by Lance Berry
Once there, Matthews ordered the troops to divide and hug what remained of the walls on either side of the corridor. He instructed Grace to pass him both a concussion charge and an ion grenade. Grace’s eyebrows arched upward in surprise, but he said nothing even though he realized his commander had to know that using both to get through the door was beyond overkill.
Matthews took the ion grenade and set its timer to sixteen seconds. He waved the troops back and set the grenade at the door. His gaze quickly swept over his troops as he held up the concussion charge and told them, “Aim low…there’s gonna be a ton of dust, so I want you to go for the legs, even though you can’t see them. As soon as this baby goes off, start blasting.” There were several nods and verbal acknowledgements from his unit, and as the grenade threw out six sharp beeps, all of them tucked down into balls as it went off, taking out the door and a quarter of the wall with it.
Without waiting for the blast to fully die down, Matthews rose, spun around and tossed the concussion charge as hard as he could. There was a muted –wrrraangg- as it bounced off of something metal within the bridge and then went off with a flash.
“NOW!” Matthews shouted, and the unit fired as one, their antimatter bolts low to the ground, some vaporizing metal as the shots hit parts of the floor before them. They fired into the dust, and a few cries of pain reached their ears. Matthews motioned for them to proceed forward and they rushed through the gaping hole four at a time, the rear troops ceasing fire to allow the point troops to move through safely.
Matthews and his three troops cleared the smoke and made their way onto the small, cramped bridge. The bridges of Calvorian vessels were not too dissimilar from Earth ships, except that the captain sat on a raised throne-like chair just above his officers. There was a raised dais to the rear left of the chair, where the first officer oversaw operations. The bridge lights were dimmed, but no significant damage seemed to have been done to it. He sought out the source of the wails and found two Calvorians writhing on the floor in agony. One of the aliens was clutching the spot where his foot once existed, the majority of it having been eaten away when the antimatter touched his flesh. The second was moaning weakly, on the verge of passing out from the pain as he snatched at the stump of his left knee, the lower portion of his leg resting on the deck, only inches away.
Matthews took note of their rank pins as he quickly kicked their guns far away from them, and concluded his troops’ assault left three aliens unaccounted for: the captain, first officer and one other, possibly tactical. A shot from behind the navigational console barely missed Matthews, blowing a chunk out of the raised center seat instead.
Matthews immediately dropped and rolled to his left, keeping his eyes focused on the console as he did so, to seek out his target. He caught a glimpse of the Calvorian behind the console, trying to get a bead on him while also watching out for Matthews’ troops. Two of the troops opened fire on the console as Matthews came out of his roll and balanced up on one knee, aiming quickly and firing. His shot struck the console and he swore silently as he got to a crouched position and raced for better cover behind an overturned chair.
It seemed the shot from the console was a distraction, however. The two remaining Calvorians came roaring out of the dimness of the bridge’s far side, nails and teeth extended fully. One of them threw himself right into the second wave of troops which had entered through the hole, dumping all of them to the ground. As he began to tear into the suddenly terrified quartet with his canines and talons, the second Calvorian attacked the first squad and quickly began to pull off their masks before they could target him. Each time he pulled off a mask, the soldier would suddenly begin to cough helplessly, caught off guard by the sudden intake of acrid smoke. He would then draw his sharp nails across that soldier’s throat, ending their life.
Only Corporal Grace reacted fast enough to what was happening. He managed to jump back, just out of reach as the Calvorian swung his hairy paw toward him, trying to grasp at his mask. Grace stumbled back, started to fall, but kept his gun angled toward the Calvorian, heedless of his own descent. He fired once, a bolt of antimatter catching the alien in the sternum! The energy crawled across the Calvorian’s chest, eating away at uniform, skin and ultimately bone. The Calvorian soldier stood frozen in place like some ancient statue of one of the gods of myth, arms stretched out at his side, legs locked into position and mouth opened in a silent scream. At the last, the antimatter evaporated, revealing what was left of its rib cage and its heart, its palpitations having severely decreased.
