The creatures’ sinuous serpentine advance ensured that only a few were hit by the crew’s gunfire, mostly by their one autoshotgun. Then, as the strange animals neared the defenders, they launched into what appeared to be a somersault.
But the somersault did not end. With their eight liberally jointed legs rolling them forward, their exoskeletal back plates worked like the rim of a wheel. The defenders, apparently perplexed as much as unnerved, fired wildly. The duty-suited humans splattered a few more of the attacking beasts into chunks just before discovering that they had emptied their magazines. The rolling creatures bore in among them like a herd of animate hoops.
The small predators used the speed they had accumulated by uncoiling straight out of their final revolution into a mouth-first leap at their prey. Even before the creatures’ claws and legs started slicing at and embedding in the flesh of the defenders, their sawlike jaws were at work, burrowing into viscera. Ayana felt bile jet up into her mouth as the killer weasel-crustaceans became more akin to into gut-burrowing worms, their progress marked by intermittent spurts of blood and ruined intestines. Their screaming victims tried yanking them out, only to slice their hands open on the knife-like edges of the beasts’ bodies and legs.
“Jorge—Captain!” Ayana cried, knowing she could not regain full vocal composure. “The boarders have eliminated both layers of defense for airlock Charlie-Two. Repeat: the—”
As if being progressively drowned by an advancing wave of darkness, the screens in the bridge went blank, one after the other. The carrier signal in her earbud died as well.
Piet spread his hands upon the bridge controls. “What just happened? How did—?”
Ayana interrupted, looking at the sensor logs. “We were just swept, from the docking cradles to the bridge, with some kind of focused EMP wave. Our less robust electronics have been disabled. The rest seem compromised.”
Piet leaned aggressively over his console. “That’s not possible.”
“Apparently, it is,” Kozakowski muttered.
Ayana turned on him, her sidearm out of its holster with considerable speed. “Tell us what you know about this weapon. Now.”
“Kn-know?” Kozakowski stammered, his hands rising in a mix of haplessness and tentative surrender. “I don’t know anything. There are rumors that the Ktor might be capable of such things, but I have had no contact with them or their technology.” He blinked rapidly. “Now, put up that pistol, Ms. Tagawa. I am not the enemy.”
“That,” she said, “remains to be seen.” She turned away from Kozakowski, but did not reholster the gun. “Mr. Brackman?”
“Yeh, Ms. Tagawa?”
“Since you no longer have a bridge station to run, concentrate on trying to raise the captain through one of the hardwired emergency intercom sets.”
Piet frowned. “This megacorporate econobucket doesn’t have an extensive intercom system, sir.”
“Do your best. We must inform the captain that the boarders are not attacking toward the bridge, as we anticipated. They are heading straight toward him.”
Chapter Thirteen
In close orbit; V 1581 Four
As Team Two moved by leapfrog toward the Aboriginal defenders in the cargo and docking modules, Idrem’s helmet comm buzzed: a private channel from Nezdeh. He toggled it with a push of his chin. “It is Idrem.”
“The deck plans indicate you are approaching the defenders’ primary concentration. Do you expect that Brenlor will be able to defeat the Aboriginals with only minor damage to the facilities?”
Idrem wondered at the directness of her question and what it implied: that she was depending upon him, Idrem, to attempt to limit the operational excesses of their mission’s nominal commander. “Yes, I can see to it,” Idrem replied.
Nezdeh was apparently not expecting that answer: she was silent a moment before asking, “How?”
“Before leaving Ferocious Monolith, I purloined several canisters of anti-personnel heat seekers and marker nanytes. I have already convinced Brenlor that this would be the most expeditious, and least damaging, means of securing the ship.”
“That could be a risky operation, Idrem.”
“Do you trust my competence, Nezdeh?”
Another pause. “Yes.”
“Then I shall not do anything to risk the success of this mission, nor shall I fail you.”
“Very well. I must coordinate with Brenlor now.”
“Acknowledged.”
