by Joseph O'Day
“Normally the projectiles fired by the G76 explode on contact,” the warrant officer droned on. “This reduces to a minimum the damage done to ship operating components. If your enemy is armored, however, turn this selector on the side,” he said pointing, “from I to D. This delays the projectile explosion, giving it time to penetrate most armor. Otherwise keep the setting on I.”
Jerking his hand in the direction of the four droids, he continued. “These droids here are programmed to assist in the assault. Mortimer 1 and 2 will guard this hatch against intruders. The other two are programmed to assault any laser droids guarding the hatches of the enemy ship.”
Having finished his speech, the warrant officer began to issue weapons, and Ensign Unger took the opportunity to address his men.
“All right, men. Command informs us that our long-range detection has spotted an unidentified ship on an intersect course with our transport group. On its present trajectory it will reach the transports that are in advance of our course twenty minutes before our ETA.
“The captain wants to avoid ship-to-ship combat in such close proximity to the cargo ships, so the plan is to link up with the transport complex on the side opposite the intruder, hopefully without detection. Once docked the tractor systems will be activated so that all components, including the unauthorized craft, will be unable to break free.
“Once the tractor systems are engaged, our job begins. It will be up to us and the detachment at hatch six to force entry and secure the ship and the marauders. Just remember. This is no game. Make sure of your target, then shoot to kill without hesitation.
“Only officers and NCOs will transmit over the signal units inside your helmets. No one else! If you do have anything to say during the assault, it had better be important! That’s all for now . . . except for the waiting.”
Some of the men slouched against the corridor walls, some sat down, and others looked around themselves as if expecting someone to give them some answers.
Presently the speaker sounded once again. “Attention, attention, the captain is about to speak.”
“Men, this is Captain Kebler. I am now activating the screens at your stations. You will be able to watch as our ship approaches the transports. ETA is forty-five minutes. I won’t pull any punches with you. We are likely to be outnumbered. But I have every confidence you will win through. Good luck, and good hunting!”
Intuitively, Brogan wondered why their ship had been allowed to fall so far behind the transport group, but the viewing screen sprang to life, distracting his train of thought. There was not much to see yet, however—only stars of varying brightness, pinpoints in the emptiness of space.
Murphy caught Brogan’s attention, and for the next half-hour, the seaman instructed him in the use of his equipment and the finer points of combat. His final advice was, “Stick close to me, and do what I do.”
The collection of vessels that made up the transport group had grown to model-toy size. Brogan had imagined a trim line of sleek ships nestled neatly together. But the picture presented to him now was a motley hodgepodge of unattractive freighters. The jumble of assorted shapes and sizes offended his instinctive sense of proportion and made him forget for a few moments the imminent danger.
Each transport had been assembled in space by a different world, each reflecting a distinct culture. No two designs seemed to be alike. The only standard feature was the mandatory hatchway used to connect them together. The connection of these modules was necessary for en route inspection of the cargo. It was through these connecting hatchways that the assault teams intended to fight their way to the intruders’ ship. Due to the differing sizes and shapes of the freighters, however, the passageways were a veritable maze of torturous routes. Finding their way through safely would be a neat trick.
Brogan watched the transports grow in size on the screen, ever conscious of his increasingly sweaty palms and his ragged breathing. Soon their target freighter filled the whole frame, and Brogan knew zero hour was imminent.
“Contact with target in thirty seconds,” intoned the speaker.
Everyone made last-minute adjustments and faced the hatch. Brogan began to wonder whether he really wanted an exciting life after all. The hard and boring work at home was becoming more and more attractive all the time. His chest felt like it was being squeezed, and his breaths came in labored bursts. Anticipation made his body throb with the pounding of his heart.
An abrupt clang made him jerk convulsively, and a long, low moan followed, reminding Brogan of harpies come to witness the carnage. Actually the first sound was the docking, the second the activation of the tractor system.
The hatch flew open with startling swiftness. Brogan’s throat tightened in a spasm. Unger leaped into the cavity, but the transport’s hatch failed to respond to his efforts. Turning and stepping to the side, he ordered, “M3, burn it down.”
A blinding light emanated from the front panel of Mortimer 3 and quickly burned open a large section of the offending hatch. Allowing M3 to precede him, Ensign Unger dashed through, careful to avoid the hot, dripping slag. The rest of the contingent followed, with M4 bringing up the rear. The passage came to a dead end almost immediately. Here a connecting corridor ran from left to right.
Unger turned. “Seaman Murphy, take your squad with M4 down the right corridor. We will traverse the left. If you run into trouble you can’t handle, give a yell.”
“Yes, sir. Alright men, let’s go.” Brogan scrambled out of M4’s way and followed Murphy with the rest of the squad into the corridor. There were five of them altogether: Murph, Crow, two other ratings, and Brogan. The lighting was dim, and they could not see very far ahead. Soon they turned a corner, and Brogan began to wish he knew what was going on and what to expect. But his worries were shattered by a blinding flash as M4 suddenly engaged in combat.
