by Tanya Huff
“We’re standing in what looks like a station corridor heading fore and aft and there’s one of those three-dimensional signs on the bulkhead.”
“One of what signs, Guimond?”
“The kind that tell you where you are. You know: you are here and this is how you get to docking bay seventeen.”
Torin sighed. “Guimond, are you trying to tell me there’s a map down there?”
“Uh, affirmative, Staff.”
A map.
“Is the air lock marked on it?”
“Seems to be.”
Things were looking up.
“Corporal Nivry.” Torin motioned toward the crate.
“They’re your squad.”
Nivry, Frii, Johnston…
“Staff, we have a problem.”
“What is it, Corporal?”
“Johnston’s scanner and the exoskelton didn’t come through.”
“Did he lose any body parts?”
“No, he’s fine.”
“Then it’s a problem we can live with.”
With Squad One on the lower level and their immediate area secured, Torin had the captain passed carefully down through the floor into Guimond’s waiting arms. She’d half hoped, half feared that the trip would bring him back to consciousness but Nivry reported no change.
Both scientists attempted to take readings as they went through the floor. Although they were unsuccessful, at least they got to keep their equipment.
As Guimond announced he was back in position, Torin turned to the remaining Katrien. “Your turn.”
“No.” Presit stared into the crate, black eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I said, I are not going through there.”
“You can’t stay here all alone,” Torin pointed out reasonably.
“I are not wanting to stay here all alone. You are getting me out a different way.”
Waving away a cloud of shed fur, Torin stepped closer. “There is no other way.”
“You are not knowing that!”
“I know it’s frightening.” She was using the voice she used on new recruits. The one that gave comfort and no options in equal measure. “But everyone else went through all right.”
“I are not caring about everyone else. I are not going through that.”
“Yes, you are.” Abandoning reason, Torin grabbed the Katrien under the arms and swung her up over the edge of the crate. “Guimond, incoming at speed.”
“Ready, Staff.”
The reporter nearly folded in half, trying to get out of Torin’s grip.
Torin let go.
“I are going to do you FOR THI…”
“Got her, Staff.”
Squad Two stood grouped in an admiring half circle as she turned.
“If this situation comes up again,” Orla murmured, her eyes so light they looked pale pink, “can I do that?”
“Sure.” Torin held up a bleeding wrist. “She scratches. Mr. Ryder…”
He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded and jumped.
“Corporal Harrop…” The edge of the crate had been melted smooth by the benny. Torin ran her thumb up and down one of the curves. “Send your squad through on my word. Leave the line tied where it is; I’d rather lose it than risk…” She didn’t want to think of what they might be risking; she certainly didn’t want to say the words out loud. Not right before…
She tightened her grip. Adjusted the straps of Guimond’s pack. Wondered why she hadn’t just dropped it down.
And jumped.
Her gaze went straight to Craig Ryder when she landed, one hand against the new deck, her knees absorbing the shock. He looked like she felt. She very carefully arranged her features so that she looked like nothing at all.
A few seconds later, Heer came through stripped of scanner and exoskeleton. Torin’s best guess was that the ship disliked being probed. No one else lost a benny, leaving her the only one without a weapon. At the moment, it was merely embarrassing. She could only hope it didn’t become something more.
Corporal Harrop was the last through the crate. The rope dropped with him.
In a silence so complete even the Katrien had stopped talking, Torin lifted a loop off Harrop’s shoulder and saluted the ceiling with it; “Thanks.” Then she tossed it to the corporal. “Get this packed up again, we may need it later.”
He glanced at the ceiling, shrugged, and began rolling the line as half a dozen conversations were resumed.
Torin hid a smile as she turned back toward the map; Recon didn’t much worry about a line of retreat at the best of times. Which these weren’t. Although, she admitted, tracing a mental line from “you are here” to “closest available air lock,” things are looking up.
* * *
“Buoy in place, Captain Carveg.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Returning to her position, she stared down at the screens. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
The first screen showed a distant image of a ship similar to the Berganitan in that there was nothing streamlined about it. Built for the frictionless vacuum of deep space, it was never intended to go into atmosphere.
“Distance from the incomer to Big Yellow?”
“One hundred and eighteen kilometers, Captain.”
“One hundred and eighteen?”
“Yes, ma’am. The incomer is not only exactly the same distance we are from the alien ship, it’s in the same position relative to the ship.”
The captain’s lip curled. “Interesting.”
“Yes, ma’am. Receiving second data stream.”
The incomer now filled the next screen.
Commander Versahche’s hair had flattened against his skull. “Ablin gon savit.”
“Indeed. And how fortunate we’re already at red alert.” Visible armaments equaled the Berganitan’s. No way of knowing what they had hidden. “I think we must assume this is one of the Others’ ships. Mister Potter, do the Others know we’re here?”
“No, ma’am.” The lieutenant answered without taking his eyes off his screen. “Big Yellow is directly between us and the enemy. They’ve launched no buoys and—should they have recently acquired tech capable of either penetrating or circumventing the alien ship—we haven’t been scanned. Nor are they running any of the standard defense sweeps.”
