Alabaster Noon

by Chris Kennedy

  “There’s no telling what they can flush through this ducting,” Mason replied. “We’d probably survive it in the suits, no matter what it was, but it might suck to be the Lumar.”

  “Good point. Cut us a way through.”

  While the troops cut out a section of the floor, Nigel tried to reach the other groups, but was still unable to get hold of the others. He had Mason try, as well, to no avail.

  “Suppose we’re the only ones who made it?” Mason asked over a private circuit.

  “I don’t know,” Nigel replied. “It seems odd that only one ship would make it. Perhaps there is something interfering with our comms.” He paused, then added, “Well, they all know where we need to go. We’ll count on them to do their part, and we’ll do ours.” He pointed to where the Lumar were pulling up a large square they had cut out of the ducting and the floor below it. “Looks like it’s time to go.”

  One of the Lumar was about to dive through the opening, but Nigel held out a hand. “Before you go diving into who-knows-what, let’s announce out presence with authority.” He pulled two K-bombs off his suit and pointed across the gap to Sergeant Rahimi. “If you’d grab a couple, too?” He asked, holding up a K-bomb.

  “Sure you want to do that, sir?” Mason asked. “They’re going to know where we are if we do.”

  “I have a feeling that crashing a breaching pod into their starship at 300 miles an hour probably alerted them to that fact. If they know we’re here, I’d like to soften them up a little.” He paused, then asked, “Ready, Rahimi?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Nigel counted to three, then hurled his oversized grenades into the passage below them, with Rahimi throwing his in the opposite direction. “Follow me!” Nigel yelled as the detonations erupted below them. He dove through the gap and found himself in a side corridor. The K-bombs had done a good job shredding the bulkhead in one direction and the group of Oogars in the other.

  Blood and purple fur floated in the air as two of the four struggled to bring their lasers up. Nigel shot them both as the members of his squad poured through the hole in the ceiling. As Mason got the troops organized, Nigel found a diagram of the ship on a bulkhead. As expected, the CIC was in the center of the giant vessel, 103 decks down from where they were.

  “Let’s go, Asbaran,” he said. “We’ve got a long way to go, and a short time to get there.”

  “You’ve got the lead, Taheri,” Mason said. “Move out.”

  * * *

  CIC, Prime Base, New Warsaw System

  “They did it,” the TacCom announced. “It looks like the boarding is successful.”

  “How many got through?” Aleksandra asked.

  “Looks like just over half. Less, if any of the boarding pods didn’t function as advertised or they went splat into a main structural member, or something like that.”

  Aleksandra sighed and shook her head.

  “They might have fared better than we will,” the TacCom said. On the Tri-V, dozens of enemy boarding pods were racing toward Prime Base. “Initiating close-in defense systems.”

  Prime Base opened up with all the point defense lasers it had in a blinding crisscross pattern of lethal energy. Dozens—hundreds—of the alien boarding pods were destroyed. More passed through. Then the enemy screening vessels opened up at extreme range.

  Aleksandra yelped in surprise as Prime Base shuddered from weapon impacts against her shields. The intensity of fire ramped up by an order of magnitude. Shields failed, and the station took damage.

  “Damage control teams!” the SitCon called and began listing areas with damage. In seconds, Prime Base lost most of her close-defense lasers.

  On the Tri-V, twenty-two alien boarding pods fired their braking thrusters. Close-defense lasers managed to pick off a few more before the remaining nineteen slammed into the station, breaching its hull. All had targeted the central hub.

  “They knew right where to board,” the TacCom spat.

  “Paka,” Aleksandra said.

  “Section Seven!” A voice screamed over the internal comms. “Tortantula have boarded the station—” the speaker cut off with an explosion, then silence.

  “Evacuate all non-essential personnel from the hub,” Aleksandra ordered.

  “Commander,” Sergeant Hedrick said. “I need to defend the station.” She looked at him in alarm. “I’ll be back. You’ll be safe until then. I promise.”

  She nodded, and he left with the two privates, their CASPers hurrying through the CIC doorway despite the tight fit.

