Wolf Star (Tour of the Merrimack #2)

by R. M. Meluch

  Kerry, Carly, and Twitch isolated three from the din.

  An authoritative, high tenor voice, dubiously female, from an officer type addressed as Domna, giving orders.

  A brassy male voice, grating. Made you hate him instantly, sight unseen. Had to be a tech in fire control, whose name was probably Bellus. He would be the one with his hand on the detonator.

  And a third someone who was gauging a safe distance of separation between Merrimack and Gladiator for detonation. Reporting status updates to Domna.

  It was going to be a hell of an explosion for distance to matter. The Romans had probably tied the device into the antimatter in Merrimack’s engines.

  Steele pointed in the direction of the brassy one, Bellus. “That’s the guy at the switch?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Kerry.

  “You sure?”

  Hated it when he asked her that. The man could make her doubt her own name when he asked her that way. Kerry was sure. She thought.

  Carly answered, “Yes, sir.”

  Steele ordered all of them, “Take that man out.”

  Trying to find him in this maze was the problem. Sounds banged round the metal bulks, and became more confusing the closer the Marines got to Bellus. They listened and advanced by stops and starts, dodging Romans and gorgons at every turn.

  Had to be getting close, but the brassy voice sounded from everywhere now. Right behind that partition. Or was that just an echo cracking back from the opposite direction?

  “Oh, skat!” Carly hissed.

  Bellus hadn’t made a sound. Carly was listening to something else.

  “What did you hear, soldier?”

  “Domna’s asking for confirmation that they’ve reached safe distance for detonation,” said Carly.

  All the Marines heard a word in the tech’s response to domna: Confirmo.

  “I think I understood that one.”

  “Shh!” Carly was trying to listen. “Domna’s ordering Bellus to arm the detonator.”

  They all held their breath, waiting to pounce in the direction of Bellus’ acknowledgment.

  As soon as the brassy one opened his mouth, the Marines made a stealthy sprint in the direction of his voice. They jumped through a fire door to another section of corridor.

  Now any of three closed hatches might shield Bellus. Or other Romans who would detain them. Or gorgons.

  The Marines waited, listening for the voice of brass to bray again.

  “Dammit, Bellus, say something!” Cowboy muttered through clenched teeth. “Can’t kill him if he don’t talk!”

  Carly turned to Steele. “Colonel, he ain’t gonna talk again till it’s too late! It’s too late!”

  Because Domna had begun a sequence anybody but Dak could figure out: “Novem, octo, septum, sex—”

  “Take a hatch!” Steele ordered out loud. “Cover all of them! Terminate any enemy on the other side. Go!”

  Twitch and Carly dashed for the farthest hatch.

  Reg and Cowboy took the middle.

  Kerry, Dak and Steele stormed the closest one.

  “—tria, duo, unum.”

  Steele tore open the near hatch to empty darkness. “Damn!” Skidding round.

  Domna’s order shouted from above: “Fiat!”

  Let it be done.

  Cowboy leaped through the middle hatch with Reg, her little hands cocked back in bear claws—

  As the hand of the Roman at the console inside the compartment depressed a switch, an indicator light turned green, and the Roman reported in a brassy crow: “Fit!”

  It is done.

  35

  REG’S SCREAM PIERCED the battleship.

  “Ho!” Cowboy reeled back, finger in his ear. “Mind the decibelage, girl baby.”

  The Roman, Bellus, had whirled from his console, brandishing a bayonet. Had he stabbed or poked, Cowboy might have made a grab for the weapon, but Bellus sliced the air between himself and the Marines. Reg and Cowboy stumbled backward out of the compartment. Cowboy slammed the hatch and leaned on it to keep Bellus in.

  Carly popped out of her hatchway, “What happened!”

  “What the hell do you think happened!” Cowboy yelled. “He pushed the button on Merrimack! He got a green!”

  Steele bellowed for status.

  “Fubared!” Cowboy hollered.

  Kerry’s mind went into dumb overload. It’s all moment to moment now. Held her side with one hand. Pulled Dak from his salt-pillar stance with the other to follow Colonel Steele, who signaled the squad to fall back.

  Retreated into Gladiator’s labyrinth of moody corridors. Following a man who didn’t know the way but was decisive about it.

