by Jay Allan
Barron felt a fear he detested. He hated staying back while his people were fighting, but he was also grateful for his place behind the brutal combat. He knew he wasn’t a coward. He’d led his ship into some tight spots, and he’d managed to keep it together and bring his people through. But situations affected people in different ways, and Barron was not a foot soldier. He’d bristled at Rogan’s insistence he stay back while the Marines secured the area…but he did it anyway. The FRs had strange effects on a lot of people, the almost alien nature of the brainwashed soldiers too difficult for many to understand. And they gave Barron the creeps.
“Captain, I need you to stay where you are…or better yet, fall back to the shuttle. I don’t think we’ve got a huge force here, but they’re well placed…and they probably know their way around in here a lot better than us.” Barron could hear intense gunfire in the background. It didn’t sound like it was very far from the Marine leader.
“Acknowledged, Captain Rogan.” Barron wasn’t about to retreat back to the ship—he’d have to surrender his Barron DNA if he did that—but he was less than pleased with himself about how willing he was to do as his Marine commander asked and stay where he was.
He heard something coming down the hall, and he spun back around, taking another look down the corridor, his assault rifle at the ready. There was something there. He tensed, his finger moving toward the trigger. But recognition held his hand. It was one of Rogan’s people…no, two of them. And both were wounded.
Barron forgot his earlier fear and leapt around the corner, moving toward the two Marines. The first, a woman whose name was hovering just at the edge of his mind, shouted out, “Get back, sir…there’s fighting farther down this corridor.” He could hear in the woman’s voice—Crane…that’s her name, corporal Crane—that she was struggling, and he kept moving toward her, reaching out and catching her just as she stumbled forward.
She fell into him, and he could see she’d been shot in the midsection. He took a quick guess and decided it wasn’t critical, at least not if she got help soon. But Rogan’s shuttle hadn’t carried a medic, and though the other assault ships had docked nearby, they had come through different entry points, scattering the Marines around a ship where they had no idea what lay twenty meters down the corridor, much less in nearby sections and on the decks above and below.
“Let’s go,” Barron said, sliding his arm under hers. He looked back at the man behind her. He’d been hit too, and the material of his uniform leg was covered in blood. He was limping, but he was keeping up, more or less.
“I’m good, sir,” the Marine grunted, obviously in pain but just as clearly still able to move on his own power.
“Back to the shuttle,” Barron said, moving as quickly as he could while holding up the armored corporal. She groaned in pain as he twisted himself, trying to reach under her arm to get a better grip. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, as he moved forward toward the docking port.
He leaned his head against his shoulder, tapping the small comm controls on the side of his helmet. “Lieutenant,” he said to the shuttle pilot. “I’m heading back with wounded Marines. Come through the umbilical and help me get them aboard.”
“Yes, sir,” came the almost instantaneous reply.
Barron managed to make it to the opening in the side of the corridor, just as the pilot was moving through. “Grab her shoulders, Lieutenant. You’ll have to pull her through.” His eyes dropped to the Marine, now semi-conscious and looking back at him with glazed eyes. “This is probably going to hurt, but we’ve got to get you on the shuttle.” He focused on her eyes, trying to decide whether she’d understood him. It came up a coin toss in his mind.
He pushed her up toward the pilot, the lack of any real howl of pain suggesting to him she hadn’t understood his words, that she was more out than awake. He suspected she was better off unconscious, at least for now, but he worried about how long she could last without medical attention. “Get the med kit,” Barron said to the pilot. “Do what you can for them.”
He turned toward the second Marine. “Can you make it by yourself?”
“Yes, sir.” A short pause. “Captain, you’re not going to…”
“Get in there as soon as the tube is clear. And do what you can for Crane.” His voice was cool, rational…but it didn’t invite further comment on his pending activities.
Barron got up, pulling the assault rifle off his shoulder where he’d stowed it. All thoughts of staying around the corner, of letting the Marines secure the place before he stuck his nose out, were gone. He looked down at his armor, covered with a slick sheen of Crane’s blood.
No, there was no way he was hiding down the hall, not while his people were fighting and dying up there.
* * *
Lafarge stood against the wall, staring at the pair of FRs standing guard over her. The two soldiers hadn’t moved, hadn’t taken their eyes off her…she could have sworn neither had even blinked in the hour they’d had her in the room.
There had been no sign of Laussanne, but she’d managed to pass the time, for the past fifteen minutes at least, listening to the sounds of gunfire, a broad smile on her face. Rationally, she knew a fight only put her at greater risk. Laussanne wanted to question her further, and he wanted to make her pay for what she’d done earlier, but she had no doubt if the Union forces were desperate enough, the political officer would order his clone soldiers to cut her down where she stood. Still, the idea of Confederation Marines—and who else could have boarded the ship?—gunning down these cold-blooded FRs, was just too good, even for a cynic like her. She couldn’t help but think about the Union soldiers being gunned down, and in spite of her situation, in spite of her hard-boiled personality, a wide smile erupted on her face.
