Connie looked up. “Captain Mason is still too far behind, Sol. He can’t possibly be a factor for another fifteen hours at the earliest.”
“So,” Sol nodded. “It’s us and us alone. Art, send the tapes of everything which has transpired off to Kraal. He needs to know the disposition of the Artifact.”
“Acknowledged, Captain,” Art’s clipped voice affirmed.
“Range, Captain!” Bryana called.
“Hold your fire, First Officer.” Sol sucked at his coffee. “Boaz will not shoot first!”
The antagonists closed. “So what are they waiting for?” Bryana cried, nervousness in her voice.
“Easy, First Officer.” Sol kept his voice even. “He’s waiting until he thinks he has the best position.”
“But that will allow him an almost sure vie—”
“Remember your obligations, Bryana.” Sol reminded firmly. “We will do what we have sworn. We can’t shoot first.”
Bryana nodded.
Hunter had closed to within a kilometer, point-blank range. Two other ships had dropped down to box Boaz while the remaining three had taken up outside positions.
“Blaster fire!” Art yelled as Hunter’s, batteries lanced violet.
Bryana’s fingers danced over the firing console as blaster fire arced against Boaz’s shields. Sol threw everything he had into deceleration, feeling the eye-straining g trying to pluck him out of his combat chair. He kicked lateral into the reaction and moved out behind a frantic Arpeggian as Bryana vaporized the missiles.
Bryana centered her targeting and the Arpeggian flared and died in a brilliant flash of a matter/antimatter reaction.
“Nice shooting!” Constance called, expression unchanging as she kept the internal systems balanced.
“One at a time, people.” Sol ordered, feeling the terrible strain of inertia as he fought Boaz against her vector, trying to close with Hunter. Sellers threw everything he had into deceleration as Bryana’s blasters sought his ship, glanced off the shielding, and missed.
Sol—instead of staying with the target—accelerated, feeling flesh stretch across his face as the grav plates fought to keep almost forty gs from pulling him apart. Connie worked frantically to maintain gravity, but the smooth transition Boaz herself would have managed was missing.
Sol switched course, striving desperately to maintain a line so the far ship’s fire was, in effect, canceled. Action became a constant juggling match, a game of dodging blaster fire and hiding behind another ship’s shadow, limiting the fire they absorbed.
He placed a Sirian between him and Hunter, plowing Boaz against her inertia to close; the Sirian returned fire frantically as the shields rose into the critical zone. Bryana laced the craft with Cal’s modified blasters. Brilliant violet sizzled through the Sirian’s shields followed by the sparkling flashes of decompression as they holed the hull. A violent white shaft of light shot out from the Sirian vessel as the Captain blew his antimatter.
“Yahoo!” Art whooped seconds before his shields overloaded. He fought frantically, spinning Boaz while Connie handled the damage control.
“Holed in Cargo, Atmosphere, Maintenance ...” Connie hesitated, her voice dropping. “Passenger section took one, too, Sol.”
“Damage Control, keep on your toes!” Sol called. “No easy fixes! Be ready for constant g flux!”
And this time, people, it looks like I won’t be bringing you home.
CHAPTER XXXVI
Nikita Malakova grunted with the effort. More than once, a shift in acceleration had pitched him against a bulkhead, his station-bred bones on the verge of splintering.
“But I die as free man,” he grunted to himself. Inside the suit, his breath tried to fog the helmet. Already, the odor of sweat hung pungent in his nose. The ship shivered and bucked under his feet.
“Group six, respond to passenger quarters. We’ve taken a breach there.”
“Group six, that’s me.” Nikita hurried as fast as he could manage, weaving this way and that as gravity pitched him around. He worked through a pressure hatch and stepped into a decompressing corridor. A pall of smoke hung in the air, blackened bulkheads sagging, twisted and bent. Explosion.
Nikita blinked and peered, his suit crackling around him while atmosphere gushed through the breach. “Group six, Nikita here. I am in passenger quarters. Is large hole, fire is out and couple of rooms are decompressed. I think is all right to ignore for time being.”
“All right, Nikita, Seems to match our report. You might get back to Atmosphere. Things are looking pretty grim there.”
