“Wait,” said March. “An unknown alien artifact and you shot a maser beam at it?”
Taren grinned. “Well, we were methodical about it. Very scientific. Which was just as well, since the resultant explosion blew out the back of one of our prefab buildings. After that, we kept it locked up in the dark.”
“Good choice.” March stared at the closed case, more suspicions stirring in his mind. “A maser blast shouldn’t generate enough energy to cause an explosion.”
“Neither should direct sunlight,” said Taren.
“Which means that the Firestone amplifies an external energy source without any loss of energy,” said March. “I’m not a physicist, but…”
“That should be impossible, yes,” said Taren. “Orson was quite emphatic on that point.”
“God,” said March. “That thing might not be an unlimited energy source, but it’s close enough. The Machinists definitely should not get their hands on it.”
“No,” said Taren. She sighed. “Hell of a way for the expedition to end, isn’t it?”
“Maybe it will make an excellent segment on your video,” said March. “Heavily redacted, of course.”
“Yes,” said Taren. “I hate to keep this secret, but I don’t want to get anyone killed over it, either. Better take the artifacts and go. As soon as you do, I’ll raise a fuss to Veldt and Ronstadt Corporation about how someone stole some of our relics.”
March nodded. “Hopefully that will keep the Machinists from chasing you all the way back to Calaskar.” He stepped towards the cases holding the quantum inducers and the Firestone, plotting out his next moves in his head. He would head back to the Tiger and take off immediately. From there it was a long journey back to Antioch Station, and it would be even longer because of the roundabout course March would take to avoid any pursuit.
He reached for the cases, and something clanged in the cargo hold behind him.
March whirled at once, yanking his gun from its holster. Taren reacted only a split-second later, drawing her own pistol from her belt. It was smaller than his, but the plasma bolts it spat would be no less lethal. He looked through the strong room door and back into the Shovel’s cargo hold.
Nothing moved among the stacks of crates and supplies and disassembled prefabricated buildings.
“Maybe something fell over,” suggested Taren, her pistol held low before her.
“Maybe,” said March. “Or someone knocked something over. Are the internal sensors still working?”
“Mostly,” said Taren. She shifted her gun to her left hand and fished out her phone with her right, unlocking the device. March kept his eyes scanning the cargo hold. Still nothing moved, and after a moment he spotted something out of place. One of the smaller metal crates had shifted as if someone had been creeping around it and kicked it by accident.
“Anything?” said March.
“I’m in,” said Taren, scowling at her phone. “Checking for life signs…there are six on the ship, all in the cargo bay.”
“Six?” said March, cursing himself. That meant four men had entered the ship while he had been inspecting the relics. He should have moved faster. He should have secured the door better behind him. Taren had closed and locked it behind them, but that would only slow a determined attacker.
“Three of them are reading signs of Machinist cybernetics,” said Taren. She looked up and frowned at him. “So are you.”
“Yes,” said March, watching the bay. “I don’t suppose your sensors are good enough to pinpoint exactly where in the bay they are.”
Taren sighed. “I’ve been meaning to have them upgraded.”
“Security cameras?” said March.
“Yes,” said Taren. She pressed herself flat against the left side of the vault door, out of the line of sight of anyone in the cargo bay. “Give me a minute to access the program.”
March nodded and peered over the right side of the door, scanning the crates and stacks of equipment for any sign of movement. His eyes flashed over a disassembled prefabricated building, a stack of three boxes, a metal crate…
A flicker of motion near the crate caught his eye.
Reflex and instinct saved his life. March jerked back a half-second before the plasma bolt howled through the space his head had occupied. It gouged a molten crater into the far wall of the strong room, the hot smell flooding his nostrils. March snapped off three shots, hoping to shoot through the crate and catch his attacker. His plasma bolts drilled into the crate, but he couldn’t see if he had hit anyone or not.
Another figure darted into sight. March caught a glimpse of a rough-looking man in a long dark coat, a pistol in hand. He shifted his aim and fired, and the man in the black coat darted for cover, throwing something as he did. A metallic clink came to March’s ear, and he looked down to see a small black cylinder a few inches from his left boot.
