Sloan shrugged. “They've chased and boarded us a few times, wiped us out.” He pointed at the screens. “But we've never been invited on one of their ships.”
“Their invitation might not be the same as ours,” Jason's voice said. “In my opinion, it's an offer to die brutally in hand-to-hand combat on board their ship. That may be a change to you, but it's not one I appreciate.”
Stella rubbed the back of her neck. “You would advise we continue as before, and with over sixty percent of our shields down? Jason, think. You're better than whoever is at their helm, but do you really think you can win?”
Jason sighed, his exhalation an unfelt wind. “I can give them a damned tough fight.” Then: “No. Damn it, I can't.”
Stella nodded, and then looked at those on the bridge. After a moment, she patted Lee's slender shoulder and smiled at her nav and com officer. “What have we got to lose? Sloan, connect me to the ship's crew. I believe we're going to accept.”
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* * *
CHAPTER FIVE
As Stella expected, her announcement to the Spaceranger's crew was received with fear and dismay. But almost immediately she was heartened by another reaction, a frenetic eagerness to fight motivated by desperation and relief. After the tension of the Scaley assault, taking things into their own hands rather than just sitting by was cathartic. At the very least, it burned away the pent-up anxiety that threatened to destroy them.
Sipping coffee in an effort to give her decision some element of sanity, Stella watched the Spaceranger's docking bay on one of the screens. It was a hubbub of activity, of crew suiting up, securing helmets, checking sidearms. She saw a dek-path of soldiers help each other with their distinctive blue suits. Biochemically conditioned to be empaths and reared together to think almost as one, they consisted half of men, half of women. All were heavily decorated and bore insignia designating the Emperor's Arm, the highest rank of combat-tested soldiers. Stella gazed at a patch showing Kolanera, the boy emperor-to-be, against the background of a burning lightning bolt.
Dear God, she thought, what have I done?
There were perhaps eighty crew in the docking area, with nearly three times that many suiting up in adjacent corridors. She had ordered it that way, throwing everyone with combat experience into the assault. If they were lost, the Spaceranger's personnel would be reduced to a skeleton crew, but then, of course, it wouldn't matter.
On a nearby screen, the enemy's boarding tube loomed. To Stella, it resembled a dark mouth. Next to her, George scowled.
“'Will you walk into my parlor?’ said the spider to the fly,'” he murmured.
The reference meant nothing to her, but beside her, Lee Song shuddered as if he understood. She looked at him in sympathy. Barely twenty-one, the slender battle tech had never experienced combat before. He looked at her in return and managed a wan smile. “Don't worry about me, ser.”
“I won't, Lee. I know you'll be fine.”
Elsewhere, Sloan and Myles leaned intently over the command console, receiving data from other sectors of the ship as well as the docking bay, informing Stella periodically of the status of different departments. Sickbay was at code red, fully ready, and security was prepared to seal off decks One through Twenty-Three in case of invasion. It was all very efficient and strictly SOP, but one glance at the suppressed terror in Lee's eyes confirmed the hopelessness of it all. These were not rebels or pirates they were about to encounter, but the Scaleys, against whom no humans had ever prevailed.
I've got to believe. And we have to believe in ourselves.
And now, barely five minutes after she had given her order, the docking bay hatch lowered to meet the aliens’ boarding tube and form a bridge between the ships. Would the Scaleys surprise them and charge through themselves, taking the battle to them?
No. Somehow she felt that it was an invitation. An invitation to the oldest dance of all, the dance of death.
The hatch was down now, and the Scaleys’ boarding tube waited, a dark tunnel leading to-what?
She squared her shoulders, knowing they had no choice. “Patch me through,” she said.
Lee clicked a switch. She stepped forward and raised her voice. “This is your commander. In the name of the Emperor, I order you to attack.”
In the docking bay, the dek-path marched forward, followed by perhaps thirty other combat-tested troops. They all wore infra-red displays inside their helmets which reported back to Lee's battle monitors. From where Stella stood, she and her bridge crew could see and hear everything this vanguard attack force did, as well as monitor their vital signs. If need be, Lee could even override the suits’ automatic servos and take control.
