The problem was that the engineers and weapons experts sent to help them had been intent on doing exactly the opposite. No matter how frantically the engineering team worked, people were dying. And he knew what Matt Horner must be thinking.
Vaughn rubbed his eyes with a trembling hand. “Send in the fighters,” he said.
“Sir,” said Travis, “with all respect, without any cover from us—”
“I know. But we’ve got to do something. Thompson, how much longer?”
“Till what? Till we can fight, or we can move, or we can contact Valerian?”
“Any or all.”
“I’ve got no idea, sir. We’re doing the best that we can.”
As are we all, thought Vaughn. He opened the comm so he would be heard throughout the ship. “This is Captain Vaughn. All personnel with experience in flying any smaller craft are to report to the docking bay at once. We don’t have much to throw at Mengsk, but we’re going to give it all we’ve got. The Bucephalus, if it must go down, is going to go down fighting.”
* * *
Cooper knew he had to get out of here. Now.
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. The men from Space Station Prometheus were supposed to have completely screwed over engineering and then taken hostages. Then they would have escaped to join Mengsk and brought the amiable, grinning, friendly bartender that everyone underestimated with them.
But that bastard Horner had been too sharp. Somehow, and Cooper didn’t know how, he had been tipped off that something was wrong down in engineering. Cooper’s contact had been mysteriously silenced in the midst of a sentence. Now Mengsk had finally arrived and was attacking both the station and the Hyperion.
No one was about to come into the cantina now, not in the middle of an attack, so Cooper simply grabbed his bag and left. His mind was racing. His only contact had been with the men sent to sabotage the ship. He had spoken with Arcturus Mengsk several hours earlier, as well as with Narud, but now he couldn’t seem to raise either of them. Uttering a blistering oath, Cooper flung the comm away as he raced down the corridors.
His only thought was that at some point they’d be sending out ships to do one-on-one fighting. They’d be surprised to see him, but he knew how to handle a Wraith, and he figured he could pull the ol’ “I need to help any way I can!” routine, and they’d let him in. After a very short time they’d have to, because all the more experienced pilots would be just so many pieces of flesh floating in space.
It was a desperate attempt, and didn’t stand a good chance of success. Unless he was extremely careful, the very people he was working for would destroy him, and if he was too obvious, then the Raiders would make short work of him. He had to look convincing but not threatening. Sweat broke out under his arms, and he swallowed hard.
This is not supposed to be happening, he thought for the hundredth time. Not supposed to be happening.
* * *
“Sir,” said Marcus, “I detect several small ships launching from the Bucephalus.”
Matt frowned and leaned forward. What the . . . “Why aren’t they fi—” And then he knew. “Dammit. Get some cover on those fighters! Now!”
“At once, sir,” said Marcus.
“And Swann—I’ve got to have communications restored!”
“ ‘Sabotaged’ generally means things have been messed up,” retorted Swann. “Doing the best I can!”
Matt’s thoughts were racing but calm. Jim was on that station, which meant that he, Matt, had to figure out a way to keep everyone alive long enough to bring the commander home. He now had an obligation to the Bucephalus as well. She hadn’t run when she could have, and was choosing to send people into the fray when she had no way to properly protect them. That spoke volumes to Horner, and he wasn’t about to let those people die needlessly if he could help it.
The station was still being slammed with attacks. Horner had to distract Mengsk, had to get that attention focused back on the Hyperion—while somehow still protecting his own ship and those pilots sent on a suicide mission. If only there was some way to—
“Swann!”
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud, what now?”
“The tampering—we can’t warp, right?”
“Not yet. I got the whole team working on it along with me.”
“You and two of your best move off that task. Here’s what I want from you instead.”
* * *
Narud was very clever. Jim would give him that. Jim would probably even agree with Valerian’s earlier statement that the scientist was a genius. But people who were geniuses tended to know it, and be overly fond of demonstrating it, which, ironically, sometimes made them stupid.
