"Thanks, Tiger," Dekker replied. "Stand by for Code-Key." The shuttles, their speeds now reduced to match the carrier's, angled in towards the landing deck. The seconds stretched as Dekker tried to disable the phase shields in order to board. He tried sequence after sequence. 'Got it!"
Dekker's shuttle, trailed by its fellows, dove for the landing deck and pierced the force curtain that held in the atmosphere. Blair saw the three ships through the curtain, sliding to a halt in the midst of showers of sparks. Ramps fell and the Marines ripped into the defenders. Refraction from the energy weapons against the force curtain blocked any further sight.
"Dancer to Blair," Dekker shouted. Blair could barely hear him over the recorded sound of blaring bugles and hammering weapons. "We're in!"
He monitored the Marine's helmet radios, listening in as they bounded into a firestorm. Several Marines went down at once, ambushed by a surprisingly spirited defense. He heard Dekker and his subordinate leaders calling up fire, concentrating ordnance against strongpoints in the bay, and finally, desperately, opening up with the shuttles' defensive turrets. The roar of the firefight grew even more intense, as the Marines' crew served weapons and heavier ordnance joined the laser rifles.
The fire eventually slackened, then trailed off. "Dekker to Blair," he said, sounding exhausted. "We've got the deck mostly secured." Blair wanted to ask what "mostly" meant to a combat Marine, but Dekker didn't give him a chance. "You can come in."
Blair lined his ship up on the final approach to the deck, hit the threshold, then fired his maneuvering thrusters to stop the Thunderbolt. The larger thrusters accomplished the job more quickly than he had expected, but the rattling of their gimbals told him they were on their last legs. He'd make it home, as Pliers had predicted, but not much further.
He popped the canopy as soon as the T-bolt came to a halt, then immediately ducked beneath the sill. Laser rifle fire spattered off the T-bolt's frontal armor and glanced off the heavy canopy. A fle'chette gun roared from underneath one shuttle, pouring fire into and around a flaming pile of canisters where several defenders hid. The heavy penetrators shredded the plastic and metal containers like cardboard, spreading their volatile cargoes and providing fresh fuel for the nre. Greasy black smoke roiled though the bay. Two black-clad crewmen armed with laser rifles were driven into the open by the heat and smoke. The Marines' flechette gun caught them and literally tore them apart.
Blair looked around, frantically seeking cover. He saw Dekker, a laser rifle in one hand, waving to him. He sprinted towards the Marine commander. A line of laser hits pitted the floor around his legs. He flopped to the ground behind Dekker as the Marine hosed off a dozen quick shots.
"I thought you said the bay was secured!" Blair yelled as he fumbled for his sidearm.
Dekker hooked a foot around a laser rifle clutched in a dead Marines hands. He tugged it towards Blair, who looked in horror at the blood that soaked the weapon. "I said 'mostly' " he replied with a grin. "Watch out for the ones in black suits."
A ricocheting round ripped his cheek, drawing a long jagged cut in the flesh. Dekker absently dabbed the blood with his fingers, then fired off another salvo at the entrenched enemy. "I got my demo teams in. They're working on cutting off the blacksuits before they can blow the ship. Some of the Princeton's crew're helping them."
"What?" Blair said, uncertain whether to ask first about the self-destruct or the crew's help.
Dekker pointed with his chin. Blair looked over to where most of the bay's crew lay face down and with their hands over their heads. Their nominal guard, his back to his charges, crouched behind a partially slagged barrel and cranked off shots at the concealed enemy. Two of the Princeton's crew, armed with lasers taken from fallen Marines, knelt shoulder to shoulder with him and fired on the blacksuits.
Another barrage from the shuttle's turret fragged the last of the blacksuits' shelter. They burst into the open, firing wildly as they scrambled for cover. Two were cut down in midstride by Marines' fire. One, his arm blown off, lay on his side, still firing at Dekkers troops. He caught one of the Princeton men as he leaned over nis barricade to fire. Blair flinched away as blood and brains exploded out of the back of the man's scalp. The wounded defender was hit again, his body nearly shredded by the fle"chette machine gun. The rest of the blacksuits made it to cover, firing into the bay from the shelter of the connecting passage.