But the system had its limitations. One was that most soldiers were hidden from view once they disappeared down the boarding tube-that is, unless they were caught in the advance guard's displays.
“Wish our battle station could process them all,” Stella said.
“Wouldn't help, ser,” Lee said. “Even current tech can't make the fast decisions needed for one soldier, let alone three hundred. There's still no substitute for an alert, trained human brain on the scene.” He sighed. “Let's just hope their displays continue to work. We don't know what that ship is made of.”
Suddenly those at the front of the attack force began to sing.
Stella didn't recognize it at first, but as the chorus spread back over the rest of the crew in the docking bay, the words became clear. Listening to them, she felt her eyes moisten.
Raise every voice and heart
That we true soldiers play our part....
The leaders entered the tube now, and their voices echoed like thunder as they advanced. Watching the monitors, she saw soldier after soldier wade forward into darkness, enclosed by curving walls on both sides.
Our Emperor's will shall be our way,
To serve and die-glorious pay!
Plasma jets and laser pistols appeared in their soldiers’ arms as the tube lightened. It was getting brighter now. Soon...
Though comrades perish at our side,
We shall fight on bravely-not abide...
Closer and closer, the light of the alien ship loomed. And still they sang, sang even as they entered the vessel and started down a stark white corridor, the first view ever of what was inside a Scaley ship.
The foe who scorns His sacred crown.
We strike him boldly-cast him...
And suddenly the enemy was there, emerging from side corridors ten meters ahead. They waited, larger and taller than the humans, suited and helmeted and gripping firearms which weren't lasers or plasma jets or even driven-mass-projectile weapons but something else, something which tore open duroplast armor like tin and secreted a gas which brought almost instant death. Stella remembered the twisted, distorted faces of corpses that had fallen before it, bulging eyes that had almost burst from their sockets.
There was no singing now, only wary silence as her crew studied the Scaleys. Beside her, George's breath rasped. He clenched his hands.
As if on cue, they sprang at each other, Human against Scaley, Scaley against Human. Scanning the monitors, Stella saw a member of the dek-path fire at a Scaley, duck a shrill burst of fire in return, and close to grapple hand-to-hand. The Scaley picked him up like a child and smashed him against the wall. Smashed again and again.
Stella glanced at another display, and another. They all showed overlapping views of action and transmitted the strident sounds and cries of battle, and as she watched, she admired Lee's ability to coordinate all the channels and respond to individual situations. “Number Three, right behind you!” Lee barked, and a soldier spun, drilling a Scaley who had been about to fire. Nudging George, Stella backed away from the monitors, for there was only room for Lee at the controls.
“Number seven,” he snapped, “left!", and the soldier whirled, spraying the enemy and receiving a blast in return almost at pointblank range.
On the displays, f
ighting was at such close quarters, firearms were rarely used. But Stella saw a Scaley's beam sear a soldier's breastplate and the soldier's eyes roll up in agony as gas flooded his helmet. She looked at a different screen.
One Scaley hurled a soldier against a wall, and then did the same with another. A nimble human climbed astride his back and was ripped off, his neck broken by a powerful twist of the alien's hands. For a moment, Stella saw the Scaley's delicate, beautiful face through its faceplate. It was as cold and dispassionate as a distant moon.
Two soldiers held a Scaley down while a third burned its helmet to pieces. Most of the time, though, the enemy destroyed her crew. Human faces screamed behind their faceplates, and their suits were savagely punctured. Weapons dropped from their hands or speared at the ceiling as they collapsed, clutching triggers in death-grips.
Within minutes, most of the Spaceranger's attack forces were down. Some who fought on were surrounded and quickly dispatched. From one vid display lying against the floor, Stella caught glimpses of survivors fleeing deeper into the ship. Some looked back in terror as the aliens pursued them.