Without warning, Crow stumbled backward, pinning Brogan to the deck. His bulk totally eclipsed Brogan from view. Clumsy oaf! Brogan thought as he tried to twist out from under him. How could anyone be so uncoordinated as to fall backward when they’re walking forward? It was then that he noticed the projectiles exploding on walls and ceiling. His throat thickened as he realized that Crow must be dead.
Shadows danced down the corridor as three forms cautiously approached. Brogan remained still as they stopped beside the inert form of Murphy. “Hey, boss, this one’s still kickin’.”
Brogan was startled that he was able to hear his adversary. They must be monitoring our frequency! This could mean big trouble for the assault party, even though they were using short-range communications as an extra precaution against the other force hearing them . . . or so they thought. Now Brogan knew that communications were out and that he was isolated, totally on his own.
“Well, finish him off and let’s get going. If we’re going to catch up with the other party and take them from behind, we’ve got to get movin’.” A light flashed, and Murphy’s prostrate form melted into the deck.
Something snapped inside Brogan. He felt a rage he had never before experienced. Suddenly his mind became crystal clear. Carefully freeing his right arm from under Crow, he flipped the selector switch to D and took aim at the nearest figure. Pressing the trigger, he shifted from man to man as each three-round burst exploded from the muzzle. The third marauder managed to get off a defensive shot before the last burst felled him, but it smoldered harmlessly into the inert body of Crow.
Silence blanketed the corridor as Brogan finally freed himself and clambered to his feet. Warily he checked the enemy bodies, but all were dead . . . and so were the rest of his squad. Anger still roiled within him as he gazed at the place where Murphy used to be—an anger laced with the emptiness of loss. His second friend since leaving home was gone—gone suddenly, violently, and irretrievably. Brogan knew instinctively that he would never be the same again.
Turning away from the corpse-littered battleground, he came upon M4. It and another droid had fused each other into still glowing lump
s of metal. Carefully stepping around them, he continued in the direction he had been taking before the encounter.
Brogan’s mind was racing. What should I do now? He had not been privy to the combat strategy, so he would have to play it by ear.
What was it the murderer had said? “. . . take them from behind”? Maybe I’ve eliminated their ace in the hole. We may get through this yet.
Brogan had just learned that he could kill as efficiently as the next man, and he would not forget. The marauders burned down Murphy in cold blood, mercilessly, contemptuously. Brogan would not forget.
As he plodded steadfastly but cautiously down the corridor, sounds of battle grew louder. A short distance ahead, the walls seemed to open into a larger area. Approaching the end of the corridor at a crouch, Brogan saw that a catwalk began where the passageway ended. Taking off his helmet, he peered around the corner to the left. Below him, he saw four figures retreating toward him. They were firing at the men from the Shark. But his fellow crewmembers were not returning fire. He wondered why when he remembered that he had turned off his comset. He put his helmet back on, opened the faceplate, and flipped the switch.
“. . . that passage to the right. Everyone else, hold your fire. They have a civilian hostage.” Brogan made out the form of a woman held in front of the three marauders and, therefore, in the line of fire. They were backing up toward the steps leading up to the catwalk.
All the shooting had stopped, and an uneasy truce prevailed. As the trio backed up the stairs, Brogan ducked out of sight into the recesses of the corridor. As they edged nearer, he waited and listened through the open faceplate. Once they were in the corridor, Brogan leaped to the middle and shot the two men nearest before they knew what was happening. The third, who was holding the girl, could not turn without also turning the woman. As he started to do so, she began to struggle fiercely, and he stumbled backward, off balance, against the bulkhead on the right. In an effort to overbalance him, the slender girl lifted both legs high off the deck. Taking opportunity, Brogan immediately blasted the marauder’s legs, and the kidnapper fell heavily onto his victim.
Brogan raced over and rolled the man off his hostage. He pointed his weapon at the man’s face, his finger indecisively stroking the trigger. His anger screamed vengeance while his homebred values struggled for supremacy. Finally, he lowered the rifle. “I think I’ll keep you alive for interrogation.”
The girl, who had been dazed by the crushing weight of the marauder, groaned. Brogan jerked around to look at her, suddenly reminded of her presence. Lying somewhat in a fetal position, she raised her hand to her head. Brogan heard her mutter, “Not exactly the kind of adventure I had in mind.”
Brogan reached down and laid his hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright, Miss?” Concern laced his voice. The woman rolled over with a grunt. Her hair was a tangle over her smudged face, but a shock of recognition eventually penetrated Brogan’s numbed mind.
“Adriel?” This a question. “Adriel?” This a confession of disbelief.
Adriel forced open her eyes and slowly focused them on the strained face of her rescuer. “Timothy,” she mumbled, “Timothy Brogan? Why are you here? . . . What are you doing? . . . Why are you in a spacesuit?”
“That’s a long story that can wait. What I want to know is, what are you doing here?”
“I’m supposed to be here,” Adriel replied groggily, shaking her head in an attempt to clear it. “I’m on my way to Earth to train as a nurse for our church’s relief work.”
“Here let me help you up.” Brogan pulled the woozy girl to her feet. She leaned against him for support. Brogan decided he liked the feeling.
Adriel’s head was beginning to clear, and she asked, “Timothy, what are you doing here—in a military suit—when you should be home helping with the harvest?”