Blair raised his rifle. Dekker placed his hand over Blair's weapon, pushing it down. Blair looked at him. Dekker pointed.
Three Marines, armed with machine pistols and knives, crept along the dead ground on either side of the open hatch. The defenders pumped burst after burst into the bay, growing bolder as the Marines' fire slacked off. The assault party crouched behind the hatch. Blair saw a flurry of movement.
A flash-bang grenade went off in the middle of the defenders. The Marines, machine pistols chattering, exploded around the door and into the confined space. Miraculously, most of the black-suited crewmen were still on their feet, in spite of the powerful stunning charge.
One Marine rammed his pistol into a blacksuit's gut and fired, spraying rounds and a sheet of blood onto the bulkhead. A second defender, blood pouring from his nose and ears, grabbed a Marine, turned him, and snapped his neck. The blacksuit fell a moment later as the third snap-kicked him in the head, pivoted, and rammed her trench knife into his gut. Dying, he still reached out for her. She casually rammed the heel of her hand into his neck.
The Marine stepped among the fallen blacksuits. Her knife flicked out twice. Blair looked at Dekker, horrified "Stop her! She's killing the wounded!"
Dekker nodded. "The bastards don't give up. We lost a corpsman to one. She was trying to stabilize one of those blacksuits who'd lost a leg. He armed a grenade and took them both out. Now, I can't take any chances with our people."
Dekker moved to secure the bay, sending one squad to assist the demolition team while the other took up defensive positions around the exits. Dekker limped to
the back of one shuttle, followed by Blair. The Marine leaned against the ramp and opened a medkit. Blair saw that he had been wounded at least two other times, in addition to the gash on his cheek. Blood soaked the right shoulder of his fatigues and he held his arm stiffly.
"Damn," Dekker said as he flexed his fingers. "I never thought they'd put up that fanatical a defense. We gave them every chance to surrender. They wouldn't take it— just kept fighting." He shook his head. "They fought like freakin' Marines, for crissakes. These were supposed to be support crews!" He glanced down at the nearest of the fallen blacksuits, an expression akin to respect on his face. "I sure as hell don't want to meet any of their grunts." He looked up at Blair. "Who the hell were those guys, anyway?"
"I don't know," Blair replied, then saw the first of the Princeton's crew emerge from cover looking dazed and shocked. "But I know who does." Dekker turned to follow his gaze, and nodded. "Good idea," he said.
The carriers crewpeople filtered towards the parked shuttles. A female warrant officer looked vaguely familiar to him. She smiled in relief as he approached. "Damn, Colonel Blair, are you a sight for sore eyes."
"Who the hell are those guys?" he asked, pointing with his thumb to the small pile of dead blacksuits the Marines were collecting. He had to look away as he saw one sergeant moving among them, rifling their pockets and collecting identification and personal effects. He knew body triage was an important part of intelligence gathering, but seeing it made him queasy. Its effect on the crewwoman wasn't much different.
She looked green as she met his eye. "They're a bunch of hot-shot pilots and ground crew that came aboard while we were doing shakedowns. Ran a bunch of missions off the starboard deck while we were officially still on training cycles." She looked at the dead again. "I can't say I'm sorry to see them gone."
"How's that?" Blair asked.
"They mostly pushed us aside when they came aboard— greenies, twenty-year vets, we didn't matter to them. It got worse
after they took over. They treated us like we were scum."
Blair heard a flurry of shots from deep within the ship, followed by a series of muffled explosions. He looked worriedly at Dekker, who grinned and raised one thumb.
The warrant officer met his eye. "A lot of us think we might stand a better chance with you. That's why Thomsen and Hing took your Marines down the shortcut to the magazine. The blacksuits had self-destruct charges rigged. It was part of the threat they used to keep us in line." She looked bitter. "It's too bad you couldn't have been here yesterday."
"Why?" he asked.
"Their commander was here, inspecting the ship. They don't seem to have ranks, but I knew this guy was the boss from the way the others acted. They treated him with respect."
"Do you remember anything about him?" Blair asked.