  Aleksandra tried to concentrate on the fight out in space. The remains of the main Hussars fleet were still out near the emergence point, with many of its ships wrecked or disabled. The surviving enemy ships were racing to join up with the dreadnought and its task force. The dreadnought itself was slowing as it approached the base, and the dozens of screening vessels were pulling ahead to engage what remained of Prime Base’s offensive firepower.

  She didn’t know what to think or do, and she shuddered as despair wormed its way up her spine. Their forces had boarded the dreadnought, but even if they succeeded and captured the ship, what good would it do? Despite the losses they’d inflicted, there were still scores of screening vessels and several battleships left. Maybe if the Egleesius ships could get back into the fight? She shook her head. The TacCom’s data on the five heavy hitters showed them either disabled or non-responsive. She didn’t want to be known as the person who lost Prime Base. There had to be another option!

  “What’s the status of Lubieszów and Byczyna,” she asked. The TacCom looked back at her, his mouth pressed into a line. The battleships were the last of their reserve forces. “Send a message and see if they can expedite.”

  The two captured battleships had been waiting on the far side of Home, and were now swinging around to join the fight. Her comms officer nodded, and the order was transmitted. Seconds later the Tri-V showed the battleships firing their engines harder to speed their orbits.

  Prime Base resounded with the sounds of weapons fire.

  Everyone in the CIC stared at the door where the sounds of fighting echoed. Aleksandra drew her sidearm and checked the load. She hadn’t handled a pistol for years, not since initially qualifying on the weapon. She remembered enough to do a simple function check on the autoloading firearm and loaded the chamber.

  Dimitri watched her check the weapon, his eyes wide in fear, then quickly did the same with his own. He was a little more comfortable handling his firearm, having qualified more recently. All around the CIC, the rest of her staff did the same.

  “Sergeant Hedrick, update please?” she commed through her pinplants.

  “We’re falling back to the center zone,” he replied immediately. His words were punctuated by intermittent heavy weapons fire. “Private Barnes took two men and tried to lead the spiders toward the hangars. It didn’t work; they obviously have deck plans.”

  “What happened to the private?”

  “He didn’t make it,” Hedrick said. A thunderous explosion shook the CIC, making the main Tri-V flicker.

  Kleena snapped something in his native language her translator didn’t catch and started working on his computer. “I’m going to throw a curve at them, but I need your authorization,” he said to Aleksandra.

  “Show me,” she said. The little Tri-V built into her command chair came alive with deck plans and flashing red pinpoints where the invaders were, then highlighted the corridors and what was next to the corridors. “That’s going to make a mess of those power systems,” she said.

  “The enemy ships already blew out the lasers they were feeding,” Kleena said.

  Aleksandra nodded and transmitted her authorization via her pinplants. Kleena re-routed the main power through the sub-system relays.

  “Heads up, Sergeant,” she commed, and send a schematic of what was about to happen.

  “Roger. Go!”

  Aleksandra nodded to Kleena who triggered the overload. Power in a plasma stat
e was interrupted. The safeties had been removed, and the result was to turn the conduits into bombs. A 20-meter long section of hull was blown out, causing an explosive decompression.

  Kleena brought up an exterior camera which gave them a beautiful view of a dozen Tortantula blown out into the black, their ten legs spinning as they flew away. Everyone in the CIC cheered. A series of staccato explosions echoed through the CIC door, killing the celebration.

  “Thanks for the help,” Sergeant Hedrick said.

  “Can we do that again?” she asked Kleena.

  “No,” the elSha said. “They’re only a few sections away now.” An alarm sounded and Kleena moved to another system. “They’re breaching the exterior hull in multiple places,” he warned.

  “Helmets,” Aleksandra said, and grabbed her own. The flexible helmets were clipped to the armor opposite their weapons. It wasn’t designed for space so much as to keep the wearer from being exposed to vacuum during combat. It locked into place, the gloves were sealed, and with the touch of a control on the armor’s arm, the suit pressurized. Seconds later, the station core depressurized with a bang and a hurricane of escaping wind. “I guess they didn’t like our little trick.”