  Stopped somewhere. Didn’t know where, didn’t care. Thirsty. Kerry was hellfire thirsty.

  There were a lot of bushes here. An atrium of sorts. The Marines breathing hard as if from a twenty-klick forced march.

  Steele gathered his Marines into a huddle.

  Kerry was shaking mad, breathing through her teeth, eyes wet.

  Carly a dry, hard mean.

  That big lummox Dak looked like a motherless child.

  Little Reg squeaking, trying not to sob out loud.

  Twitch’s long-lost tic had come back.

  Cowboy was taking off his shirt.

  Hazard—they’d lost Hazard Sewell way back at the detention hold. Hoped he hadn’t made it to Merrimack.

  Reg squeaked between sobs. “I don’t hear the captain anymore. He’d be talking to us if he were here.” She motioned a Morse tapping. “He must have—” Could not speak where Captain Farragut must have gone.

  The captain’s silence left a pall. Like God had died.

  “Later, Monroe,” said Steele. “Captain’s order still stands—stay alive.” Steele was pulling up foliage from the trees and bushes in the atrium, passing them out to his squad like ammo. Kerry wondered for a moment if their leader, their rock, their lifeline had snapped. She accepted a philodendron. Hoped Steele didn’t think you could eat these.

  “Listen up. Here’s your new objective,” said Steele. “We’re going to find this ship’s hangars, and hijack a transport—a fighter craft, a shuttle—anything to get us out of here. We are jumping ship.”

  A hearty “Yeah!” from Cowboy.

  “Gladiator won’t have deployed its small craft. They’re a liability in a battle with gorgons, so all boats should be inboard.”

  “Sir? If we do get out—won’t we be gorgon meat out there?”

  “As long as we don’t attack the gorgons or resonate, they might not even know we’re out there.”

  Might. Not an encouraging word.

  And the idea of not attacking the enemy was alien to the Marines. Stealing away while others fought for their lives felt like desertion. But this was not their ship. These were not their people. Romans could not run away from this fight.

  But we can.

  Getting to the hangars was going to be a problem. Since Merrimack detached from Gladiator, the remaining gorgons—and there were a lot of them—had scattered into an every-monster-for-itself feeding frenzy, eating the nearest living or once-living thing.

  Steele shook a palm frond at his Marines. They were all loaded with vegetation now. “Any gorgon you meet, throw it something to eat, and run.”

  Clad in nothing but sweatpants, Cowboy muttered, “Hope gorgons don’t pass on the salad and come for the meat.”

  But the tactic worked for a time. As long as the Marines had something to throw to the many many mouths, the gorgons did not feel the need to chase.

  The Marines moved at a dodging, furtive run. Felt like mice when the world has gone to cats.

  Avoided a contingent of Romans, ducked into a dark compartment. Held their breath.

  Became aware of the bigness of the space they were in. Sensed it in the eddies of the air, in the smallness of their breathing when they finally exhaled.

  Eyes adjusted from dim to only the most minimal emergency lighting. They were in a stowage are
a. Or a hangar. Cold. They could see their own breath rise in the eerie lamplight. Hard-edged shapes loomed, still as statues, in the mists of their frosty breath.

  The shapes.

  The hair pricked on Kerry’s scalp. An awe so deep you don’t want to move. “Those are Swifts!”

  And Reg did her one better: “Those are ours!”

  Kerry limped in to touch her beloved Six’s cold, cold hull. Swifts. Of course, the Marine wing’s fighter craft would be here. Gladiator would have harvested the useful parts before blowing up Merrimack. God bless their vulturous souls.

  Kerry’s eyes leaked joy.

  Leave it to Carly to whisper, “Now how do we get out? I don’t think Gladiator is going to lower her force field for us.”

  Reg hissed. She didn’t dare shout. Not now, so close to escape. She motioned big. “Colonel! Over here.”

  Reg turned an emergency lamp on a set of hangar doors. The lamp’s dim glow glinted on a crusting of ice at the seals. The doors themselves looked cold enough to stick your hand to. Reg whispered, afraid to say it, too good to be true: “The force field is down!”

  It was true. There were enough gorgons left on Gladiator to keep the ship’s computer controls suppressed. “We can get out!”