The circuit closed at the same moment that Brenlor paused to shoo some of the upt’theel away from an Aboriginal corpse. After he used a spray bottle to douse the body with chemicals that the creatures found aversive, they came wriggling up out of the thoracic cavity, dripping gore and whining irritably. He herded the remaining dozen beasts forward to break up another knot of defenders who had been too late to help their comrades at airlock C-2.
Judging from the flags on the sleeves of the corpses, and from snatches of their panicked exclamations, they were all from the human political entity known as the Trans Oceanic Commercial and Industrial Organization bloc. Usually referred to as TOCIO, its acronym was neither a subtle nor coy referent to the capitol of the nation state that was its dominant power. Many of the bloc’s nationalities were represented among the casualties inflicted thus far. Other than the red ball of Japan itself, Idrem had identified national patches indicating that their wearers were from Brazil, India, Myanmar, and Chile.
Even without control of the ship’s command systems, defeating the ill-equipped Aboriginals had not posed much difficulty and even less threat. Only the Japanese nationals had been carrying truly dangerous weapons: dustmix battle rifles which, at these ranges, were certainly just as deadly as the Ktor’s own needlers. However, they did not have the muzzle velocity that made it possible to penetrate almost every wall or floor in the ship except for vacuum-rated bulkheads and hatches. But for the Ktor, constrained to wearing only the light armor augmentations that were standard issue for the crew of a patrol hunter such as Red Lurker, there was still risk involved if they rounded a corner into a torrent of automatic fire from the Japanese rifles.
The other firearms were not particularly dangerous. The majority were caseless assault rifles that had been furnished to the Optigene clones by their Indonesian hosts. These serviceable weapons, named Pindads, were unable to penetrate the Ktoran light armor at all. And while the hailstorms of slugs fired by the enemy’s autoshotguns could even batter one of the Evolved to the ground, their penetrative power was even lower, and their raw kinetic impact was easily distributable through the smart armor fabrics of the Ktor.
“Idrem, are you ready?”
“I am.” He inspected the corridor ahead. “The Aboriginals are around the far corner?”
“Yes,” Brenlor confirmed. “According to the deck plans, it is a double-width passageway that then opens out into a wide marshalling area with multiple egress routes. That is where their main body has deployed itself. And if the engagement goes against the humans, they have various retreat options that lead to regrouping points.”
“In that case,” Idrem replied, “we must ensure that they are unable to make use of those options. Please load the nanyte marker grenades into your launcher.”
Brenlor took the three thirty-eight millimeter grenades that Idrem proffered, none of which were fitted with rockets, and loaded them into the left-hand cassette that fed his needler’s underslung launch tube. “I have not had the occasion to employ this system, or this tactic,” Brenlor admitted in a low voice.
“It is not difficult, and it is most effective against lightly armored targets, such as our present adversaries.”
Vranut and Jesel continued to guard the corner screening Team Two from the mass of Aboriginal defenders. As Idrem loaded three miniature signal-seeking submunitions into his needler’s side-by-side grenade cassettes, he watched Brenlor guide three of the remaining upt’theel back into their carrier. “If we lose the rest in this assault, these will enable re
population,” he explained, almost defensively.
Idrem ignored the gruesome images that Brenlor’s comment invoked. “Whenever you are ready.”
Brenlor nodded and, using the right combination of attractant and repellent scents, prompted the nine remaining upt’theel around the corner.
They lifted their noses, catching the fresh prey scent—just before two of them were blasted to slimy mauve and grey bits by the hammering of an autoshotgun. As if they had been one creature, the survivors sped in that direction. The volume of gunfire rose precipitously. The Aboriginals were now busy enough for the Evolved to commence their actual attack.
Idrem nodded at Brenlor, who lifted his needler, stepped forward so he could see partly down the corridor at a very shallow angle, and discharged his grenade launcher at a distant point along the opposite wall.
