Any vestige of the fear that had so dominated every thought and action in recent memory was utterly gone. What remained was a cold, icy core of concentrated, focused anger. In spite of this, or maybe because of it, her mind was absolutely clear. She felt a deadly calm settle over her. Her already superb tactical instincts clicked into a sort of Whitney Overdrive of their own. Suddenly, she knew exactly what to do next. With sure, confident movements, she activated the second booster, guided it out from behind the adjacent battlecruiser and, using the video feed, aimed the booster and its makeshift ram directly at the closer of the two armored figures. Keeping the figure centered in the field of view, she ran up the thrust until the construct was moving directly at him at thirty meters per second. The raider aimed his pulse rifle at what appeared to him to be little more than a moving junk pile and began firing, but the bolts weren't powerful enough to do any damage. He thought she was going to try and ram him. She smiled without humor, a feral grin that would have peeled paint from a bulkhead. Fine, let him think that...
When the scrap-clad booster was two hundred meters from the raider, her hands danced over the control console, activating the pitch and yaw thrusters, orchestrating a maneuver that flipped the construct end to end. The raider stopped firing, frozen for an instant as the true peril of his situation dawned on him, but there was no time for any meaningful response. As she saw the enemy coming into view on the display from the rear-facing camera, she skillfully played the controls again, completing the flip turn and stabilizing the booster's movement to center the figure in the rear field of view.
Her grin turned into a triumphant sneer as she slammed the booster's main drive to full thrust. With the booster maintaining the same vector, only now moving rear end first, it continued on course towards the raider for a second or two as a hundred-meter long, four- meter wide burst of impossibly intense blue flame lanced from the business end of the powerful main engine. Slammed by the direct blast of what was essentially a giant blowtorch, the enemy's pulse rifle dissolved in a pop flare of yellowish flame. Miraculously, the old battle armor held out against the intense heat and unimaginable force but the armor, with the enemy inside, was blasted more than halfway across the central clearing within a fraction of a second. Carlisle watched as the enemy cartwheeled into a vicious impact with the wreckage of a cruiser. A mist of instantly frozen atmosphere was released into vacuum as something in the armor lost integrity. The man may not have had time to feel much pain, but he had certainly known what hit him. Carlisle felt a perverse sense of satisfaction from the grim thought. She flipped the booster over yet again, then slowed and stabilized it before slewing it in a circle to sweep the area with the video feed.
She spotted the second raider more or less where she had expected to find him. The figure on the video was just then between the two battlecruiser hulks, still a little above them but starting to move downward. His position near the two old cruisers meant that the same trick was not likely to work twice; torching him with the booster was out of the question. She smiled again. The raider would probably know that his quarry had been using the control console of a utility sled or something like it to guide the remote controlled boosters. The enemy had also seen where her vehicle had disappeared from view after her dash down the access corridor. There were only a few good places within a reasonable distance to hide such a machine, the hold of a derelict battlecruiser being an obvious one. She lined the booster up the best she could on the tumbling enemy ship and again ran the powerful engine up to full thrust.
Having done all she could for her friends, Carlisle went back to work on her own situation. She looked around the hold of the old battlecruiser and mentally took stock of the space. Except that the bottom was open to space due to the open bay doors, the bay was quite similar in size and shape to the court that was used for the graceful three dimensional ballet-like moves and combinations of weightless gymnastics. She nodded her head in approval. She knew intimately just how to maneuver her body around in a space with these dimensions.
The hold was reinforced with two sets of exposed beams, T-shaped in cross section, each positioned a third of the length of the bay out from the end walls. The beams consisted of three sections -- three sides of a rectangle, open at the bottom -- that went up along one wall, across the top of the hold and down the opposite wall. The beam sections were constructed from centimeter thick bulkhead material with the base of the "T" attached to the wall and the cross of the "T" -- which spanned about thirty centimeters -- protruding about meter out from the wall. If she were behind one of these beams, even if the enemy saw her go behind it, her movements would be concealed. Not only would the stout alloy beam provide protection, she could mount an attack from anywhere along the three sections of the beam, from either wall or from the top of the hold and an enemy would never know where she might attack from.
The battle armor of her adversary was well adapted for moving the bulky suit around for short distances of open space as its occupant went from an attacking troop transport onto an enemy warship or orbital construct. Once there, artificial gravity or the gravetetic boots with which it was equipped would anchor the suit to the deck while the occupant slogged it out with adversaries. The armor was not designed for rapid, precise movements within a relatively small, confined space, especially under weightless conditions. Unfortunately, the only relatively weak point in the armor was the faceplate in the helmet. Even it was pretty tough, especially since all she had was a hand-held pulse pistol. Unless, of course, it were subjected to multiple pulse bolt impacts.