  “No, they didn’t,” Sergeant Hedrick said. “We’ll be there in less than a minute.”

  Aleksandra knew what that meant—the marines hadn’t been able to hold the enemy. She examined the CIC, taking a moment to see how it was put together. Warships had CICs with meter-thick armor, which was all but impenetrable by the small arms carried by boarding teams. You could use explosives, but that would pretty much destroy the CIC. If you wanted the vessel as a prize, wrecking the CIC was contraindicated.

  She examined the Tri-V for another moment. The battleships would be in combat range in five minutes. There was no sign of the Keesius. Maybe the enemy stole it? If they did, there was nothing she could do about it. CASPer-equipped marines sailed through the door, and she knew time was up.

  When a dozen had entered the CIC, it began to feel crowded, and Aleksandra didn’t see Sergeant Hedrick. She commed him though her pinplants. “Sergeant, are you okay?”

  “Fine as frog hair,” he replied, and she laughed despite herself. “You miss me?”

  “Just worried about my guardian angel,” she said, a little embarrassed.

  “I’m covering the retreat. Private Hamill should be there any second with some equipment.”

  As if on cue, the private floated in along with another CASPer, the two maneuvering a trio of heavy plates. “Commander,” he said. “Please move all your staff to the rear of the CIC.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked. “It will be hard to manage the battle without workstations.”

  “I can teach, or I can do, sir,” Hamill said.

  “We’ll use pinplants,” Kleena said.

  Aleksandra, not being a combat arms officer, wasn’t used to exclusively using pinplants. She also wasn’t used to being shot at. She gave the order, and all her people left their terminals and moved to the far side of the CIC.

  As soon as the middle was empty, the troopers took the steel plates and assembled a barricade in only a minute. They used their lasers on lower power to weld the plates in place, including jamming them into wall-mounted workstations with tiny explosions of ruined technology. Watching them work, she realized this was a last stand, and she was in it.

  The entry to the CIC was at an angle on a corridor going from left to right. A laser beam flashed past the entrance, making her jump slightly. Sergeant Hedrick swung into the CIC with another trooper behind him. Before the trooper could make it in, though, a laser transfixed his CASPer from behind. Sparks and molten metal flew from the top of the cockpit. The armor jerked and floated past the entrance.

  Sergeant Hedrick turned, saw the dead trooper, and gave the armor a shove to clear the entrance. Aleksandra swallowed. That armor once contained a living, breathing human being. Death had arrived.

  All the surviving marines were now in the CIC. Aleksandra counted twelve, including Sergeant Hedrick. Thirty had died trying to stop the boarders. Aleksandra’s eyes swept the space, unconsciously looking for a way out. Her back was against the rear wall of the CIC, the metal cold and unforgiving, just like the attacking alien troopers. Her pulse raced, and her breath came in quick gasps. I’m going to die here.

  “I’m tying you into the squadnet,” the sergeant said. “You need to know what’s happening.”

  “Okay,” she said, her voice sounding tiny.

  “Just lost the drones,” one of the marines said.

  “Confirmed, we have no visibility,” another added.

  Hedrick tensed. “Here they come.”

  A trio of massive Tortantula shot into midst of the CASPers. The two troopers closest to the entrance produced meter-long switchblades from their right arms and chopped at the ten-legged nightmares. These spiders weren’t armed beyond their natural weaponry. Despite that, Aleksandra saw sparks fly from armor as the aliens used their powerful claws and fangs to tear at their armored foes. Blue Tortantula blood sprayed in globs as the aliens were dispatched.

  “Scouts,” one of the marines said. Others grunted in agreement as they finished the final touches on getting the armored plates into place. As the last weld was completed, the Tortantula entered in force.

  Aleksandra couldn’t control her shaking and realized she was hyperventilating. To try to combat the feeling, she closed her eyes and went into the virtual command space. She was in a white featureless room with three Tri-Vs arrayed before her. She didn’t have a body so much as a presence. A lot of pinplanted people liked to use this place, but it disconcerted her, and always had.