It was carnage, slaughter, massacre. And one glance at her chronex confirmed it had all occurred in less than five minutes.
Turning, Stella went to the wall next to the refreshment panel and keyed open her locker. Ignoring the gaudy, tricorn Commander's hat which hung on a hook, she removed the combat suit below it and began to strip.
“What are you doing?” George said.
She lay down, slid inside, and rose. The thick duroplast armor contributed most of the suit's weight, and with the helmet added, many soldiers found themselves burdened and slow even with practice. Stella didn't. She activated her servos, zipped herself in and sealed. Then she took her helmet from the locker's shelf.
“Stella, don't!” Jason's voice echoed urgently throughout the bridge. “It's stupid, you can't go. You'll be killed!”
We'll all be killed if I don't even try, she thought. And you'll be killed too, Jason, with your beautiful body and generous heart. If I don't do something, I will never share your passion for life and explore your vital, far-reaching spirit. Don't you see? For your sake, and mine, and for all the others, I at least have to try to fight back.
She tore her eyes from her Commander's hat, symbol of power and responsibility, and shut the locker. No time for such thoughts. Lifting her head sharply, she summoned George. “Come here, George. I need you to attach my comm leads.”
George lumbered forward. “He's right, this is crazy. You will get yourself killed! What do you hope to achieve?”
She waved her hand at the displays. “We're finished, can't you see that? I have to do something. I've got to try.”
“Try? What for?” George's bearded face scrunched up as if he were about to cry. “Stella, you can't go. You're our commander!”
She glanced at Sloan, who, like Myles, stood frozen at the console. “If I don't return, Sloan, you're in command. That is, if there's anything left.”
George reached to stop her; she swatted his hand away. “Damn it, can you think of another way?”
He flinched, his spurned hand suspended between them. “No, you're...” He nodded. “Very well, then.”
Quickly, he opened his locker and yanked out a suit. “Come on,” he shouted as he stripped, “we don't have much time!”
Stella blinked. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”
“Isn't it obvious?” George flopped on his broad back as Sloan and Myles moved forward and helped him slip into his suit.
“I'm ordering you to stay,” Stella said. “That's a direct order.”
“Tell you what you can do,” George grunted as Sloan helped his right hand into an arm. “You can court-martial me for insubordination right here on the bridge if you like. Or put me on report.”
She clutched her helmet, remembering Jack Faust at the turbine building, a man who hadn't liked orders. “I can stop you,” she warned.
George ignored the threat. “You said it yourself,” he wheezed as Sloan helped him to his feet. “We're finished. What the hell difference does it make what we do?”
Stella fumbled for a response as Myles took her helmet and placed it on her head. Gently, he reached inside her open faceplate to connect the comm leads.
Lee Song watched with stricken eyes from his station of death. Stella forced a smile and raised her thumb in a victory sign.
“Don't worry, I'll be back.”
Myles patted her shoulder and before she knew it, she and George were moving to the lift tube with plasma jets in their hands. They entered it and George keyed the panel.
“You're a damned fool,” she said. “You're a pill peddler, a middle-aged brain washer. What the hell do you know about fighting? You'll get us both killed.”
“I've had more hand-to-hand than you. Check your compfiles if you like. As a young man, I graduated from the warriors’ guild. Believe me; I killed my fair share of rebs before I saw the error of my ways.”
“Even if that's true, I don't want you with me.”
“Stella,” he said gently. “It's not your fault.”
His words ripped through her. She gazed blankly through the transparent door of the tube as deck after deck passed by.
“I'm the one who was in command when it happened.” She shut her eyes, thinking of the brave crew she had sent to their deaths. In her mind she saw the punctured suits, the screaming faces.
A metal hand took hers. “There wasn't anything else you could do, and you know it.” He sucked in his breath, glanced at the panel. “Only two more decks. I've got to say this. I've been meaning to ever since...”
But they had reached the docking bay, and the door opened. Stella exited first, followed by George. “Stella,” he shouted, “I've got to tell you something! I tried to do it earlier at the meeting.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “No time. Tell me later if we make it.” And if we make it, maybe I'll tell Jason how much I've come to care about him. How much I think about him even when I'm not alone.