The round struck the bulkhead, caromed off as per Brenlor’s intent. Abruptly, through the many awakened eyes of the warhead’s submunitions, Idrem could see the casing split off, freeing a flock of small grey balls that flew in a wide arc, and then rolled as Idrem directed through his HUD. As these devices drew near to the defenders, he activated their proximity deployment systems. Nanytes sprayed out into the spaces occupied by the enemy.
Idrem nodded to Brenlor. “The next two, now. In rapid sequence.”
When Brenlor’s the second nanyte-dispersing grenade landed nearby, the Aboriginals attempted to assess what nature of weapon was being fired at them. But seeing no explosion or gas or other aversive effect, they returned their attention to the onrushing upt’theel, and the raiders they presumed to follow shortly behind them.
When the third canister ricocheted down toward the defenders and broke open, a few of them discerned that the small rolling balls were something other than debris and shot at them without effect. That last swarm of rolling nanyte dispensers made it into the deepest reaches of the defender’s positions, thereby also providing Idrem with extensive advance reconnaissance of their enemy’s deployment. Not that it would be required.
Idrem stepped forward, watching the munitions-cued timer tick down in his HUD, measuring the elapsed seconds since Brenlor’s third round had deployed its spherical submunitions.
“How long—?” Brenlor began impatiently.
Idrem stepped in front of Brenlor and fired the first of his signal-seeking cluster munitions on a similar, wall-glancing trajectory. A moment later, Idrem patched the streaming recon-view that the nanyte dispensers fed to his HUD through to the other members of his team.
The first cluster munition was angling off the wall when its seeker head emitted a brief, powerful microwave pulse. Instantly, human silhouettes glowed into existence on the Ktor’s HUDs. The nanytes, primed by settling on warm moving objects, responded to the microwave wash by absorbing and then re-radiating it, albeit much more gradually.
In the same moment, the round’s flechette warhead discharged. Over a hundred of the small darts whined forward like mosquitos, jetting into the same cone that the microwave pulse had illuminated. But each flechette was equipped with a seeker-head that detected the now-radiant bodies of the nanyte-dusted humans. The flechettes twitched their tail fins slightly; each altered its flight path to intercept one of those glowing silhouettes.
The effect was gratifying. The defenders in the corridor went down in windrows. The micro-tine neographene penetrator points breached their suits easily, and the fins of each flechette stripped off upon contact with flesh. Consequently, whereas the entry wounds appeared like sudden sweeps of tiny stigmata, the exit wounds were akin to those made by a tight pattern of pistol slugs, pulping whatever they had passed through. The Aboriginals fell, their clutching fingers attempting to staunch wounds that could not be staunched.
“Impressive,” Brenlor allowed. “The corridor is clear.”
It was, except for one terrified Aboriginal who had been out of the signal-seeker’s line of sight at the moment the flechettes were discharged. Idrem changed the next round’s setting—spherical dispersal—and laser-painted its discharge point at the entry to the cargo marshalling area. He fired again.
This round glanced off the wall at roughly the same spot but bounded until it reached the discharge point. The sharp flash momentarily hid the sudden sprawling of almost a dozen bodies all around the warhead, including the hapless Aboriginal that the first round had been unable to “see.”
Idrem changed the next aimpoint to a spot deeper in the marshalling area, stepped out into the body-littered passageway, fired it, set a fourth and final round for a still further discharge, fired. He waited for the glowing, thrashing bodies to settle as the two rounds went off in quick succession. Six figures, two only partially dusted by the nanytes, were running toward the exits. Most were limping or staggering. “Vranut, Jesel; follow those six and eliminate them. Brenlor and I will dispatch the enemy wounded, unless we find useful survivors.”
“And who among these slaughtered sheep would be useful, now or even beforehand?”
Idrem suppressed three Progenitor axioms that seemed to have been written expressly as rebukes for Brenlor Perekmeres’ impetuosity. Instead, Idrem merely countered with, “One may always be surprised by advantages arising from unexpected sources.”
“I suppose so,” Brenlor allowed. “Let us eliminate the unexpected sources.” He led the way.