“Maybe their sudden deceleration has slapped the entire crew against the bulkheads hard enough to turn them to jelly.” She took a deep breath and exhaled forcefully. “Lucky day for us. Not so lucky for them.”
After a number of fatal attempts at diplomacy, the Rules of Engagement had been adjusted to allow for the destruction of any enemy vessel found in Confederation space—although enemy vessels weren’t usually found so much as interrupted in the midst of destroying or co-opting Confederation property. Neither were they easy to destroy.
Her forefinger touched the pad. “Missile Control Room. I want four of the PGM-XLs, the ship smasher missiles, programmed to round Big Yellow every ninety degrees, targeted on the Others’ ship.”
Targeting data on enemy vessels went automatically to the MCR the moment one was sighted, although missiles were most often used to soften up a Marine landing site.
“Four PGM-XLs to round Big Yellow every ninety degrees. Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Even if an ADS comes on,” she noted to no one in particular, “it won’t be able to stop four missiles impacting simultaneously.”
“The battle’ll be won before the Others know they’re in a fight,” Commander Versahche agreed.
“Best kind of battles to be in. When they send out a buoy, Mister Potter, I want to know about it before it clears the launch tube.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Without a buoy, would they be able to pick up the drone taking the modified comm unit to Big Yellow?”
“No, ma’am.”
“All right.” An open channel to communications led to the discovery that attaching the unit to the drone was not going well. “I don’t care if you have to stick i
t on with spit. Get it done and get it moving!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She drummed the fingers of her right hand against the edge of the console and spent a moment wrapped in the reassuring hum of her ship. Propulsion remained off-line, but thousands of other pieces of machinery were working perfectly. Then, because she had the time, a luxury not often given in battle, she pressed her palm down on the touch pad and let the rest of the Berganitan know what was going on. Rumors traveled through the closed environment of a ship faster than a head cold and usually caused more damage.
“Captain Carveg, this is MCR. Four PGM-XLs programmed and ready to launch.”
“Fast work, MCR.”
“Not exactly complicated trajectories, Captain, but thank you.”
“Weapons officer…”
The lieutenant commander at the station stiffened slightly.
“…launch missiles.”
“Aye, aye, Captain. Missiles away.”
* * *
“Buh-bye.” Lieutenant Commander Sibley waved glumly at the monitor mounted high on the wall of the “Dirty Shirt” as the ship plotted a graphic of the missile launch. “Now, doesn’t that just take all the fun out of war?”
A number of the other pilots in the flight officers’ wardroom nodded glumly. On red alert, two squadrons of Jades were held launch ready, leaving two squadrons moaning about drawing the short straw. With the captain using missiles rather than fighters, they were even farther out of rotation.
The missiles rounded Big Yellow. The wardroom held a collective breath waiting for them to turn toward the target.
They didn’t turn.
Instead, they continued on their original trajectory, bracketing the Others’ ship at a distance before heading off into deep space.
“I bet that’s made them a little curious about what’s on this side of the fence,” Sibley murmured, as the silence gave way to a cacophony of speculation and profanity about equally mixed.
“No bet.” Shylin raised her mug in a mocking salute. “Looks like war is fun again.”
* * *
“MCR, what the chreen happened?”
“As near as we can figure, Captain, Big Yellow wiped the program as the missiles passed.”
“Captain Carveg, the Others have launched a buoy!”
“Well, so much for the decelerate into jelly theory. Stealth or open, Mister Potter?”
“Open, ma’am.”
“No real reason for stealth, I suppose.” Her lip curled up off her teeth. “They know we’re here.”
In a nose-to-nose fight, the Berganitan could hold her own with anything but the largest of the Others’ ships, those that Command had dubbed Dreadnoughts. They weren’t facing a Dreadnought and with the alien vessel playing silly bugger between them, that was the first good news she’d had today.
Any battle would now depend mostly on small fighters. The question: would they be allowed to fight? With that question unanswered, she wasn’t going to risk the lives of pilots and crews.
“Mister Potter, can we use our buoy to fry their buoy?”
“We should be able to, ma’ am…”
“And from your choice of words, can I assume we can’t?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Drumming her fingers again, she watched the Others’ buoy arc up toward the top of the alien ship.
“I wonder what they’re up to.”
“The Others, Captain?”
“No, the Big Yellow aliens.”
His hair beginning to move again, the commander turned far enough to see her face. “Do they have to be up to anything?”
“I doubt it’s coincidence that they stopped that ship,” she nodded toward the screen, “exactly one hundred and eighteen kilometers out. They redirected our missiles and now they’re allowing the Others’ to take a look at us. My people have a saying, Commander, if it looks like a vertrek, and it sings like a vertrek, roast it with a nice red sauce.”
“Which means?”
“Which means, they’re up to something.”
* * *
“Captain Travik, sir, I need you to activate your implant. Now.”
He blinked up at her, facial ridges spread wide as he struggled to breathe. “You don’t tell me what to do…Staff Sergeant. I…am the Officer Commanding. Me. You aren’t even…” His ridges fluttered and his eyes closed.