She marched across the docking bay, which was tinged by the smell of blood and medicines she couldn't identify. Several soldiers had escaped the alien vessel and were being attended by medtechs. Stella passed them, heading straight toward the dark mouth of the Scaleys’ boarding tube.
“Commander, are you here?”
She turned, scanning their faces and seeing looks of amazement among the dazed, ravaged expressions. She gripped her plasma jet, held it up for all to see.
“Yes, I am here,” she shouted. “Are you with me, comrades?”
A few rose to their feet. A man with a bloody shoulder pushed aside his gutted suit and tottered upright. “You're going in there?”
“Both of us are,” George rumbled.
His confirmation brought more of them to their feet, some of whom she recognized. Nick Flynn, a gunnery specialist, stepped forward. He had been a phenomenal runner in the last Olympiad. Brett Duvall joined him, a soft-featured woman with extensive combat experience.
“Are you with me, comrades?” Stella shouted again.
This time a frail chorus answered. More soldiers rose.
Teeth clenched, Stella closed and sealed her faceplate. Then she turned and led her followers into the alien ship.
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* * *
CHAPTER SIX
The boarding tube surface felt dead and heavy beneath Stella's feet as she advanced into darkness which her photocell eyes soon lightened into day. Behind her the others followed, guided by their suits’ optics.
As she moved, she felt a new concern. Why had George chosen to come with her? It seemed incredible when she stopped to think about it. She knew she shouldn't consider such doubts now, but she had suspected him of treason, and at the moment he was right behind her.
Jason she had suspected too, of instability. How wrong she had been to confuse his passion for paranoia! For the first time, she was glad he was not in his
body, for she had no doubt he would have insisted on accompanying her to a horrible, inevitable death.
She gripped the plasma jet, forcing herself to concentrate only on the wide corridor ahead. White, featureless walls enclosed her. Below, the floor was blue metal of some sort which possessed a dull glow, as if a deep and distant fire lurked in its depths.
I'm in the aliens’ ship, she thought. Actually in it.
The bodies covering the floor proved this was not a fantasy. There had to be hundreds of them, and she moaned at the torn and mangled corpses that stretched for fifty or sixty meters before her. Who knew how many more of her crew had retreated deeper into the ship only to perish, like those she had seen fleeing?
Grimly, she glanced behind her. Besides George, there were eight others, which meant their group totaled ten. Ten against how many thousands?
“Movement at nine o'clock,” Lee's voice whispered in her ear.
She turned her head and saw that one of her own soldiers was making a feeble attempt to catch her attention. He lay on the floor, half covered by dead bodies. As she watched, his hand stirred, struggled up a few centimeters, then fell to the floor. Behind his faceplate, pale lips pleaded.
She moved cautiously forward, followed by the others. When she reached him, his hand crawled toward her foot. She stepped aside, gazing down into his desperate, pain-filled eyes.
We'll be back, she mouthed so he could see. But the hand labored toward her again, a stricken animal that knew only its agony.
WE'LL BE BACK. I PROMISE!
The hand continued, uncomforted by her assurance. The man's gaze bore into hers-begging, beseeching.
She felt George gently pull her arm. Turning, she nodded at him and continued. Much as she wanted, they couldn't afford to help the soldier or any others that might be alive. At least not now.
The bodies stretched before her, a gory landscape of human rubble. At some points they were packed so close that she and the others had to proceed slowly while stepping over crew who might still be alive. Sometimes, no matter how careful they were, it was necessary to force their way, to squeeze past twisted metal and faces grotesquely distorted by the Scaleys’ death gas. Here, an entire arm had been burned off, the armor encasing it seemingly as fragile as an eggshell. There, a soldier's chest was a hollow, gaping ruin. Moving on, Stella made the mistake of meeting the eyes of a dead man she knew who had a wife and two children. She glanced away and pressed forward.
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