Nikita nodded and pulled himself back up the pitching corridor. He worked the lock, waiting while his suit crackled under pressure.
Stepping out, he saw Lietov, door open, diving down the corridor, a blaster in his hand.
“Fujiki? Is Malakova. Lietov is loose with blaster. Could be trouble.”
“Acknowledged, Nikita, take care of yourself.”
“Yes,” He gulped as the floor shivered and pitched. “If I live that long.” As gravity returned, he barreled after Lietov.
* * *
“Cap!” Art called. “The Mainiacs in the outer formation are breaking off! That’s two ships less to worry about!”
“Two Arpeggians left ...” Sol crowed. “And one of them is Hunter! Let’s go, people. I want Sellers.”
Hunter matched with her ally as Bryana zipped blaster fire by their position. They accelerated. Sol chewed his lips. “Where are they going?”
“We can find out,” Connie reminded. “We have the power to catch them.”
Had Sellers hatched some subtle plan to kill Boaz ? He could destroy both ships now—or wait and see if Sellers was running.
“Let ‘em go!” He decided with a sigh. Enough men had died today. “Connie, do we have any loose survivors floating around out there?”
“Three men, Sol.” She studied her screen. “One looks to be badly wounded.
“Match and pick them up. Leave that crippled Sirian ship. Sellers will be back to pick her up. Seems to be enough traffic out here; they won’t die.”
“Matching,” Art called as Boaz slowed, allowing Misha to snag the victims. When a hull blew open, the ruptured area blasted the contents into space like a jet. Humans, if loose, went along with anything not tied down. Sometimes the suits snagged on ripped metal, sometimes the hot plasma burned through, cooking the person inside. To float through eternity slowly suffocating as the suit’s air supply ran out remained every spacer’s nightmare.
* * *
Gravity returned to almost normal. Nikita followed Lietov into the big cargo bay. Ah, the fool sought the Artifact! Only Lietov pulled up, staring. Nikita, too, gawked, flat-footed, seeing only empty deck plates.
“Where is infernal device? Where?”
Lietov turned, starting at the sight of him. “So, Nikita, we’re duped. Carrasco has hidden it.”
Nikita shrugged. “Perhaps. You are in violation of Captain’s orders. You’ll come with me to—”
“I’ll blow you in two! You walk ahead of me, Nikita. Nice and easy. I’ll kill you if you make the wrong move. It’s beyond pleasantries now. Lives are at stake.”
“What you do?”
“We’re going to the reactor room. You’re a hostage, my Gulagi friend. They let us into the power source, or I’ll blow you apart limb by limb—sort of like Elvina did to Young.”
“Are sick man, Lietov.”
“Perhaps. Now walk.”
“And once in reactor room? What next?” Nikita walked to the hatch leading to the bridge.
“Wrong way. Take that hatch over there.”
Nikita shrugged, palming the hatch, figuring it would resist—but it opened. What? Had Carrasco dropped security in the emergency? Or did this reflect the damage to Boaz? Either way, there was now nothing to prevent him from walking down the white corridors to the reactor room hatch.
“Engineer Anderson?” Lietov called.
Happy’s craggy face for
med on the monitor. “Who’s . . . damn it! This is a restricted part of the ship! You can’t—”
“Open the hatch,” Lietov ordered. “If you don’t, I’m blowing the Gulagi apart right here in front of you. You see, we’re surrendering to my people out there—one way or another. The Artifact is going to belong to everyone.”
Nikita shrugged. “Let him kill me. Is better to die in—” The blaster bounced off his head, staggering him.
“Open the hatch,” Lietov demanded.
Nikita winced as the heavy steel slid aside. “No . . . is not right that—”
“Get in,” Lietov growled. “Move.” Nikita crawled through, mind reeling. Then the ship surged and bucked, gravity trying to tear him in two.
* * *
“Is the Artifact really gone?” Bryana asked.
“It is,” Sol sighed, pulling up his helmet.
Art looked puzzled. “Why?”
Sol gazed at them, feeling weary. “There’s no place for it in human society.” He looked at his stone cold coffee, scowled, and drank it anyway. “Who could we leave it with? Who could be responsible for that much power?”