But Calvorians were inherently all muscle, adrenaline and determination. The alien stared intensely at Grace, who had fallen almost flat on his back with only his head raised protectively to avoid smashing against the deck. It narrowed its eyes and then amazingly, through sheer force of will and hatred, began shambling forward…still intent on killing its prey before its own life expired.
“Fuck me,” Grace muttered in utter stupefaction, so shocked that he didn’t even consider raising his gun to fire again. If one shot of antimatter didn’t do it, what else could?
The answer came in the form of several more bolts of anti-energy as the third and final wave of troops came through the hole, firing at the advancing alien and cutting him into several ragged sections which fell to the floor. Seeing that Grace was alright, they quickly surrounded the other alien that had been gouging out the second squad and gave him no other option but to surrender.
The first alien, the one behind the navigation console, saw what was happening and glowered angrily. He took a shot at Matthews just out of spite, only to hit the chair the security chief was hiding behind. He then stood and fired at his comrade, his laser hitting the Calvorian in the head, blowing a good portion of his skull onto the face of one of Matthews’ troops.
Satisfied, the Calvorian turned the gun on himself and was about to set it into his mouth. The troops turned toward him, but Matthews knew they wouldn’t stop him in time–couldn’t stop him, in fact, without killing him. The mission would be for nothing–! Matthews leaped over his chair and took a running jump over the console, swatting the handgun aside as he tackled the alien and the both of them collapsed against the central viewscreen. The alien snarled and backhanded Matthews, knocking him away from him. But the troops closed in quickly and surrounded the alien. With a disgusted grunt, he spread his arms wide in frustrated surrender.
Matthews managed to get back to his feet and ordered two of his troops to see to the other wounded Calvorians…to keep them covered, just to make sure they would be no threat. He then walked over to the standing alien and took note of his rank pins. “I’m Lieutenant-Commander Tanner Matthews. Nice to meet you, Captain. You can officially consider yourself a prisoner of the United Earth Force.”
Matthews gestured to a corpsman, who quickly stepped over and pulled a medical hypo out of his bag. He adjusted two dials, and the injection tube quickly filled with a yellowish liquid. He moved toward the alien captain, who sent a low warning growl rumbling up his throat. But Corporal Grace moved up behind him and firmly placed his gun against the base of the captain’s spine, his meaning clear: take the injection standing or take it as a cripple. This made him fall silent, and he cut Matthews a sharp look of bitter resentment. The corpsman jabbed the needle into the alien’s skin and pressed the plunger. The liquid emptied into the captain’s neck, and he passed out completely, falling to the floor in a heap. Matthews motioned for the corpsman to repeat the process on the other two aliens. He then tugged on the comlink device attached to his sleeve, checking the time. “With two minutes to spare yet,” he said smartly as the medical officer went to carry out his orders.
It was then that the sound of heavy fire wafted into the bridge from down the long corridor outside. Matthews nodded to Grace. “Soon as they’re knocked out, we’re double-timing it back to the ship.”
As soon as the lift doors at the far end of the corridor parted, Corporal Chandis ordered her unit to begin firing. The
y managed to cut down at least five of the twenty alien soldiers that tried to make their way out of the lift. This was Chandis’ first command and the twenty-something, pretty young African was determined not to fail her first time out. But the Calvorians rallied quickly, climbing over the bodies of their fallen comrades, heedless of the danger to themselves as they quickly spread out and raced forward, seeming for all the world like a swarm of roaches as they raced along both sides of the corridor in insane zigzagging patterns and returning fire. Before Chandis knew it, two of her company of six were taken down, one of them permanently. Chandis and her remaining troops returned fire all the more furiously, but the Calvorians were angered beyond all reason, determined to make it to the two transports, even though the closer they got, the more of them fell. One of them managed to lock eyes with Chandis and hurled one disgusting insult after another at her. “I will make you mine,” he swore to her at the top of his lungs, and she knew that he fully intended to carry out his promise if he made it to her. She fired again and again, trying to hit him in particular, and didn’t realize until the instant she was shot by a different soldier that this was exactly the result he was trying to achieve with his distraction of her.