Grenade.
“Get down!” snapped March, and he kicked the grenade and threw himself to the side. Taren obliged, pressing herself against the wall on the other side of the strong room, The grenade clanged into the stack of crates opposite the door, and then blew up.
Even through the thick wall of the strong room, March felt the shock of the explosion, felt the vibration go through the deck. Had the grenade gone off in the strong room, it would have torn both him and Taren to bloody hamburger, and it would have shredded the cases. Of course, the quantum inducers and the Firestone would have been untouched. March wondered if the Firestone would have absorbed the kinetic energy of the blast and augmented it.
Hopefully, he would not have to find out.
The instant the vibrations stopped, March swung around the doorframe, giving him a clear view of the cargo bay. The grenade had torn apart a half-dozen crates, prepackaged foodstuffs and spare clothing lying scattered and twisted on the floor, some of it on fire. Through the smoke, March spotted four men hurrying towards the strong room. Three of them looked like mercenaries – dark clothes, close-cropped hair, high-powered plasma pistols in their hands.
The fourth wore a starship crewer’s coverall and a jacket. He had a thuggish look, a scar going down the left side of his face that twisted his expression into a permanent sneer.
A jolt of recognition went through March. He had seen this man before and had done his best to kill him, though the man in the crewer’s coverall had gotten away every single time.
Simon Lorre, Machinist agent and troublemaker, had crossed March’s path once more.
But the mercenaries drew March’s attention. He recognized the way they moved, the precise economy of their motions, the way they gripped their pistols. All three men wore gloves on both hands. That was smart in a combat situation – the more protection, the better – but he knew their left hands and arms required no protection at all.
Because the three men were what Jack March had once been.
They were Iron Hands, the elite assassins and commandos of the Final Consciousness.
March knew he could get off one shot before the Machinists realized that the grenade hadn’t wounded their targets. Should he shoot Lorre or one of the Iron Hands? Lorre was undoubtedly the brains behind the operation. Yet the three Iron Hands were by far the greater threat. March might be able to take two Iron Hands in a straight fight and come out alive. Three would make short work of him.
He took one more deep breath to steady his hands, leveled his pistol, and squeezed the trigger.
The plasma bolt spat from the end of the weapon. His aim was good, and the blast hit the nearest Iron Hand in the forehead. Cybernetics or not, years of training or not, the man wasn’t wearing any armor, and the blast burned away the top third of his skull. The Iron Hand jerked and collapsed to the ground, limbs twitching. March would have to deal with his corpse as soon as possible, else the hive implant would take over and convert the dead man into a combat drone.
But first, he had to deal with the living men.
Lore and the remaining two Iron Hands reacted at once, diving
for cover. March tried to line up another shot, but the Iron Hands ducked behind crates, while Lorre himself moved with the speed of a serpent and dodged behind a stack of prefabricated walls. Another plasma bolt shot past March and almost hit one of the ducking Iron Hands. March glanced to the left and saw Taren braced against the doorframe, pistol in both hands.
He put three quick shots into the head of the dead Iron Hand, hoping to destroy the corpse’s hive implant before it took over the body. Smoke hung heavy in the air, but it was getting sucked out through the vents of the life support system in the walls and the ceilings. March knew where the remaining two Iron Hands were, and he knew were Lorre was, but they had taken cover and he didn’t have a clear line of fire on them.
The strong room didn’t have adequate cover. If Lorre and the Iron Hands rushed the strong room, they would overwhelm March and Taren. Or if they had heavier weapons, more grenades or maybe a rocket launcher, it would be easy to kill them both.
“Call Bishop,” hissed Taren.
March shot a glance at her.
“They’re not jamming us,” said Taren. “Call your friend Bishop, see if he can get help to us. I’ll distract them.” She leveled her pistol and started shooting at random, throwing plasma bolts around the cargo hold. March yanked out his phone, hit the dial button, and raised it to his ear, still watching the hold.