Narud had been stupid. He’d been so intent on showing Jim and Valerian how damned clever he was that he had inadvertently revealed how he’d escaped. Narud had been cloaked.
And so had the doorway through which he’d run, in a sense.
“Hologram. Come on!” Jim cried, and charged at the seemingly solid wall. Valerian had hesitated only an instant, then provided cover as the two took a leap of faith and raced for the holographically “cloaked” opening. Jim extended his hand, in case Narud had closed the door behind him. It was a good precaution, as the scientist had done exactly that. Jim groped for the handle, turned it, ran through the open door, and once Valerian had followed, closed and locked it. He turned to the Heir Apparent, grinning.
Valerian’s face looked like it was chiseled in stone. Only spots of color high on his cheekbones and the intensity of his gaze revealed that he was a living being.
“What is it?”
Valerian started, then shook his head. His golden hair had come free of its usual small ponytail and spilled over his shoulders. “Nothing.”
And then Jim understood. “You’ve—that was the first time you—”
“No. But that doesn’t make any difference. Those were men, Raynor. Human beings. And now they’re just corpses.”
“I’m sorry you had to do it, Valerian. I really am. But the shitty irony of this kind of life is, if you want to do the right thing, you gotta be willing to get your own hands dirty. You did do the right thing. What you had to do. And you did it well.”
There was a look in Valerian’s eyes that Jim recognized. In battle he had seen it time and again—the look on the face of someone who has taken a life. A wish that there had been another way.
“I wish that too,” Jim said quietly. “Every damned time. But we better get a move on.”
They were in a dimly lit corridor, clearly some infrequently traveled back passageway. There was only one place to go—forward. Jim checked his weapon, then started to run lightly down the carpeted hallway. He reached for his comm. “Dammit,” he said. “They’ve blocked the signal.”
At that moment, there was a deep, reverberating boom, and the station rocked. They stumbled slightly and turned to look at each other.
“He’s attacking the station,” said Valerian bitterly. “The scientific knowledge that will be lost—”
“Mengsk don’t give a rat’s ass about that,” Jim snapped. “He just wants us all dead. Me, Sarah, you. You know anything about the layout of this place?”
“I helped design it.”
“Sweet mother of mercy, a break,” Jim breathed. “Where are we in relationship to sick bay?”
Valerian’s aristocratic brow furrowed. “If I remember correctly, that room is surrounded by a variety of work corridors. So that repair teams or service personnel can get where they need to go without interrupting anything. There’s a hub several meters up ahead where it widens into a larger area with several offshoots.”
“And one of those will take us to sick bay?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t know which one?”
“Er . . . no. Jim, my focus these last couple of years hasn’t been on memorizing the layout of the station.”
Jim bit back a retort, mainly because Valerian had a point. “Maybe there’ll be a
map.”
* * *
“Crazy young maverick,” muttered Swann as he worked with Earl and Annabelle on Horner’s request. “Chances are slim to none this’ll work. Only someone who knows nothing about engineering would hatch a plan like this.”
The plan hatched by the crazy young maverick currently captaining the Hyperion was indeed radical, but Annabelle knew that Rory thought it actually was possible, or else he wouldn’t have agreed to even waste time trying. Her heart had soared when he told her; anything that could protect both the Hyperion and the Bucephalus was something she could get behind. She still hadn’t been able to talk to Travis and ascertain that he was all right. She pushed the thought of his kind face out of her mind and focused with renewed intensity on the project at hand.
The more they looked at the situation, the more possible it began to appear. “Well, hey, boss, maybe we should get more people who know nothing about engineering to propose ideas,” quipped Earl.
“Shut your trap,” growled Rory, but there was no real malice in the words. He, too, was starting to brighten a bit. “Maybe this really can work . . . . ”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Holy hell, there is a map.”