Torin glanced down at the medical data on her slate. It didn’t look good.
“Staff, what do you think?”
Heer had attached the captain to the stretcher by tying his personal fifty feet of rope into a loose net. Rural Krai were still largely arboreal and Heer’s family were farmers.
“Nice to know all that specialist training didn’t wipe out your more useful skills.”
He beamed. “The last year I was home, my net took first prize at the Vertintry Fair.”
She managed an answering smile. He couldn’t know he’d evoked a cascade of memories, each more country than the last—pigs and poultry, plowing and preserves—thank God, the Corps had given her a way out.
It would take four Marines to carry the captain, one at each corner. The passageway they were currently in was just wide enough and, with any luck, would stay that way.
Crossing to the map, Torin turned to face the group, most of whom were finishing up the last dregs of their field rations. A quick glance at her sleeve told her it was now 20:14. It felt later. Barring any unforeseen circumstances, they’d be at the air lock in about three hours and back on the Berganitan an hour after that—an observation she had no intention of making aloud, nothing being more likely to bring on unforeseen circumstances.
“Listen up, people. I want Squad One on point.” Glancing over, she met Nivry’s eyes. “Corporal, place your people as you see fit. As neither Mr. Ryder nor myself have a weapon, we’ll be taking two of the places around the captain—if Mr. Ryder agrees.”
He flashed her a disarming smile—less effective in Torin’s opinion because he clearly knew it was a disarming smile. “Happy to help out the Corps.”
“Corporal Harrop, in an attempt to keep the captain relatively level, I’ll want Huilin and Orla on the other two spots. The rest of your squad will cover the rear. You’ve got ten minutes to finish eating and use the facilities.”
“Facilities?” Presit scoffed, from directly across the passage. “There are being no facilities.”
Torin held up an empty ration bag. “They reseal.”
“I are not using a food container to…to…”
“You won’t be eating out of it again, ma’am,” Guimond told her helpfully.
“Go in pairs,” Torin reminded them over the laughter, “and don’t go far. Three meters forward of the map and that’s it. And, ma’am…”
Even with her eyes squinted nearly shut, the reporter was unmistakably glaring.
“If you think you can hold it for another three hours, be my guest.”
* * *
Back against the bulkhead, Guimond peered around a ninety-degree turn, then waved Werst forward. “So you still think there’s no crew on this thing?”
“I never said there was no crew.” Finger through the trigger guard, Werst went around the corner and up against the opposite bulkhead.
“Yeah, you di…Okay, maybe you didn’t.” They started moving up the new length of passageway, boots making almost no sound on the black rubber flooring. “So where do you think the crew is?”
“What crew?”
“So then you don’t think there’s a crew?”
“I don’t care.”
“I just think that if there’s a crew, we should try communicating with them.”
“We are. They set puzzles. We solve them. That’s communicating.”
“But it’s not talking.”
“Maybe we should all sit down and have a beer together.”
“I think that’s a perfectly valid way of solving problems.”
“I think you’re an idiot.” He stopped and m
otioned Guimond forward.
The big Human nodded and slipped to the other side of what looked like a standard vertical opening. Then he leaned forward and looked.
“Oh, that’s smart,” Werst grunted. “Lead with your head.”
Flipping down his mike, Guimond ignored him.
“Corporal, we’ve reached the first vertical.”
“Roger that. Wait for backup before attempting a descent.”
* * *
So far, the floor plan matched the map in her head.
“Cred for your thoughts?”
So she told him.
“You memorized the map? I thought you had…what? uh…even numbers scan it into their slates?”
“That’s right.” Even numbers only. Should something go wrong, it would leave half the team’s slates unaffected. She hadn’t told the rest of the Marines to memorize the map. They were Recon. She expected it as a matter of course. “The Corps issues slates that are pretty much indestructible, but they can’t do anything to prevent, say, a strong electromagnetic pulse from wiping the memory. Fortunately, Mr. Ryder, Marines are trained to use technology, not to be dependent on it. The Corps has always believed that the most powerful weapon its people possesses is between their ears.”
“So you’re saying you could charge naked into battle and triumph?”
She could hear the grin in his voice and replied with flat sincerity. “That, Mr. Ryder, depends on what I’m fighting.”
From not five feet behind her, the soft-voiced di’Taykan conversation grew suddenly speculative. Torin ignored them with the ease of long practice.
“You really think we’re going to make it out of here in three hours?”
“If that map’s right, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t.”
“How about them?” He nodded toward the three civilians walking ahead of them. “The harveer’s quite a few years out of the egg, and I doubt either of our furry friends have ever walked seven kilometers in their lives.”
Even more than the Krai, the Katrien’s feet were designed for climbing. Although Torin doubted either the scientist or the reporter had ever climbed the equivalent of seven kilometers either.
“They’re not very big.” The scratches on her wrist throbbed. “We can carry them if we have to.”
“Still, maybe you should have the lads up front looking for a defensible place to catch some kip.”