Bishop picked up on the third ring. “Jack?” He paused. “I hear shooting in the background.”
“Yes,” said March. “We’re in the Shovel’s cargo bay. Two Iron Hands and Simon Lorre have us pinned down. Can you send help.”
Bishop swore. “Lorre? On it. I’ll be there with help as fast as I can manage it. Good luck, Jack.”
He hung up, and March shoved the phone back into his pocket.
“Well?” said Taren.
“Help’s on the way,” said March.
Taren nodded. “Think it will get here in time?”
“Probably not,” said March. Why hadn’t the Iron Hands acted already? They had the advantage. March and Taren had cover, but not much.
“Captain March!”
Lorre’s familiar voice echoed through the cargo bay. March couldn’t pinpoint the location.
Taren stiffened, a strange expression going over her face. “I know that voice.”
“Once again I find you making trouble for me!” said Lorre. “It’s very frustrating.”
“It must be,” said March, wondering why Lorre was talking. This wasn’t a negotiation. March knew why Lorre was here, and no doubt Lorre knew that March knew. This was going to end in someone’s death, one way or another. Why waste time talking?
Distraction. Lorre was trying to distract March from something, or buy time.
“You’ve gone down in the world, Lorre!” said March, watching as much of the cargo bay as he could manage. “From Machinist agent to petty piracy. Must be quite a blow.”
Lorre laughed. “You know why I’m here. Has the pretty professor shown you the relics yet? We…”
“You!” said Taren.
The blood had drained from her face, and hate glittered in her eyes.
“Have we met, Dr. Taren?” said Lorre. There was mockery in his voice.
“It’s been a long time, Laredo,” said Taren. Her voice was cold, her eyes like gray ice. “March is right. You’ve really gone downhill.”
Laredo? Why was she calling him Laredo? How did she know him?
Then March remembered the information that Censor had sent him, the background information on Adelaide Taren. She had been married and pregnant and had lost both husband and unborn child in an accident arranged by a Machinist agent named Samuel Laredo. Except Laredo had never been caught…and now apparently went by the name of Simon Lorre while carrying on mischief for the Machinists.
“I don’t know, Mrs. Taren,” said Lorre. “Wait, it’s Dr. Taren now, isn’t it? Big changes are coming to Calaskar, and the toys you’ve brought back from Xenostas are going to make those changes for us.”
“Why don’t you come out where we can see you?” said Taren. “We can catch up on old times. Or are you still a coward?”
Lorre laughed. “The coward lives to fight another day. I’m still alive when so many others are not. Such as your husband and unborn child, Mrs. Taren. Is all this in their memory? Does digging up the relics of dead empires help soothe the pain of an empty bed and an empty womb?”
“Asshole,” muttered Taren.
“He’s trying to goad you,” said March.
“Yes, I noticed,” said Taren. She shook her head. “He’s trying to get me to do something stupid.”
“Maybe,” said March. “But he must know we’ve called help.”
“So then why is he wasting time by talking to us?” said Taren. “Now that’s a stupid thing to do.”
“Because he’s trying to distract us,” said March. “He’s…”
He stopped as the hint of a familiar smell came to his nostrils.
It was the harsh tang of a chemical-based explosive.
Lorre was going to blow up the ship. A chemical-based explosive might not be strong enough to blow up the Shovel, but it would almost certainly destroy the cargo bay and kill everyone within it. And in the chaos of the scramble as the station’s emergency systems and personnel responded to the explosion, Lorre would slip away with the inducers and the Firestone. Probably he had already bribed Veldt and Ronstadt Corporation to let him pass.
Which meant March had to act now.
“They’ve got a bomb,” said March. “Cover me.”
He expected Taren to protest or to voice disbelief. But, as ever, she handled herself well. She only nodded and took a deep breath, adjusting her two-handed grip on the pistol.
“On three?” she whispered.
March nodded back.
“One,” she whispered, peering over the edge of the doorframe.
March tightened his grip on his pistol. Unless he missed his guess, the Iron Hands and Lorre had circled behind that stack of prefabricated walls, not far from where Taren’s video crew had set up their little interview space.