“Three ships coming in!” Bryana snapped, clamping down her helmet. “Combat alert! All stations, batten down, we’re in the game again!”
“Dead ahead,” Art added. “They’re accelerating to match with Hunter! Sellers is putting out everything he has, slowing. From the reaction mass he’s shedding, he must be doing thirty gs!”
Connie frowned. “Maybe he’ll fry his grav plates— that’d put an end to it in a hurry! Wouldn’t be enough left of them to scrape off the bulkheads!”
“He’s down to twenty-five. Must have people passing out!” Art grinned. “The others are catching up!”
“We can’t avoid them,” Sol noted. Frantically, he played with the reaction, trying to move around the formation. Boaz flew into Art’s proverbial hornet’s nest. Arpeggians, Mainiacs, and Sirians hit Boaz five strong, forming out into a large pentagon, no holds on the amount of g they would employ to brake or accelerate.
“We’ve got the edge maneuvering,” Bryana noted as blaster fire whipped across the shields. “From their position, they can put more fire into us. Art, play those shields like a symphony!”
Sol fought the helm, throwing Boaz this way and that, jamming himself into the command chair with the acceleration, feeling his body being hammered to one side or the other. He tried to flip them away from the violet needles of charged particles that impacted on the shields and glared through the spectrum as they were shed and lost in the chill of space.
Art’s screen flared and warnings flashed as the hull breached again. Sol decelerated, feeling himself thrown forward at the edge of consciousness. His nose had started to run. He tasted blood.
“Damage Control!” Connie shouted. “Report on shuttle deck?”
Misha’s voice sounded strained. “Lost two vehicles from decompression. Nothing serious. Shields up again.”
Sol watched the streaks of light lacing space around them. Bryana shot back skillfully. But they fought a losing game. It was only a matter of time before they took a hit in a critical spot.
Sol took a breath and let it out before he ordered a 33 g turn. A fist slammed him on one side, the suit whining as it fought to counter the inertia. The world went gray for a second as Sol groggily struggled to clear his mind. They were out of the formation and viciously he kicked Boaz after Hunter. This time, he and Sellers would finish it—one way or the other!
* * *
Nikita stared up through foggy vision. His head ached and throbbed from the blow Lietov had dealt him.
“You’ll cut the power to the shields now, Anderson!”
Happy shook his head. “You’re outta your lunatic mind! Damn it, we’ll be fried like cinders! Half the Arpeggian fleet—along with your damn Sirians—are blasting the shields into slag as we speak!”
“Then get me a line out.” Lietov pointed his weapon at the reactor controls. “You know what happens if I trigger this? You know what the containment does?”
Anderson nodded. “Yeah, I know what the containment does.”
“Then you’ll open me a line to the outside. I’m going to surrender this ship now. Sirius is the new power in the Confederacy—as of this moment!”
Nikita shifted, unzipping his suit. Lietov shot him a quick glance. “No heroics, Nikita. I’ll blow us all to hell first.”
“Hot,” he muttered. “Woozy, like I’m going to throw up.” He blinked, trying to clear his sight.
“Sorry I hit you so hard, Nikita. Too much is at stake.”
Nikita reached inside, bending double to vomit on the deck.
“Do I get my line, Engineer? I’m blowing that panel in five seconds otherwise.” He raised the blaster.
Anderson swallowed hard. “Yeah, you get your line.”
Nikita coughed after his stomach pumped again. “Mark?” he whispered. “I’m sick, Mark. Help me.”
“Too late, Nikita, I’m helping ...”
A giant fist of gravity smashed them all.
* * *
The red haze he looked through was blood streaked across his face plate. He coughed more blood, seeing Bryana and Art slumped. “Wake up! Damn it! Art! Bryana!”
Connie wavered, slowly shaking her head. Sol watched her reach over and push Bryana weakly. “Out cold, Sol. Face plate bloody!” Her voice slurred.
Sol closed on Hunter.
“Boaz!” Sol called desperately. Nothing. “Connie, take helm!” Accessing comm through the headset, he guessed the elevation and advancement. “Fire!” He gritted and watched the blasters lace space just behind Hunter. He advanced the blaster angle by five degrees and watched Sellers’ shields waver and buckle as atmosphere blew out in streams of glowing gas and sparkling exploding destruction.