Carlisle grinned again. Her anger still simmered, if anything it had become even more intense. Let the bastard come; this hold, this situation, this was her element, her killing ground, she made the choices. This time, she would be the aggressor. She went to the farthest corner of the hold and scanned the entire area, mentally marking all of the reinforcement beams and other potential hiding spots and the distances and angles between them with the eye of a trained gymnast and hand-to-hand combatant. She flexed and stretched her athlete's muscles in the special suit, limbering up for the elaborate movements she knew would soon be necessary. Then she took the captured pulse pistol into her hand, set it to fire a five pulse burst each time the firing stud was pressed, and switched off her suit lights.
She waited, with calm and deadly purpose, in the dark.
Chapter 49
New Ceylon Orbital Station, spoke one stairwell area, October 9, 2598.
Kresge led his group of fighters over to their objective stairwell. This stairwell was closest to the governor's suites and, by virtue of its location, had become the main objective in the minds of all the Resistance fighters. It was also, according to their intelligence, the most heavily guarded. In anticipation, the station Resistance had concentrated the bulk of their firepower against this single guard station. Kresge's attack force consisted of Salvdor Vasquez and four other security officers, each armed with stun rods, Davis-Moore with his anachronistic hunting rifle and himself with his pulse pistol. Several others, also armed with stun rods, who would be needed to help secure the enemy's battle armor and weapons if the attack were successful, waited in the relative safety of the corridor. Kresge was also resigned to the fact that it was also here at this stairwell that the enemy would absolutely find out that the station personnel were no longer hiding in fear and no longer totally under enemy control.
Kresge and his group of attackers, unlike any of the other groups so far, had to contend with multiple guards, which meant they would have to take out several raiders at once. From the near darkness of the fourth level staircase, Clancy Davis-Moore nervously centered the face of one of the battle armor-clad guards in the crosshairs of the high-powered scope on the replica rifle, aiming for a point directly between the man's eyes. Kresge made ready to target the head of the other guard with this pulse pistol, setting it to fire a three pulse burst.
They waited.
An unarmored guard sauntered out into the stairwell ar
ea, his pulse rifle cradled in the crook of his elbow, and approached the two sitting guards. It looked like he was carrying a couple cups of coffee or some other beverage for his two companions.
"Clancy, have you got a shot?" whispered Kresge.
"I do, Commander, just give the word." Davis-Moore replied as he forced himself to calm down.
"I've got the armored one on our right. Just reload that beast as soon as you fire, in case I should happen to miss the third guy."
"Okay, Commander."
"Three, two, one, Fire!"
The sharp bark of the high-powered rifle startled everyone except Davis-Moore, who was the only one present who had ever heard the sound it made before. His target, the head of the raider guard on the left, disappeared in a red mist. The still-potent projectile ricocheted down the corridor. Davis-Moore worked the bolt on his rifle, chambering another round. The other raiders froze for a vital second as Kresge's three pulse volley caught the second of the armor-clad terrorists full in the face. The remaining unarmored man dropped his two cups of coffee, but only had time to turn halfway around before Kresge cut him down with a burst to the torso. In little more than a heartbeat, three more raiders were out of commission.
"Quickly," Kresge didn't shout but his voice carried to all the members of his small group. "Get up there and secure those weapons. And then take cover! This noise is bound to bring out more of them!" He turned to Davis-Moore.
"Good shooting, Clancy."
Davis-Moore was visibly shaking. He nervously brushed at his moustache with the back of his hand.
"I...I've never shot a human before," he said. "I'm not sure I care for it."
"It's best not to get used to it," replied Kresge.
"I'll try not to make a habit of it."
"Do you think you can manage for at least a little longer?"
"I guess I'll have to."
Six of Kresge's men ran up the stairs. Two of them grabbed the pulse rifles of the deceased raiders and the others dragged the armor-clad bodies down the stairs to the second deck. They stripped the dead raiders of their armor and began to get their own men into the heavy suits.
"Are you ready with that armor yet?" asked Kresge, his eyes glued to the stairwell above them.
"We'll need a few more minutes, Commander. This one suit is kind of a mess."
Kresge made a decision.
"Leave it for now. Hobbes, Barker, keep working on the clean armor. Join us when you get into it. The rest of you, come with me, we have to keep the pressure on!"
Kresge's group of eight Resistance fighters, armed with a mixed assortment of weapons including the three pulse rifles of the now deceased guards, several security stun rods, Kresge's pulse pistol, and Davis-Moore's high powered projectile rifle, stormed up the stairs and took defensive positions in the first level stairwell area. A few minutes later, they were joined by Thomas Barker in the newly captured armor; someone handed him a pulse rifle. Barker's timing was near perfect as a group of three raiders, the lead one in full armor, including a helmet, came down the corridor towards the stairwell. The two unprotected raiders did their best to stay behind their armored companion. One of the unarmored raiders spoke frantically into a small communications device.
"He's calling for help!" shouted Kresge. "Take that man out!"