Jim couldn’t believe it, but as he and Valerian slowed to a stop near the entrance of the corridor and moved forward cautiously, he saw a small atrium in the center of a domed area. The space was like the hub of a wheel, with at least five corridors, counting theirs, going off in different directions. There were three benches, some plants in pots, and a small fountain that bubbled in an incongruously cheerful fashion next to a large holographic representation of Prometheus Station. Unfortunately, they were too far away and in the wrong position.
“Now,” Valerian said, “to get to the thing without getting shot.”
“It seems deserted,” said Jim, putting emphasis on seems. “I would think that any personnel would be hightailing it to escape pods at this point.”
“Most likely,” Valerian agreed. “You go first.”
Jim shot him a nasty look, and Valerian grinned. Jim sighed, then stepped forward; he was more experienced at this sort of thing than Valerian. He held his gun, taken from one of the late guards, in front of him, moving slowly, and peeked out around the edge of the corridor. He braced himself for the sudden roar of weapons firing, preparing to duck back to safety, but nothing happened.
“Seems clear,” he said. Together he and Valerian sprinted for the holographic map.
Valerian touched a small button on the podium, and the hologram reconfigured itself, zooming in to where they now stood. “There’s the corridor we came out of,” he said. “And—the second to our right leads to sick bay and some area that’s not identified. Probably one of the more sensitive laboratories.”
“How many labs are there?” asked Jim, wondering if they would be able to locate poor Egon. Hoping they would be able to find him . . . and find him alive.
“Twenty-seven,” said Valerian. “I know what you’re thinking. Even if we know that Egon was taken to a lab, we don’t have time to—”
“Sarah first,” said Jim. “We get her to safety. Then Egon. I don’t leave any of my crew behind.”
Valerian smiled. It was oddly gentle. “Then neither shall I.”
Jim nodded once, then turned and started racing down the hallway toward sick bay, Valerian right beside him.
* * *
Narud stood in the main security center of Space Station Prometheus, which was, for the moment, the single safest place to be. The room was all screens and small, blinking lights, and no fewer than seven armed guards stood awaiting his command. Narud knew he couldn’t linger. He would need to depart, and shortly, but he had to make sure that his adversaries were dead. They had very inconsiderately refused to die when they were supposed to, and were now running around loose on the station.
His eyes were fastened on the feed that showed them in Atrium #4. It was very close to the security center; Valerian and Raynor had obviously followed him. He frowned slightly. He had wanted to make a dramatic exit, thinking they would be killed immediately afterward. Instead, they’d seen his cloak.
“Send a unit after them,” said Narud. “I want their bodies riddled with metal. They can’t be allowed to live, and they seem to have more lives than many a cat I’ve known.”
“Of course, sir,” said the security head. “Vrain, Osgood, Warren, Mitchell, Tseng—you heard Dr. Narud.” The four men and one woman nodded and headed for the door.
Once they had gone, Narud leaned forward and pushed a button. He smiled a little to himself. His guards were good, but he had decided that another weapon was even better.
* * *
Several meters past sick bay, a door, heavy and locked with redundant security measures, slid open. Mammoth guns, designed to blast anything that moved, were turned off.
And two shadows, lumpy and grotesque, moved out into the corridor.
* * *
“We tripped . . . something,” Valerian said, his breath coming quickly as they ran. “Those lights . . . weren’t flashing . . . before.”
Considering there had been a whole bunch of flashing lights and blaring sirens before, Jim wondered how Valerian was able to pick out the new ones while running at full speed, but he believed the Heir Apparent. Instead of replying, he pressed his lips together and forced his legs to increase their pace. He was not leaving without Sarah.
He lurched to a clumsy, sudden halt as Valerian grabbed his arm and yanked him back. Jim wrenched free and turned, scowling. “What the—”
“Do you hear that?”
Jim looked at the prince blankly. “What, something other than the fifty-two different klaxons wailing?”