"Only his eyes," she replied. "They were the coldest, most inhuman eyes I've ever seen."
"Seether." Blair said.
She nodded. "Yeah, that's what they called him."
"Thanks," Blair said. "If you or the crew wants to lash up with us, we can use you. It's voluntary. Otherwise, we'll figure out a way to get you all back to Earth when this is over."
She smiled. "I can only speak for myself, sir, but if it's all the same to you, I'd like to join."
Blair returned her smile. "We got a tough row to hoe, Ms.—?"
"Ellison," she replied, "Caroline Ellison. I knew Rachel Corialis from tech school. She used to talk about you."
Blair expected to feel the familiar jolt of hurt. He was surprised when it didn't happen. "Okay, get everyone together who wants to enlist, then consider them enlisted. There's going to be a power-up team coming aboard to bring this baby out. Your people can turn to and help them."
He saw the first of the Hopkins' shuttles swarming in even as he turned away from the warrant officer. Crews loaded down with sidearms and equipment fanned out from the shuttle and sprinted for their duty stations.
A full commander, with a Technical Services tab on his flight suit, stepped up and saluted Blair. "You did it, sir. Looks like we've got us another carrier."
A Marine ran up to him. "Colonel, come quick! You gotta see this!"
He followed the Marine forward and down into the maintenance bay. The automatic lights came up to reveal rows of black ships, all nested in their launch cradles. They were the same style he fought against over Melek's convoy, and the same as the ones in the Kilrathi tapes. The fighters were sleek and otherworldly, with spare lines and a honed, finished appearance. They made even the Hellcats look chunky and rough-hewn by comparison.
The first of the Intrepid's boarding contingent wandered in, each stopping to stare.
He turned and saw Pliers, a tool kit slung over his shoulder, standing in the door. "They're beautiful," the old man whispered, "absolutely beautiful." He made as if to spit tobacco juice on the deck, then stopped himself. He glanced around and picked up a discarded plastic can. He spat into that, then walked over to the nearest bird and ran his fingers over the spongy armor. "Hello, beauty," he murmured.
Blair watched in amusement as the crew chief dropped his shoulder bag, dug out a spanner, and went to work on an access plate. "Let's see what secrets you're hiding, little lady," he crooned. Blair turned away as the Intrepid's techs, looking like kids at Christmas, swarmed over their new toys. He left them alone to poke and prod the fighters. The black fighter impressed him as much as it did them, but he'd never managed to get excited over cunningly designed wire harnesses.
He emerged from the launch bay in time to see Sosa crossing the recovery area for the personnel lift. She pulled a handcart behind her that had been piled high with decrypting equipment.
He felt the deck heel slightly, then realized he felt an increased vibration in the floor.
The loudspeaker crackled. "Colonel Blair to Auxiliary Control." He walked quickly back to the landing deck and saw a few remaining Marines lounging by their shuttles. Dekker sat against a landing strut, armed with a shaving mirror and a can of wound sealer. He was busy spraying the pinkish artificial skin over the cut in his face, while a corpsman stood by with an amused expression. Dekker looked tired and very, very happy.
He looked up as Blair approached.
"How'd we do?" Blair asked.
Dekker raised a thumb. "The Tango snagged about a dozen ships and pilots. The other group took some heavy hits. They got the weapons factory, though."
Blair nodded soberly, pleased at the success while being saddened by the losses. "And Wilford's raid?"
Dekker tapped his ear. "Reports are sketchy. The Intrepid took some hits. A couple of the frigates bought it, too, when those destroyers finally got their act together." He paused. "The word in the trenches, though, is that the mission was a complete success. It looks like we got away clean."
Blair smiled tiredly. "Good," he answered. He turned to go to Auxiliary Control, crossing the deck and taking the personnel lift up one deck. The lift was a luxury after having to climb everywhere on the Intrepid.
Commander Toliver, the recovery teams leader, met him outside the control room as he stepped off the lift.
"Yes," Blair said, "what can I do for you?"
Toliver smiled. "Well, sir, you are the nominal captain of this ship, or at least the ranking officer. I thought it best that I give you my report."