“I did help with the harvest. But it’s over now, and I’m on my way to the Military Academy on Earth to earn a commission in the Royal Fusiliers.”
Adriel’s hand flew to her mouth. “You—you’re going to make a living by killing? Timothy, how could you?” Brogan stiffened and felt himself growing remote. Adriel looked around herself and saw the three men Brogan had shot to rescue her. “But I see I’m too late. Already you have blood on your hands.”
Stung, Brogan replied coldly, “They killed a friend of mine, and they would have killed you as well—or worse,” he added ominously.
Adriel stared at him in an uncertain silence.
“That tears it!” Brogan turned away in disgust. “Don’t bother to thank me,” he flung at her as he pushed his way through the soldiers rushing to the scene. Adriel stared at his retreating back and wiped away the surging tears that caught her by surprise.
Down on deck, Ensign Unger caught his attention. “Brogan! Where is the rest of your squad?”
“Dead, sir—all of them. Shortly after we separated from the main force, they were killed by a group planning to attack you from behind.”
“What about the attackers?”
“They’re dead, too. I killed ’em. They thought I was dead, but I surprised ’em.” Brogan paused and got a strained look on his face. “I—I think I’m going to be sick.” With that he doubled over as waves of blackness and nausea washed out all trace of conscious thought.
4
Brogan was on his knees, muttering as he polished the corridor handrails. “Might as well be hoeing melons back home,” he mumbled with disgust. The unexpected battle with the marauders had made the Shark short-handed. Therefore, when Brogan was released from sickbay, he was assigned crew duties like everyone else. But this kind of menial labor was not what he left Cirrus for.
Until he passed out after the skirmish, he was unaware that he had been wounded when his detachment was wiped out. Shrapnel had embedded itself in his upper right leg, though the suit automatically applied pressure to the wound and sealed off his leg from the rest of the suit. Nevertheless, he had lost a good amount of blood.
Brogan concentrated his energies on a particularly stubborn smudge. So far he had learned more than he cared to about the dirty details of ship life. He yearned for the exciting life he would experience at the Academy, but he took solace in the fact that he would not have to endure this tedious work much longer. Docking with Earth Station would occur in only a few hours, and Brogan was eager to see an end to his mundane drudgery.
As he labored on the railing, his mind wandered once more to Adriel. They had known each other at school, but Adriel was a year older and seemed not to notice him. He had always thought her to be rather attractive, however, and often wished he had been older. He pictured her in his mind—her small, perky nose, her wide-set brown eyes flecked with gold and slanting slightly upward to either side, her high cheek bones, the wide, slender mouth that curled up at the edges, her firm chin, the auburn locks that fell to her shoulders—and a body to match.
But her attitude on the transport had been a rude awakening. It still irked him to remember how unappreciative she had been. It was just my luck to have rescued a proper lady. A girl from one of the pleasure worlds would have been appropriately grateful. Brogan smirked at his thoughts.
Still, she showed a lot of spunk trying to get free of that marauder. He couldn’t help admiring her for that.
The marauder whose life he spared turned out to be the leader’s right-hand man. Under the influence of interrogation drugs, he fingered one of the petty officers on the Shark as their mole. It had been the mole’s job to make sure the Shark was far enough away from the transports to make the raid successful. Brogan had been correct in his suspicion. But when the mole saw that the Shark was going to arrive in time to make a battle of it, he sent an encrypted message to the marauders, informing them of the plan of attack and the radio frequency being used by the assault troops. It was a miracle any of them had gotten back alive.
The interrogators had also learned the object of the attack. What they thought were marauders were really rebels against the Empire,
not privateers. Their goal had been to disrupt and inconvenience the Empire by depriving Earth of a massive grain shipment while at the same time diverting it to rebel troops and sympathizers. They had almost succeeded.
A couple days after the skirmish, when Brogan had recovered enough to receive visitors in the sick bay, his musings were interrupted by the entrance of the captain and his exec. Brogan was startled and a bit disconcerted. He had not seen the captain as yet, and his arrival unnerved him. He struggled to sit up, but the captain said, “At ease, Private Brogan. Just relax, son. You’ve earned it.” Brogan eased himself back with apprehension.
“I have some things I need to tell you,” Captain Kebler informed him.
“Uh . . . yes, sir, Captain.”
“I just wanted to take the time to thank you properly for the fine job you did in the boarding. That was uncommon good thinking and unusual bravery for a young recruit. Therefore, I’m recommending you for the Navy Commendation Medal. That and the Purple Heart should put you a step ahead at the Academy.”
Brogan was astonished. “Thank you, sir. I—I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything, son. You earned it. Oh, another thing. Ensign Unger has told me of your desire to be a Navy pilot. Well, it probably won’t do much good, but I’m also forwarding my recommendation that you be assigned to the Naval Academy instead of the military. And I’ve given you a promotion—from recruit private to regular private. Regular privates get paid. Ensign Unger will give you the details and show you how to send some back home if you want.
“Once again, you have my sincere thanks for a job well done. Good luck at the Academy. Perhaps our paths will cross again someday.” Captain Kebler and the exec shook his hand and made their departure.