“Those are Confederation Marines out there, aren’t they? Gunning down your pod mates or whatever you call them.” Her voice was caustic, dripping hatred, though somewhere deeper down she viewed the FRs as victims. But that was far too philosophical a thought for the present situation, and she buried it. Such ideas could only interfere with her killing the troopers in cold blood, which was exactly what she was planning to do the first chance she got.
The FRs ignored her. They just stood as they had for the past hour, unmoving, looking unconcerned that enemy—to them, at least—forces had boarded the ship, and were even now killing their comrades. She’d been waiting for them to get distracted, looking for the first chance she had to jump one and grab his weapon. She’d seen their reflexes, and she knew any move would be difficult and dangerous, but it wasn’t in her to play the cowed prisoner. If she got an opening—any opening—she would take it.
She leaned toward the closest soldier, trying to look as though she was stretching a sore arm. But the FR snapped his rifle up, pointing it at her head. He didn’t say anything, and the same sickly non-committal expression remained on his face. Lafarge didn’t know what orders the soldiers had been given, how much effort they would take to avoid killing her is she provoked them. But something told her it would be dangerous to push too far.
She heard hurried footsteps, and her head whipped around toward the doorway. Laussanne and one of the spacers from Chasseur stepped into the room.
“You two, go…down this hall and take position.” He gestured toward the FRs, and then to the corridor. The soldiers nodded their acknowledgement, and one replied with a sharp, “Sir!” Then they turned and jogged through the doorway.
“Losing, Laussanne?” Lafarge said mockingly. “Can’t even spare a couple guards to watch me?”
“I don’t need any guards to watch you,” the political officer said, raw hatred in his tone. “Your knowledge of this ship is the only reason you’re still alive…”
She glared at him. It’s a good thing you don’t believe me when I tell you I don’t know shit…
“…but if I’m going to lose control, the last thing I need to do is allow the Confederation to get that information.” He looked at her, and she could see
in his eyes he was close to killing her.
He’ll wait, but only while his people hold out. If—when—the Marines break through, he’ll shoot me without a second thought.
Her eyes darted back and forth, scanning the room unobtrusively.
The FRs are gone…I may not get a better chance…
She stood where she was, but she tensed her legs, ready to lunge at the Union officer. She was a little farther from him than ideal, but she didn’t have time to waste. She could hear the sounds of the fighting getting closer…and she knew Laussanne would kill her before the Marines rescued her.
The political officer’s comm unit buzzed. He pulled it from his belt and held it to his face. She couldn’t hear what he was being told, but she could see the tension it was causing.
“You must hold, Lieutenant,” he ordered. “There is no falling back, no retreat.”
It’s always the cowards who expect someone to fight to the death for them…
She leapt across the room, jumping high and bringing her leg around, taking the political officer in the knee. Her move had been quick, savage, and she’d taken the distracted man completely by surprise.
Laussanne howled in pain, and he dropped hard, first to his knees and then forward, shoving out his arms instinctively to absorb the impact. His pistol fell from his hand and skittered across the metal of the deck. She dove for it, reaching out, extending her arm as far as she could, even as she knew the other spacer was pulling his own sidearm. She felt the hard plastic of the weapon’s grip…but it was just too far away. It slipped through her closing finger, and slid into the wall a meter away.
Shit!
She was dropping to the floor herself, the intensity of her move for the weapon costing her the balance she needed to stay on her feet. She went with it, swinging her body hard to the side in an effort to give the spacer a tougher target, as she pushed herself toward Laussanne’s pistol.
She heard a crack, later than she’d expected it, and then another. She bit down, waiting for the pain of a bullet hitting her. But there was nothing.
He missed!
She ignored the pain of impacting the floor and she slid forward, her hand darting out, grabbing the gun. She swung around hard, bringing up the pistol as she did. There was no time to aim…she had to rely on pure instinct. She felt her finger tighten, even as another loud shot rang out. She felt that one, on the side of her leg. It was a flesh wound, she was almost certain, but it still hurt like hell.
She ignored the pain, and she fired, watching a spray of blood erupt from the spacer’s head.
She twisted hard. The spacer was finished, but Laussanne wasn’t dead, he wasn’t even seriously injured. She brought the pistol around, ready to finish off the miserable bastard. She could feel his death. She ached for it.
But wait…he has a weapon too…
He must have had two pistols.
Her arm was moving, even as his was doing the same. Her mind was racing, trying to figure out which of them was going to win the deadly race…but the best she could come up with was, it looked like a tie.
“Drop the weapons! Now!”
She froze for an instant, but she didn’t drop the gun.
“Drop that pistol, right now.”
There was something different about the voice. It didn’t have the almost robotic cadence of the FRs’ speech. She opened her hand, letting the weapon drop the few centimeters to the deck. It was pure instinct, a sudden urge she followed. She’d been ready to fight to the death.
She saw shadows moving into the room, heard hard boots on the metal deck. Then hands reaching down, pulling her up, searching her. Her eyes focused. The room was full of armed soldiers. But they weren’t wearing the reddish-brown uniforms of the FRs. The had gray fatigues, with heavy body armor. Confederation Marines.
