landing. And remember, there’s a good chance that the Imperator’s argrav generators are still running, so prepare for the sudden restoration of gravity.”
“Be careful,” Vanderveen said softly, as she looked up into Santana’s eyes. “We have some unfi?nished business to take care of.”
“Yes,” Santana agreed solemnly. “We certainly do.”
ABOARD THE RAMANTHIAN DREADNAUGHT IMPERATOR
As seen from the Imperator’s enormous fl?ight deck, the permeable force fi?eld looked like a blue whirlpool. It rotated from left to right and crackled as it spun. The movement could have a mesmerizing effect if viewed for too long. Which was why File Leader Sith Howar was careful to look away from time to time in spite of the fact that a shuttleload of alien escapees might arrive at any moment. The whole affair had been handled badly. That was Howar’s opinion. First, his superiors mistakenly assumed that the animals would attempt a rendezvous with a Confederacy relief force. Then, when the enemy ships failed to materialize, the higher-ups assumed the escapees would attempt to board one of the merchant vessels and positioned all of the available fi?ghters to block such an effort. Finally, when it became clear that the humans were headed for the Imperator, the eggless incompetents dumped the whole mess on him. “You will defend the space elevator to the very last trooper.” Those were his orders—and there was no mention of reinforcements.
Still, having become acquainted with the slaves during the time they’d been aboard the warship, Howar was confi?dent of his ability to eradicate the aliens. The accomplishment would hasten both his promotion and the point at which he could transfer to a more civilized world. Such were the Ramanthian’s thoughts as the incoming shuttle nosed its way in through the center of the whirling force fi?eld and immediately put down on the durasteel deck. The boxy vessel was already taking small-arms fi?re by then, but nothing too powerful, lest the defenders inadvertently damage the dreadnaught’s hull.
Still, one of the crew-served energy projectors was able to score a direct hit on a landing skid. That caused the vessel to slump sideways but in no way impeded the ramp, which was in the process of being lowered when four T-2s jumped down onto the blast-scarred deck.
File Leader Howar had heard about human cyborgs, and even fought some of them via virtual-reality training scenarios, but never actually confronted one. So when four of the exotic creatures appeared, and opened fi?re with their arm-mounted weapons, the offi?cer was shocked by the sheer violence of the attack. The fi?re from more than two dozen assault weapons served to slow the cyborgs but in no way damaged the
m, as the legionnaires began to advance. Howar fi?nally found his voice as bolts of coherent energy scored direct hits on the same crew-served energy weapon the Ramanthian was counting on to stop the alien monstrosities. “Take cover!” he shouted unnecessarily, and hurried to obey his own order.
Meanwhile, confi?dent that the other cyborgs had the situation under control, Snyder and Ichiyama took off at a trot. Each T-2 carried a gunner’s mate plus enough explosives to sever the twenty-three-thousand-mile-long space elevator. Something they needed to accomplish quickly before bug reinforcements arrived on the Imperator. A possibility that, though not apparent to Howar, was crystal clear to his most senior noncom, an irascible veteran who had taken the liberty of stationing himself aboard the traveling chain-hoist positioned high overhead. So while one of his troopers activated the machine, which put the boxy control module into motion, the oldster was standing on the observation platform ready to drop grenades on the cyborgs as they passed below. And the initiative would have been successful, too, had it not been for Oliver Batkin, and the agent’s ability to fl?y. “Sorry to disappoint you,” the cyborg said as he rose directly in front of the surprised noncom. “But it isn’t nice to drop things on people.”
A single shot from the spy ball’s .50-caliber gun was suffi?cient to kill the Ramanthian as the unsuspecting T-2s passed beneath him. That brought the second Ramanthian outside to be dispatched in a similar fashion. With that accomplished, Batkin departed. Taking control of a battleship was no easy task—and there were plenty of things for the spy to do.
Although two of the hulking cyborgs had departed the launch bay, two of the fearsome machine-things remained, so Howar was careful to keep his head down as his troops sought fi?ring positions among a mountain of cargo modules. Having concealed themselves, the Ramanthians were free to fi?re on both the T-2s and the shuttle, an effort intended to pin the POWs down until help arrived. That was the theory anyway, until the shuttle wobbled into the air and began to advance!
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