Bryana began muttering, starting to come around. Sol kept his aim, aware the shields were climbing again. Hunter pounded Boaz hard as Sellers dropped all he had to decelerate and Boaz shot past.
Bryana fumbled for the targeting comm, so Sol switched with Connie again, heading for the formation. “Forty degrees forward, by twenty-two, First Officer. Fire!” he added to cue Bryana’s battered mind.
She heard—and all her drills paid off as she centered her fire on an Arpeggian. Shields rippled as the ship exploded, splitting open like a ruptured can. A flash, and the antimatter generator spun away, tumbling out of control.
“That’s another one,” Sol gasped, seeing more lights flicker as Boaz took more hits. He shook his head, exploding in curses. They’d die before they got all the rest! He didn’t have enough time . . . and Sellers was creeping up on him, blasters lancing at Boaz’s rear shielding.
Sol braked, light flaring out ahead of Boat in a brilliant white spear. He tried to sniff the knot of coagulated blood out of his nose as he peered through the pink veil darkening on his face plate.
Bryana lanced death into yet another of the Arpeggians and he broke formation, accelerating away from the powerful Brotherhood blasters.
Lights flashed. The shields flared. Bryana grunted a curse. “Port blasters dead, sir!”
The Hound! “Art, one-eighty! Spin! Bryana pick up starboard guns and be ready!” Deceleration threw him forward again, dashing blood from his nose, blinding him as it spattered and pooled on the face plate. Vaguely he could see Hunter closing. “Aft sixteen degrees, Bryana!”
He could see her struggling against the force of inertia, but her instincts seemed true. Violet light ripped into Hunter, savaging the craft and more gouts of atmosphere boiled out into fire, decompression, and death. Sol dropped closer, roaring anger and rage through his headset. He coughed more blood, watching Bryana pile needle after needle of light into the wounded Arpeggian.
“Signal!” Art croaked. “Hunter is striking his colors! I repeat, Sellers is striking colors! He’s giving up! He wants to surrender!”
“Cease fire, Bryana,” Sol added, a weary joy filling him. “Match with
Hunter. ”
Slowly the black ship pulled even as Sol lifted the helmet off his head. He could see the molten rips which had been blown into the plates. Hunter looked a clawed mess. She spun slowly, gas and refuse tumbling out of the rents in the hull. Half a body—caught for a moment on a jagged edge of metal—cartwheeled loose, and spun off into the vacuum.
“Got you . . . you son of a blind syphilitic dock rat!” Sol managed. The flash almost caught him unprepared. “Boaz!” He shrieked. “Full ahead! Everything you’ve got! For God’s sake! FULL AHEAD!”
Forty-five gravities crushed him into the contours of the command chair—and an oblivion of pain.
* * *
Nikita blinked, feeling every joint pulled loose. His leg throbbed, bent up at a funny angle. Blood dripped from his nose. He shook his head, clearing his vision.
Lietov gasped, holding his ribs, staggering to his feet in the fluctuating gravity. In one hand, the blaster hung, swaying with each step. Happy Anderson groaned where he lay in a huddled ball in the corner.
“Surrender!” Lietov howled. “Damn you, Carrasco! SURRENDER!”
“He can’t hear you,” Nikita grunted. “You have to open comm line to bridge.”
“Then he’s dead in space.”
Lietov lifted his blaster, triggering the weapon at the boards. Nikita flinched, realizing the gun hadn’t discharged. His hand, still in his suit, tightened, withdrawing.
Lietov blinked, confused, and looked at the heavy piece. He chuckled hollowly as he flipped the safety off, raising the blaster.
“Mark, I ask you, do not do this thing.”
“It’s over,” Lietov mumbled. “The Artifact is mine.” He settled the sights on the control board.
Happy groaned, flopping over.
Lietov hesitated, throwing a quick look at the engineer—and Nikita Malakova calmly shot his head off.
“No one takes free man’s guns,” Nikita said quietly to the crimson wreckage of Lietov’s head.
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