  Through the Tri-Vs, she could see the other members of her command staff and was surprised to see them all using virtual space, too. She took a deep breath and went to work.

  “Update on offensive situation,” she asked.

  “We’re down to five of the larger laser batteries, but they’re all on angled bearings to the enemy,” TacCom said.

  “Our fleet?”

  “No change,” he said.

  “SitCon, how about the Horde’s command?”

  “They baited the Izlians into the asteroid field and were going to swat them when the gas bags surrendered.”

  “Surrendered?” she asked in surprise.

  “Yes, they’ve been moved to a staging area and have shut down their tactical systems. They’re out of the fight.”

  “Score one for us,” Aleksandra said. Something exploded in the CIC, and she cried out but didn’t open her eyes. She couldn’t. The sounds of men screaming in rage and pain over the squadnet echoed in the back of her mind.

  She checked the hub evacuation progress; it had been completed. She ordered other station personnel to prepare to defend each section of the rings from assault by the hub. The glideways would provide natural choke points, although they wouldn’t stop the enemy from simply landing more boarding pods. The room shuddered, and someone’s gurgling scream was cut short. Her SitCon’s screen disappeared.

  Something smacked against her. The man formerly her SitCon had been cut completely in half, and horrendous amounts of blood were floating everywhere. The blood boiled, drying in vacuum. Some hit her helmet and left little red-black marks. Two burned and ruined CASPers floated next to her. They bumped into each other and drifted in opposite directions. One left a stream of bright red globules in its wake.

  Pieces of metal bounced off her armor. The metal shield by her head deformed several centimeters inward. She yelped and pushed as far away from it as she could. Everywhere around her was complete chaos. She rose a few centimeters to see the door. CASPers were using the metal barriers for concealment as they fired their arm lasers, autocannons, and MACs at a swarming mass of Tortantula.

  The multi-legged aliens were struggling to get through the relatively narrow door, due to their size. They fought the fusillade of fire from the CASPers, the tight entrance, and dead or dying Tortantulas. She had re
ad a story called Dante’s Inferno in school many years ago. Here it was, alive and in killing color.

  There was an explosion in the midst of the struggling mass, sending bodies and parts out in a shockwave of horror. Through the newly created opening came three more Tortantula, with tiny furred and heavily armed riders on their backs.

  Flatar, Aleksandra thought. There wasn’t a Human merc in the galaxy who didn’t know what a Flatar was.

  The earlier Tortantula fought differently. They didn’t carry weapons, and they threw themselves at the CASPers with zero regard for their own lives. These three were different. They dodged and raced sideways in the body- and debris-clogged CIC, away from the doorway and the chokepoint it represented.

  The surviving marines rose again from cover and fired on the doorway, only to find riderless Tortantula there. They fired several rounds before any of them realized it.

  “Flanking!” Sergeant Hendrick yelled. He rotated his shoulder-mounted MAC, and a meter-long tongue of soundless flame spat from it. It would have been quite loud, if there had been any atmosphere. The shot missed, and one of the Flatar spun its improbably huge handgun to loose an equally impressive gout of fire. The hypervelocity round tore through a CASPer at short range, killing the trooper inside instantly.

  “Something is happening in the fight against the dreadnought,” her TacCom said.

  “What is it,” Aleksandra asked, shaking uncontrollably.

  “The shi—” A laser fired from one of the Tortantula carrying a Flatar bisected the TacCom’s neck and head, ending his life.

  “Dimitri?” Aleksandra asked. “What did he see?”

  “I-I’m checking,” the young ensign answered, his voice stammering badly.

  A Flatar rained fire on the surviving CASPers, dropping three before it and its Tortantula were torn apart by a MAC round from Private Hamill.

  “Yeah, eat that!” the private yelled, then was felled by a hypervelocity round through his cockpit.

  “Got it,” Dimitri said. “The Kleesius is closing with the dreadnought. They’re firing on it, but the thing has unbelievably powerful shields. It’s taking damage but not stopping. It looks like the hull is splitting. Maybe they finally hit it badly? Ghagh!”