Her eyes caught Laussanne, held between two giant Marines. The Union officer had struggled for a few seconds, but now he’d given in, and he just stood there, a terrified look on his face. “Commander Jean Laussanne, Federal Union navy,” he said in response to the demand of a Marine officer, his voice shaky, broadcasting his fear.
The officer turned and took a few steps toward Lafarge. “And you?”
She stared back silently. She was thrilled at the thought of the FRs being defeated, and glad to see Laussanne in custody—though she was still determined to kill the piece of shit—but her career hadn’t been one that particularly ingratiated her to the Confederation’s Marines either.
The Marine walked right up to her, staring into her eyes. His expression lacked the cheap cruelty of so many of the Union personnel, but she could see he was deadly serious. She’d always thought of the Marines as jackbooted enforcers, at least on some level, but she had some idea of their camaraderie and esprit de corps. She suspected they had taken losses here, that this officer had watched his Marines die. He’d be in no mood for surly prisoners. But still, she held her tongue.
“I asked who you were,” he said, his tone forceful, commanding.
She stood there, looking up, returning his gaze. She was a little scared, but she was determined not to let it show.
“That’s got to be Captain Lafarge, Bryan.” The voice came from the doorway, from a tall man who stepped into the room as he spoke. “Captain Andromeda Lafarge, I believe?”
She turned and looked over. The new arrival wore body armor as well, but he carried it somehow less comfortably than the others. He wasn’t a Marine, she was fairly certain of that.
“Yes, I’m Captain Lafarge,” she replied. She was surprised at being addressed as “captain.” This man had to be in the Confederation service in some way or another, and even the common spacers tended to look down on what they thought of as Badlands freebooters and scavengers.
She was surprised in another way as well. There was something about him, something she couldn’t quite explain. He was good-looking, certainly, but it was more, some kind of charisma. She was normally resentful and suspicious of Confederation naval personnel, but something was different with this one.
“Your crew brought us back here. They managed to make it all the way to Dannith. You have some loyal people, Captain Lafarge.”
“Yes, I do…” She paused, looking at him quizzically.
“Tyler,” he said, seeming slightly uncomfortable himself. “Captain Tyler Barron.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Command Center
Fleet Base Grimaldi
Orbiting Krakus II
“Twenty enemy battleships so far, Admiral. They’re beginning to launch fighters.” Jarravick was focused on the bank of screens at his workstation. “We’ve got multiple ships requesting permission to launch their own squadrons.”
Striker hesitated a moment. There was something he didn’t like, something that didn’t feel quite right. There were enemy ships pouring into the system, but they weren’t behaving the way he’d expected them to.
The Union forces were moving slowly, their velocities very low as they emerged from the transwarp link. It was ideal—for the defenders—and that made Striker nervous. Why would the enemy choose a long-ranged fighter action?
Still, he had no choice but to counter the enemy’s action. “Fleet order…all units are to launch fighters.”
“Yes, sir. All units…” But Jarravick had jumped the gun. Striker wasn’t finished giving his order.
“Hold, Commander. All units are to launch…but I want every ship to hold back one squadron for CSP duties. And I want those patrolling squadrons pushed out, from one hundred to two hundred thousand kilometers from the mother ship.”
“Yes, sir.” There was confusion in the aide’s voice, but he didn’t question the command.
Striker could feel the edginess in his limbs, the tightness in his gut. Why would the enemy hold back their battleships, especially when they were likely to have a substantial numerical advantage when they had completed their transit? A fighter duel didn’t favor them, not when Confederation pilots outflew their
enemies by a large margin. And Grimaldi base added almost four hundred more birds to the melee, enough to go a long way toward evening the odds in terms of raw numbers. The enemy was playing a game that suited Striker perfectly…and that scared the hell out of him.
“Commander, advise all ship captains, I want them to report anything out of the ordinary. I don’t care if they think the Union’s changed the paint job on one of their ships…if it seems different in any way, I want to know about it.”
“Yes, sir.” Jarravick was a veteran and a reliable aide, but Striker knew the commander was completely confused. It doesn’t matter if no one else is picking up that something is wrong. I am, and that’s enough.
“Admiral, we’re getting requests from the task forces commanders on the line to advance.”
“Negative. All ships are to launch fighters and then hold position.” Striker was even considering pulling his battleships back. He wanted to, and he opened his mouth twice to issue the orders, but the words didn’t come. A retrograde move would cause confusion among his units, and he suspected it would be bad for morale. He wondered if he was going to be sorry later for holding back…or whether he was just being paranoid.
“Yes, Admiral. All ships to hold position until further notice.”
Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Striker watched as more enemy battleships emerged into the system. Within minutes of appearing, each one began launching its full complement of fighters.
His eyes darted to the side, to the clouds of small dots moving toward his battleline. The enemy was sending everything forward, holding nothing back to defend their own ships. He felt a burst of excitement, images flashing in his mind of the havoc his bombers would wreak against the undefended battleships. It was a reckless plan, a foolish mistake.