A hail of pulse bolts came blasting down the corridor towards Kresge and his men. One of the Resistance fighters took a bolt to the midsection, spun around and lay still in the open. Kresge readied himself to return fire, but hesitated for a second, wondering how to effectively attack the fully-armored terrorist. Barker, clad in the newly captured armor, put on a superb display of courage as he boldly exposed himself and began firing bursts with the captured pulse rifle. The unarmored raider who had been sounding the warning went down. Barker took several bolts to the chest area of his armor without suffering any apparent damage, but he became disoriented and began flailing around with the pulse rifle, his fire no longer effective. The remaining raiders slowed their advance.
Suddenly the sharp bark of Davis-Moore's high powered projectile rifle crashed loudly down the corridor again. The armored raider went down hard as the high velocity projectile penetrated the brittle faceplate of the outdated helmet. The remaining terrorist turned around to run, but was cut down by at least five pulse bolts. The short and, in hindsight, somewhat lopsided battle was over in less than two minutes. The terrorists had badly underestimated the numbers and the capabilities of the Station defenders.
"Once again, good shooting, Clancy!" said Kresge. He shook his head. "I must admit that your weapon may not be the most up to date, but it is quite the most frightening thing that I've ever experienced!"
Davis-Moore smiled grimly at him.
"I thought that armor might have some weaknesses!"
For the moment, the fighting seemed to have died down. Several of Kresge's soldiers, with Barker in front, went down the corridor towards station two and the encountered no resistance. A few minutes later, they were joined by their own people coming from the other direction.
The teenaged, red-headed runner came up from the wired handset station in the lower part of the spoke on stairwell one.
"Good news, Commander," she said. "Haines and Jenkins have also taken over at Stairwell eight."
"Tell them to begin moving towards the Governor's suite in five minutes," said Kresge. "We need to consolidate before we make our next move."
The runner dashed off eagerly.
"Good work everyone!" said Kresge. "Now don't get complacent. Stay alert! Send someone to find me if you see anything you don't like. Be sure to keep your breathing equipment on and don't let the oxygen run low. Vasquez, round up your men and come with me. Be ready for anything, there's no telling what these bastards will do next!
***
New Ceylon Orbital Station, Governor's Suites, October 9, 2598.
Ezra Brimstone, his mind working more slowly than normal for some reason after Ezekiel Christchurch's warning, reflected on his next course of action for about ten seconds. So, someone on the station had decided to mount a counterattack. He'd half wondered when and if that was going to happen. He looked around the Governor's suite and shook his head. This area left him too confined for his comfort and, besides, it would be a prime target. Time to move. He began to bellow orders.
"Joshua, get your men in here. Get the governor and his family ready to move, I feel kind of boxed in here. We're going up to the spindle area. Come on, get a move on!"
A big man in battle armor came immediately into the room and began to prod at the Governor and his family, getting them to their feet. The family members moved sluggishly; all four of them had actually been sleeping.
Things are not going according to plan, thought Brimstone fuzzily. Better come up with some kind of response. He smiled grimly. Oh well, the Lord will provide.
Just before they left the governor's suites for the waiting maintenance cart, an extraordinarily loud bang reverberated down the corridor. A few minutes later, the communicator clipped to the belt of Brimstone's coverall began spewing out another message.
"Ezra, this is Luke. Stairwell one is under attack! Three men down! We're attempting to..." The communication was cut short, followed by another loud bang over the communicator, followed seconds later by the same sound booming loudly down the corridor. Brimstone whipped the maintenance cart around. They would go the other way, over to stairwell eight. Joshua and his two companions herded the Governor and his family onto the cart and the entire entourage headed down the corridor as fast as they could go.
As the fleeing raiders and their captives approached the eighth stairwell, Brimstone began to reconsider the entire plan. Maybe he'd better find a way to get off the orbital station while he still had his health. Good thing he still had some pretty important hostages.
That and he had another card he could play.
Chapter 50
UTFN Reclamation Center, somewhere in the wreckage, October 9, 2598.
Tamara Carlisle watched as the raider in his battle armor cautiously poked his head into the cargo bay of the old battlecruiser searching for her. His suit lights immediately found the vacant Rover II with the old crane boom still attached. Both Carlisle and the raider noticed some flickering and flashes of light that filtered into the cargo bay from the battle between the two ships out in the Scrapyard. Neither one knew whether their ship was winning or losing or if, in fact, the battle was already over. It remained pitch black inside the bay so Carlisle could easily see where the raider was by his suit lights. To her relief, the man's movements appeared clumsy and erratic; indicating that he probably did not have a lot of experience with the finicky, ancient battle armor. From her own experience with battle armor, this didn't surprise her. To become proficient required a lot of training and constant practice. The older suits were probably even more demanding.
"Surrender, unbeliever!" the raider taunted her over the suit radio. "We found your pitiful scrap ship; by now your friends are dead. You don't have to die. Surrender. How can you possibly go up against full battle armor? I don't know of any man that could win this fight."
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