The bolt grazed her clavicle, and with a startled scream she was hurtled back and slammed onto the deck of the transport, her Blastrifle skidding across the metal plates, far out of reach.
Chandis lay on the floor, her body shuddering from the pain of the wound and the fearful knowledge of what was to come. She abruptly started to cry, tears streaming down her face as she tried to prepare herself for the worst, but swiftly realized that the worst would probably be far more horrible than whatever she could imagine.
The firefight outside the transport’s cabin suddenly seemed to increase in its intensity, and she heard more screams of the wounded and dying. She wondered if the Calvorian who threatened her had survived, and if he would soon be upon her. She screamed again when a boot slammed down beside her, but was surprised to look up into the face of Corporal Everett, one of her old friends from her Academy days. “Oh buck it up, Chandis,” she said with a wink. “The cavalry’s here.”
Chandis managed a grateful smile; no matter what the situation, Joan Everett had always managed to take her mind off it with an off-the-cuff snide remark. There was the sound of heavy thudding off to Chandis’ left, and then several pairs of boots moved past her. Gitters, the corpsman Matthews had ordered to knock out the Calvorian troops, knelt beside Chandis. “It’s not too bad,” he said as he took a close look at her shoulder wound. “It looks like a nice clear shot, just slicing by with not too much collateral damage. I’m going to knock you out with some sweet stuff, and before you know it, you’ll be back in Doc Williams’ care.”
She nodded weakly as he gently injected something into her arm, and was barely aware of her breathing slowing down as she blissfully passed out.
“Hatch doors closing,” Grace said as he slid into the co-pilot’s seat beside Matthews. “Transport two, do you copy?” the corporal asked as he spoke into the com.
“Corporal Lewis here. I’m reading you loud and clear.”
Matthews leaned over the speaker. “Transport one will blow the shields out of the wall and soar out. Lift off and fly out right behind us, got it?”
“Waiting to exhale, Chief.”
Matthews worked his console with a studied efficiency. Two laser cannons popped out from behind sliding panels on the front of the transport. He didn’t need to aim, as his target was right in front of him. He tabbed the firing panel on his console, and two large bolts of forced coherent light shot forward, smashing into the already damaged corridor wall, blowing the hole open further. The shields shut down, and Matthews’ fingers flew over the console, lifting the transport upward so abruptly the roof tapped against the corridor ceiling. With an embarrassed glance at Grace, Matthews realigned the ship’s axis and moved it forward. The transport roared out of the widened hole, into the vastness of space and toward the waiting Heavy Cruiser fleet outside.
Matthews and Grace slapped hands, and the former checked the sensors’ status readings of transport two. His eyes widened in disbelief at what he read, and he swung the ship around so fast that the bodies of both his troops and unconscious prisoners nearly flew across the cabin. He and Grace stared out the forward viewport, horrified at the sight of transport two being sheared in half as the corridor force fields snapped into place once more. They caught the transport amid-ships, severing it into two, the rear half exploding within the damaged enemy cruiser and blowing out part of its side–and the force of that blast sending what was once the forward part of the transport tumbling end-over-end as the unprotected bodies of the troops inside were flung out into the harsh and unforgiving cold of space.
Matthews screamed in rage and impotent frustration, helpless to do anything at all to save his people who had come through so much with him. He buried his face in his hands, unable to view anymore. Grace reached out to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, but thought better of it. Instead, he took control of the transport and turned it on a course which would take it back to the Horizon.
Chapter 34
Everyone on the Horizon’s bridge knew instantly what had happened to transport two. They all watched on the central viewscreen as the protective secondary shields on the crippled Devastator unexpectedly shocked back to life, rending the heavily armored shuttle in two. No one said anything, however; even after all they had previously been through, with all the ships they had lost in this engagement, it was still too much of a shock to see something like this happen, when the mission was so nearly complete.