Too eagerly, Idrem thought.
* * *
Nezdeh made sure that she arrived on the bridge of the Arbitrage while Brenlor was still securing the rest of the ship. Thankfully, Idrem remained with him; the Progenitors only knew what he might have done without some tactful supervision.
There were three Aboriginals on the bridge, already deprived of their weapons. “Who is in command here?”
All three of them made to speak, but, seeing each others’ motions, held back.
The first to recover was the tall, spindly male. “I am in command. Piet Brackman, First Officer and pilot.”
Nezdeh glanced at the others. The female—a small, distinctly Asian subtype from what Earth experts called “the Pacific Rim”—had no reaction to the statement. The other, a Eurogenic specimen who was small for his sex and flabby, seemed to become thoughtful at the ostensible First Officer’s claim. It was not credible that command succession was unclear after the death of their captain, whose body and station were conspicuous among the fifty-two Aboriginal corpses in the cargo marshalling module. Consequently, something was being withheld. That was unacceptable, both in terms of gathering intelligence and in establishing dominion.
Nezdeh drew her liquimix pistol slowly. “I was born and bred to command. I will not tolerate lies or disobedience.” She raised the weapon, aimed it at the tall human male’s forehead. “Of the three persons on this bridge, I know you will lie to me. A true commander would have spoken quickly and assertively regarding his or her place in the chain of command. And there would have been no uncertain glances.” She snapped the safety off. “Because it would be useful to have your cooperation, and because you are ignorant of our ways, you have one opportunity to redeem yourself: identify the actual commander.”
The human named Brackman swallowed—piteous, she thought, how openly they display their anxiety—and explained, “There was a…a disagreement about command.”
“How so?”
“I was the XO. Not common for a pilot, but I have seniority. But when Captain Velho left the bridge, he put Ms. Tagawa—” the tall Aboriginal glanced at the small Asian female—“in charge of negotiating a surrender in the event that we lost control of the Arbitrage. But he didn’t change the chain of command.”
“I see. So he did not trust your judgment?”
“I get angry. Easily. So I guess he didn’t think I’d be a good negotiator.”
“Interesting.” The main lights reilluminated suddenly, as did the external monitors. The life support system sighed into renewed activity. “We have restored your electronics and restarted your computer. We have also accounted for the en
tirety of your armed crew, who seem to be wearing national uniforms, not those of the Colonial Development Combine. Explain.”
The tall Aboriginal’s stare suggested that he had only heard the first phrase in Nezdeh’s second sentence. “You have ‘accounted’ for the—my—prize crew? What does that mean?”
“It means precisely what you conjecture. They have been eliminated.”
“All of them?”
Nezdeh closed the distance between them so fast that the low-breed male blinked—good; it is time to acquaint them with our innate superiority—and she slashed the pistol barrel across his face. The Aboriginal staggered, almost fell, but caught himself on the helm console. “You answer questions; you do not ask them. I am patient because it has been several centuries since any of your cultures have embraced the truth of the will to power, as does ours. But you shall learn. Or die. Now, I ask you again: why is this crew comprised of two distinct groups, one national, one megacorporate?” Peripherally, she noted that the other male’s eyes had widened slightly when the blow fell. The small Asian female had not reacted at all. Excellent training and possibly excellent genelines, but that could also be problematic. Time will tell.
Brackman was rubbing his jaw. But what the Aboriginals lacked in readiness, they made up for in spirit: although at the wrong end of a gun barrel, the male’s eyes were wide, bright, furious. “This ship, the Arbitrage, is a megacorporate hull. Which means it belonged to traitors.” He glanced at the other male, and the look in his eyes changed from fury to hatred. “When we kicked their invader cronies off Earth, we took over their shift carriers, but we had to crew them with loyal personnel from the merchant or colonization services. Like me and Ms. Tagawa. But we had to keep a core staff of the CoDevCo crew; they know the ship best.”
Raising Caine - eARC Page 13