“Two,” said Taren.
He would scramble up the pile of walls and come at the Iron Hands from above, he decided. They would be as strong and fast and as skilled as he was, and their hive implants would let them fight in harmony. If March did not kill both Iron Hands as quickly as possible, he was going to die.
“Three!” said Taren.
She leaned out the door and started shooting, spraying plasma bolts across the cargo bay.
March sprinted forward, seizing the doorframe with his left arm and using it to hurtle himself forward with greater momentum. He reached the stack of prefabricated walls, grabbed the top with his left arm, and yanked himself up. His boots rasped against the walls, the cheap material flexing beneath him, and he took three long steps forward, his gun coming up as he came to the edge of the stack.
And as he did, March realized that he had just made a serious mistake, possibly the last mistake of his life.
The Shovel’s internal sensors had been damaged. Lorre didn’t have two Iron Hands left with him.
He had four.
There was an empty space behind the stack of prefab walls. Two of the Iron Hands were bent over a black cylinder the size of an army trunk, likely the explosive device. Two of them were peering around the stack of walls, tracing Taren’s shots. Lorre himself stood behind them, gun in hand. The two Iron Hands bent over the cylinder hadn’t noticed March yet, but the two watching the strong room had begun to look up.
March had one instant, exactly one, before the Iron Hands reacted and killed him.
He shifted aim and squeezed the trigger. The plasma bolt tore through the head of one of the Iron Hands looking towards him. The smell of charred flesh flooded through March’s nostrils, along with the odor of burned metal as the plasma bolt chewed through the Iron Hand’s hive implant at the base of his skull.
Before the dead Iron Hand hit the fl
oor, the other three reacted.
They raised their pistols and started shooting.
March jumped off the pile of walls. A volley of plasma bolts shot past him. Most missed. One raked past his left bicep. He did not feel pain from the glancing hit, but the limb registered the damage with his brain, the nanotech moving to repair the damage at once. Another bolt grazed the left side of his chest and brushed his right hip.
That hurt far more.
March slammed into a second Iron Hand. The Machinist assassin’s cybernetic hand clamped around his throat, but before the metal fingers could kill March, he pulled the trigger. The shot slammed into the Iron Hand’s chest. March squeezed the trigger twice more, and the metal fingers loosened around his throat.
The Iron Hand fell dead at his feet, and the other two charged him.
It was too close for guns, so they had knives in their right hands, and their cybernetic left hands coiled into fists. March tried to bring his gun around for a shot, but the Iron Hand on his left punched with his left fist. The blow caught the side of the plasma weapon and shattered it, metal falling in pieces to the deck.
The Iron Hand on the right stabbed March.
His jacket had been lined with a carbon mesh to deflect knife blades, but that mesh hadn’t been designed to stand up to the cybernetic strength of a Machinist, and the Iron Hand used his cybernetic arm to drive the weapon. March tried to twist out of line of the strike, but the Iron Hand was too fast. Instead of hitting his throat, the knife punched through his coat and sank a few inches into his left side. Pain exploded through March, but he was used to pain, and he had been trained too well and too brutally to give into it. He wrenched free of the knife blade and punched for the Iron Hand’s face, his metal hand drawn into a fist. The Iron Hand jerked to the side, and March’s fingers clipped his temple with enough force to draw blood.
The second Iron Hand struck, his metal hand driving toward March’s head. If the blow landed it would shatter March’s skull like a melon, and March dodged. He was too slow, but instead of hitting his head straight-on, the blow clipped his temple.
It was still enough to knock him back, the back of his head bouncing hard off one of the stack of prefab walls. Stars exploded before March’s eyes, and pain roared down his head and back. Before he could recover his balance, the first Iron Hand punched. March twisted, and the blow that would have caved in his ribcage instead clipped the side of his chest, spinning him around. It hit the stab wound, which hurt, and it probably cracked a few ribs, which hurt even more.
Silent Order_Fire Hand Page 10