Travis spared a wary glance back at David Christenson. The captain’s head hung low, his shoulders slumped ever so slightly as he blinked in confusion, just as amazed as his crew at how something like this could have taken place. His wife, Mara, left the ops console to go to his side. She laid her hand on his shoulder, but he gently moved it aside, brushing her away. She stood there a moment, wanting to say something but not knowing what or how to say it. So she turned and went back to her console, where she sat down silently.
After a long couple of minutes, a beep emitted from Buttlefield’s communications console. The young woman actually started at the noise, but quickly gathered herself and shut the sound off as she checked on what information was coming through. “Launch bay signals that transport one has come back aboard, Captain,” she said quietly.
“Status of our fleet?” Christenson asked as he raised his head once more.
“We have seventy-four ships checking in with us,” she answered in a cautious tone.
Christenson swiped his hair back from his face and grunted, forcing himself to focus once more on the task at hand. “Signal the Avenger…tell Captain Cervantes to take seven ships and scout among our lost. Make absolutely certain there are no life signs, then destroy those ships completely. Let’s not leave the Calvorians any tactical presents lying around. Christenson to tactical,” he said to the ODC as Buttlefield turned back to her console to carry out his order.
“Tactical here, Captain,” a youngish-sounding female answered back.
“Lock a full barrage of energy rammers, lasers and antimatter torpedoes on the Devastator. I want that bloody beast destroyed.”
“Aye, sir.”
Christenson stood and slowly walked around his deck, never taking his eyes off the wrecked Calvorian ship. He muttered something under his breath at the image on the screen, then gave the order for tactical to fire.
On the viewscreen, the Devastator was suddenly assailed by a maelstrom of weapons fire. Without shields, the vessel’s hull quickly cracked, buckled and shattered into a trillion pieces of dust spinning violently through space. Christenson stood up a bit straighter and turned on his heel, the confidence returned to his voice as he began to snap out orders. “Buttlefield, signal the fleet that we’re heading home. Lieutenant Arroyo, plot the quickest way. Lieutenant-Commander Rand, execute it.” He said all this a
s he strode back to his chair amidst a rush of “aye sirs” and other acknowledgements. The remainder of the fleet soon formed up and all dove once more into their warp entrances for the trip back to Earth. Captain Christenson was silent the entire journey.
Hours later, the Horizon and its fleet came out of hyperspace just outside the Sol system. They made their way past Sedna and Pluto at sublight speed, then Captain Christenson gave the order for the assembled ships to pick up the pace just a bit, and they headed to Mars at just under light speed.
The Hephaestus Shipyards was a massive construction and repair facility for UEF’s fleet, consisting of seventeen levels. It spun slowly, serenely above Mars’ surface, the red planet itself eternally oblivious and uncaring of whatever progress humans made above it. The Shipyard was an intricate latticework of crisscrossing frames and levels almost resembling a spider’s web. Cruisers were docked here at the end tip of each lattice, being upgraded or repaired, with the newest Cruisers undergoing construction on the lower levels. There were several ovular attachments located near the center of each level–meeting facilities which, if one viewed the Shipyard from above, helped convey the odd impression one was looking at two interconnected tic-tac-toe boards, with someone playing only the “O” part of the game.
The facility was constantly guarded by no less than ten Heavy Cruisers and dozens of DFCs, the smaller vessels doing their flybys in rotating shifts.
Even at half-magnification, the Shipyard loomed large on the Horizon’s central viewscreen. Travis had heard Christenson inform his fleet captains that they were to report to one of the meeting chambers within Hephaestus for debriefing, and each ship would in turn head to a different docking tier. The Calvorian prisoners would be transferred to a holding facility at Mars’ Alpha Base at the earliest convenience. At least we got a few, Travis thought somberly. Those troops on transport two weren’t all lost for nothing.