“Shh!” It was a ludicrous statement, but Jim fell silent, straining to hear—whatever it was Valerian heard.
And then he did.
It was a sharp, high sound, more felt than heard, and Jim had an idea what was making it. His blood ran cold in his veins, and his hair stood on end.
Valerian blinked, almost in a daze of horror. “I knew Narud had been working on them,” he murmured. “But he told me the research was preliminary . . . . I didn’t know he . . . ” As if abruptly awoken, Valerian literally shook himself and grabbed Jim’s arm.
“Hybrid,” Jim snarled.
“Run,” said Valerian.
“Now wait a minute. Sarah’s back there, and I—”
“Sarah will live or die on her own, Jim,” Valerian shouted. “And we will die if we don’t run now!”
The awful sound, boring through Jim’s brain, was coming closer. And suddenly fear seemed to pierce him, as if the sound had drilled a cold, terrified hole into his heart. The sound sensation was joined by a slamming, slithering noise as the things came closer.
He remembered the hybrid, and he knew Valerian was right. Jim ran.
* * *
“You ready down there yet, Swann?” Matt asked.
“You asked me that ten seconds ago,” Swann’s voice growled. “And the answer is still no.”
Matt bit back a retort. Swann was doing the best he could, which was damn good, and he knew what he was asking of the chief engineer was challenging. But he was watching the screen blossoming with explosions as one by one, the unprotected Wraiths and vikings launched by the Bucephalus were blasted into oblivion. Each one hurt him worse than his still-painful injury.
“Okay, kiddo, let’s get this show on the road,” said Swann. “Last chance to change your mind.”
“Do it,” ordered Matt.
The massive battlecruiser had been moving, positioning itself to both defend and attack as needed. Now the Hyperion slowed and then came to a full stop, hanging seemingly dead in space. Matt knew that once the import of this registered on Mengsk, they would become the main target rather than the space station itself.
He was counting on it.
Two seconds later there was a crackle on the comm. For a horrible moment Horner was afraid that Rory had miscalcula
ted, that he had tried to do too much, too fast, and they were actually now as dead in space as they appeared.
Then Marcus cried excitedly, “Sir! It’s working!”
“Switch to Bucephalus view,” ordered Matt.
Marcus obliged. Matt felt almost weak with relief as he saw a blue halo enveloping the Bucephalus and the remaining Wraiths. Swann, following Matt’s seemingly insane idea, had diverted all power from the ship’s engines to the shields. That extra power had enabled the Hyperion to extend its shielding capabilities to protect Valerian’s ship and the little vessels it was sending out to defend it. It had not come without a cost. Not only was the Hyperion stuck right where it was until power was returned to the engines from the shields, but the shield itself was also much weaker than usual. There was only so much energy to spread around, and the larger the area covered, the less effective the shield.
But it was buying time for the beleaguered Bucephalus and the Wraiths. Even as Matt watched, the Wraiths that had been little more than fish in a barrel began to inflict some serious damage on the ships that had, moments before, been obliterating them.
“Swann, it worked! You’re amazing!” shouted Matt.
“Yeah, let’s all remember this next time we’re distributing some credits,” Swann said. “Oh, and I got a special bonus gift for you. Gimme about twenty seconds and you’ll be able to talk to the Bucephalus and, I hope, our cowboy boss down on the station.”
The Hyperion rocked from a blow that was, now, much more damaging than it ought to have been.
“Matt?”
Jim Raynor’s voice had seldom been more welcome to Matt than now, though it was hard to distinguish his voice from the myriad background noises, all of which sounded dire. “Sir! What’s going on?”
“Long story.” Jim’s voice was clipped and breathy. Matt guessed they were either fighting or running. “How’s the Hyperion?”
“Still around, sir, as is the Bucephalus. We’d lost communication with each other until just now, and the Bucephalus can’t fire. We’re currently defending both ships.”
Flashpoint Page 22