  Unfortunately, the system failure extended to the Swifts as well. Cowboy was already in his cockpit trying to start up his machine. The Swifts were nonfunctional except for their most basic systems with a mechanical on/off, and the magnetic antimatter containment systems. Otherwise, they were brain dead.

  “You’ll have to hand adjust all life support,” Steele told them. “Use your backup heaters, and the demand regulator for air.”

  There were no space suits. It was going to be uncomfortable. And no thrust.

  “So how do we get out?”

  A scratching at the inner hatch made them all hun ker down, go silent.

  Reg mouthed a warning: “Gorgons!”

  The scratching came again. With a snuffling.

  “Gorgons don’t sniff,” said Carly. “Gorgons don’t breathe!”

  Dak moved stealthily to the hatch, sword at the ready, to check out the snuffling visitor.

  He relaxed, lowered his sword and let in a dog—the Chief’s dog, Pooh—happy as hell to see Dak. Always a smart dog, the poodle didn’t bark, only padded from Marine to Marine in hand-licking, tail-lashing, frightened-- eyed joy.

  Kerry expected a reaming from the colonel for wasting time with the mutt, but Steele only whispered loud, “Shut that hatch! Get the deck locks off your fighters! Push the Swifts up against these doors!” Jerked his head toward the ice-encrusted outer doors.

  They had to breathe on the chocks to unfreeze them and get the Swifts’ gear free. Kerry knew where this was going. Colonel means to open the doors and let the rush of air sweep us out to space.

  She put a shoulder to her Swift. It wouldn’t move. Pain stabbed her separated ribs, and folded her to a crouch. The Old Man stalked over to shove her crate flush up against the icy doors for her.

  Snarled at everyone else to make ’em snug, so the Swifts won’t crash on their way out.

  Steele always had a sandy voice anyway, it was all gravel now. A comforting, domineering you-got-a-job-to-do-and-here’s-how-you’re-going-to-do-it rasp. “At some distance from the ship, you should regain systems controls. Do NOT resonate. In fact, pull your chambers out right now.”

  “Uh, Colonel?” Cowboy raised his hand, like preparing to ask a question of an idiot. “How are we supposed to open the hangar doors?”

  Idiot question. Even Kerry knew the answer to that one. There were seven Marines here, six Swifts pushed up against the doors.

  Steele ordered Alpha Flight into their cockpits.

  Dak stripped off his T-shirt. Offered it to Steele. “Gonna get cold in here, sir.”

  Steele gave a taut nod. Put the shirt on over his tank top.

  Carly and Reg took off their tops, offered them, too. The big man’s blond brows screwed up at them, but before he could say something about the size, Carly said, “Mittens. You got to get the doors open wide enough for us to be sucked out before you freeze solid. You ain’t dying for nothin’, sir.”

  He accepted their salutes. Wrapped his hands in the women’s shirts as Carly and Reg scampered, freezing, to their Swifts.

  Dak, looking round in near panic, whispered, “Who’s got the dog!”

  Twitch’s voice, muffled, from his cockpit: “Yo!”

  Kerry was leaning against her Swift, one hand on the handhold, crying silently because she couldn’t even lift herself into her cockpit. Steele stomped over, growling. Hauled her up and deposited her ungently into her fighter. Then strapped her in like a child into a safety seat. Fished out her oxygen mask and her regulator for her. Tugged her straps tight. Treated her like a brat child he had lost patience with.

  Old Man really hates me, thought Kerry, taking it.

  Hates me, and he’s going to die for me.

  “Clear your arms, Marine.” Steele held the canopy over her.

  “No, no. Wait, wait, wait.”

  Grimacing, like there was a nail in her side, Kerry pulled the red crowbar from her Swift’s emergency hatch. Handed it up to Steele. “After you get out of this hangar, you’ll need it against the gorgons.”

  He frowned at the red crowbar in his hand, odd, shifting expressions on his face. And Kerry reached up, grabbed his head, kissed him on the mouth. Felt a sudden warmth down to her groin. Let go.

  “In case I never see you again,” she said to his ice-blue eyes. “And if you do see me again, you can court-martial me. Give you something to live for.”

  “Get your arms in the cockpit, Marine.”

  “Yes, sir. Semper fi.”