Blair nodded. "Go ahead."
Toliver looked forward, then back along the corridor.
"We've got the engines and navigation systems on-line and we're moving at about half speed. We don't dare do more, considering how thin we are. We are getting a lot of help from the Princetons crew. About forty crossed over." He paused. "There are rumors that some of those special troops are holed up somewhere aft. Dekker says he'll put search teams out." He looked at Blair. "Frankly, it's a damned big ship for his people to search. So stay forward and don't lose your sidearm."
"Got it," Blair said. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Yes, sir," Toliver replied. "Only a few of us have service time on a Concordia. Studying a map doesn't help much when you're stuck in a wiring trunk."
Blair laughed. "Okay, I'll direct traffic." Unlike on the Intrepid, there was plenty here for him to do. The Princeton, designed to be operated by several hundred, seemed infested by gremlins when staffed by only ninety. Blair quickly found himself dispatching increasingly harried work crews to crisis spot after crisis spot. He hadn't realized how much time had passed until a young woman in civilian coveralls tapped him on the shoulder. "Sir," she said, "I'm your relief."
He was at first surprised at how much time had passed. The ache in his neck from peering over schematics told him that while he might not have noticed, his body had. "Thank you, miss."
He stood, waved a cheery goodnight to the crew in Auxiliary Control and went to his quarters. He was fatigued enough to simply let his feet carry him where they would. It wasn't until he keyed the doors to the wing commander's quarters that he remembered he was on the Princeton, not the Lexington. Still, he was there and the quarters had a bed. He entered.
He saw the connecting door to the washroom was open and heard the sound of the shower running. He remembered Toliver's warning about possible surviving blacksuits. He drew his sidearm, crept to the door, and burst in.
Sosa, wearing only a towel, was bent forward, rubbing another towel through her luxuriant black hair. She squeaked as he crashed through the door and she went for her own sidearm. She pointed it at him, then realized who he was and grabbed for her forgotten towel. They stood a few meters apart, laughing nervously as the tension ebbed away.
"What are you doing in here?" he asked.
"I was searching the senior officers' quarters," she replied, "looking for a databank, a notebook, something I could use as a starting point for the decryption process. I came in here and saw the shower. I couldn't resist." She smiled at him. He noticed, not for the first time, how it transformed her features. "You have no idea what a luxury it is to take a private, hot
shower. Well, sort of private."
He looked away, embarrassed.
"Umm, could you excuse me, please?" she asked. Blair gave the air near her a slight bow, then backed out of the room.
He turned his attention to the quarters. They were stark, even compared to his on the Lexington. They contained only a rack, neatly made with precise hospital corners and a folded blanket, a single lamp, a desk with a monitor, a bureau, and a couch. There were no individual mementos, no awards, no pictures on the wall. There was absolutely nothing to distinguish the occupant.
He crossed to the closet and opened it. Inside were a dozen black flight suits, each precisely hung. He pulled one out. The name "DuMont" had been stencilled in red on each. He saw no rank, no badges, and no awards.
"It's like the Spartans," Sosa said from behind him.
He turned. She had scrambled back into her uniform. "Oh?"
"Sparta was the city-state that finally defeated Athens in the Peloponnesian Wars," she said. "Their culture was based on the warrior, and their whole society was dedicated to the enhancement of discipline and military virtue."
"I'm not sure I'm following you."
She rubbed her still-damp hair vigorously. "The core of Spartan society was the mess, as in mess hall, or a group of young men who lived communally. Each Spartan was expected to contribute heavily to his mess. Individuality was suppressed in favor of the group. Spartans might marry, might even have children, but the mess—his comrades, and his duty to the state—came first."
"Is that what you see happening here?" Blair said.
It was her turn to nod. "Yes. The irony is that while the Spartans won the war with the Athenians, they couldn't win the peace. Their power was shattered within a generation by a new coalition that rose up against them."
She laughed.
"What's funny?" he asked.
"Me," she replied, her eyes dancing with mirth. "I had every schoolgirl's fantasy, to be alone, almost naked, with the most famous man in the Confederation, and here I am, talking about dead cultures."
The Price of Freedom Page 28