  The canopy closed over her, sealed.

  She watched the colonel, a stocky figure, walking away in the dark. Never looked so small. Never looked so big.

  Steele stowed the crowbar so it would not fly away, tethered himself tight to a stanchion, and took the red safeties off the windlass.

  Kerry gave him a thumbs-up through her icing canopy.

  Last saw him muscling the crank round for dear life.

  An icy fog rose, debris swirled up, and her crate began to slide.

  Ice cracked like thunder. The doors parted. Kerry’s Swift tilted. Her hands gave a reflexive clutch as if she could catch herself. Her canopy rapped against the doors, made her yelp. The fighter lifted, scraping.

  The outrush was a whirlwind now. Kerry’s Swift banged back down, jarred her ribs so hard she couldn’t breathe, and the whole crate canted over screw-wise. The canopy struck again, and she rolled.

  Up. Sucked against the doors, straining to get through, a hailstorm of things clattering against her fuselage. The doors were parting slowly, slower.

  Oh God, Colonel, keep cranking.

  A stomach-heaving pitch and roll. Then an all hell cracking and banging. A weightless leap—

  Through! And slammed back round with a dizzy swing and an awful crack. Her gear was hung on the door, her Swift flapping in the hurricane wind.

  Kerry closed her eyes, teeth chattering. Helpless, cold, and going to die.

  Screeching metallic tearing hammered at her ears. Felt it in her chest.

  Then the end of sounds. Floating free. The Swift tumbled into the dark. Kerry’s damp hair floated off her scalp.

  Opened her eyes.

  The only lights were those on her gunsights, implanted on either temple. Those lights were powered by her brain, so she was surprised they were still working.

  She shivered, cold, the heater throwing only enough to bake her feet. Her muscles quivered in dehydration.

  She groped with fluttering hands for the drinking tube. If there wasn’t water in here, she was going to flat line.

  She sucked on the tube, and, hallelujah, there was the most wonderful stale flat water in the universe filling her mouth.

  She relaxed. Might live.

  Tried to see out through the cano
py. Then focused on the canopy itself.

  A crack.

  Fear coiled round her gut. That jagged white thread looked like a crack in her canopy.

  She tried to lean forward for a better look, but Steele had her strapped in immobile. She loosened the straps, pushed herself forward in her seat.

  It was a crack.

  Without a force field, only one centimeter of cracked polymer stood between her and forever, hundreds of degrees difference on either side of that thin barrier.

  Panic tugged, screaming, at the edges of her consciousness—the depth of space on the other side of that cracked shield. The enormity. The infinity. She was alone with her own breathing in her mask, her primitive heater at her feet.

  The crack snaked longer and she flinched back. Scarcely felt the pain jerk her ribs.

  She watched the crack, as if staring at it would keep it still. Breathing too hard, too deep. Tried to slow it down. Her breath. The crack.

  It grew again, lancing toward the seal.

  No. God, make it stop.

  A loud beep. Kerry shrieked.

  Console lights powered up. The force field came up round the Swift. Pressure and warmth filled the cockpit. The crack in the canopy spread seal to seal and Kerry told it to go to uffing hell.

  Her com link gave a gentle buzz of life. She pulled off her regulator and yelled into her com. “This is Alpha Six! Can anyone hear me!”

  “Alpha Six! Alpha Three! I am the happiest hag west of Vega!”

  “Reg!”

  “Chica linda! Donde estas?”

  “Carly! Estoy acqui!”

  “Where the hell is acqui?”

  “Alpha cinco, acqui!”

  “Twitch! Oh my God, Twitch.” Kerry was laughing now.

  Heard a woofing on the com that had to be the dog, Pooh.

  “Yeeeeeeeee HA!”

  “Cowboy!”

  Reg reported that her sensors had picked up a heat trail. Big one. “Gotta be Gladiator. Do we follow it?”

  “Follow Gladiator?” Cowboy squawked. “We just got out of that hole.”

  “Don’t know about you, but I forgot to pack a lunch,” Reg shot back.

  “Well there won’t be any food on Gladiator if the gorgons win,” said Cowboy.

  “If the gorgons win, the rest of the Legion is sure to send a robot back to collect the teeth. It can collect us, too. I’d rather be a prisoner than starve out here.”