“Take it easy, Noland,” Boyd said angrily. “They are beaten. Tell the captain we have the command deck.”
Noland stood up and took a slow, deliberate step towards Boyd. As he went, he delivered a heavy kick to the abdomen of a prone Union crewman.
“Why don’t you tell the captain and let me interrogate the crew.” Noland took another step and delivered another kick, this time to the captain who was struggling to get off the deck. He had barely made it up on his hands and knees when Noland’s kick dropped him again.
Boyd held up his wrist and showed that the wrist-mounted holo-stage was burned out and offline. “I can’t contact the captain.” Boyd stepped over and guarded the captain from another attack. “And you are the communication operator. So communicate.”
Noland squared off against Boyd.
“What are you protecting these Union scum for? They kill us. Captain will probably airlock them anyway.” Noland aimed his pistol behind him and fired at an unconscious crewman. The pulse round slammed into his back. Blood crept out from under the man and spread over the deck, mixing with the vomit.
“Who am I going to airlock?” Poledri asked as he marched onto the command deck. He looked at Boyd and Noland standing square in front of each other, neither giving an inch, both ready to fight.
“What’s got into you guys?” the captain said. “Looks like you won and you still want to fight.”
“Boyd was protecting these Union scum,” Noland said, his eyes fixed on Boyd.
“They are just normal guys. These are not Union Fleet or Union Marines. They are just working guys like you and me.”
Poledri laughed. “I knew there was something strange about you, Boyd. Not many Union lovers in the Faction.”
“I hate the Union—the entity, that is. I don’t hate these guys. They are under the heel of the Union as much as anyone in the Faction.”
Noland laughed a single humorless grunt. “A kravin’ idealist.” Noland rolled his eyes.
“A realist,” Boyd countered.
“I’m not one for politics,” Poledri said, “but I do know which side I am on. I am Faction. And we have been summoned to a meeting by Kitzov himself. So, secure this ship. I want to get her in tow. We’re leaving.”
In a sudden move, Poledri raised his pistol and aimed it toward Boyd. He immediately fired a pulse round that fizzed past Boyd, who turned to look at Poledri’s target. The Union captain was up off the deck, a pulse pistol in his hand, raised and aimed at Boyd’s back. The captain slumped back to the deck, blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth, and the second, hidden pulse pilot clattered to the deck.
“You owe me,” Poledri said to Boyd as he holstered his pistol. “And there’s a lesson on the Union for you right there. While we argue about who’s in the right and who’s in the wrong, they are preparing to shoot you in the back.”
Poledri waved to his Faction troopers. “Get this lot secured, bind them hand and foot, and put them over there. We might get some ransom for them, if they are lucky.”
“The cargo, Captain,” Noland said stepping over to Poledri.
“Almost entirely black ice and a few machine parts. It’s a krav load. I’ve got the loader taking some over to the Fist now. I can’t believe they weren’t guarded. What a successful raid. And I have taken a new freighter for the Faction fleet. All that black ice will be worth enough for me to convert this heavy into a weapons platform. I’ll finally have a permanent support vessel for the Fist.”
Poledri’s holo-stage came alive with the image of Thresh on the flight deck of the Odium Fist.
“Captain. We’ve got a Union cruiser heading this way. They will be at this position in twenty minutes.”
Captain gripped his head and let out a growl of frustration. “Kravin’ Union Fleet bastards.” He dropped his hands. “Okay. Boyd, forget about the tow on the heavy. We’ll never get out of here with this ship on our back. I’ll let the auto-loader take as much black ice to the Fist as possible while you set the heavy on a decoy course. It might buy us some time. Everyone else, get back to the Fist.”
Boyd lingered, putting himself between Noland, the Faction troopers, and the bound Union crew. The crew was beginning to regain consciousness.
“And one other thing, Boyd,” Poledri said, walking away. “Once you’ve rigged the ship for autopilot, make sure you finish off those Union bastards. No sense leaving any witnesses.”
“I’ll do them,” Noland said, a dark, cold, cheer in his voice.
“Get back to the Fist, Noland. I need you to plot a route out of here before that cruiser spots us, and make sure we don’t lead them back to the meeting. I don’t know what Kitzov will do to me if I lead a Union cruiser to his door, but it won’t be as bad as what I’d do to you. Go. And, Boyd. Kill them. Now.”
Boyd looked down at the crew, all bound and gagged, tired eyes waking up to the grim reality that they were about to head into the long sleep of the dead.
With the footsteps of Poledri and the rest of the boarding party disappearing down the corridor, Boyd took aim and fired.
3
Boyd backed away from the bodies of the Union crew sprawled over the deck. One body continued to twitch. Boyd hesitated and raised his pulse pistol to deliver another blast. With his finger wavering on the trigger, the body went limp and became still.
Turning on his heel and breaking into a run, Boyd left the crew, shot by his own hand. The sounds of the airlock opening echoed along the corridor. Boyd sprinted, leaving the scene of his crime behind him, but he knew he could never outrun the looks of fear and sorrow on the faces of the Union crew as he had gone along the line shooting them each in turn. Every face indelibly burned into his memory.
Boyd had been in battle before, and people had died because of his actions before. But killing in the heat of battle, when the blood ran hot and the emotions ran cold, was one thing. To shoot bound and gagged innocents in premeditated, methodical, and heartless murder, that was another thing altogether. It made him feel lightheaded. It wasn’t guilt…just a strange vacant feeling. He was a soldier, not an executioner.
The airlock was opening at the end of the corridor, a lone Faction trooper waiting for Boyd. He stepped inside and waved at Boyd, urging him to hurry.
“Get a shift on, Boyd.”
Boyd ran into the airlock and the trooper closed the door. Alarms, flashing lights, and countdowns were a blur as Boyd tried to forget what he had done.
“You did them all, yeah?” the trooper asked. His voice crackled over Boyd’s helmet communicator as the air was sucked out of the airlock with a screeching hiss.
Boyd looked over at the trooper, a young and thuggish pirate. He was practically drooling over the thought of the murder. Then the countdown on his helmet stopped. The pressure gauge halted at twenty-five percent of standard atmospheric pressure. A red flashing light flickered around the airlock and holo-display lit up, alerting the two in the airlock that an error code had stopped the pumps.
The system needed to restore before the airlock could be emptied of air. Only then would the outer hatch open and give Boyd and the young trooper access to the void beyond the Union heavy’s hull and the Fist waiting a few dozen meters away.
Poledri’s voice burst over Boyd’s helmet speaker.
“Are you planning on joining us, Mr. Boyd? That Union cruiser sure is. Any chance we can have you back aboard the Fist right now?”
The trooper was tapping away at the airlock control panel furiously, increasingly filled with frustration, every jab from his finger less accurate and more brutal than the last.
“We have a slight problem over here, Captain,” Boyd said. He looked around the airlock for any way to escape.
“You will have a major problem when that cruiser gets here. Like a ‘you are under arrest and standing on a gallows outside Union Fleet Command on Terra’ kind of problem.”
Boyd considered what it would mean to get captured by the Union Marines. For the young thug alongs
ide him, it would mean a trip to the gallows on Terra. A short drop and a sudden stop followed by long minutes of strangulation. Boyd, on the other hand, would have to face the fact that he had failed in his mission to infiltrate the Faction and get close to its leader, Kitzov.
The Faction Leader was considered the single most dangerous man in the Scorpio System. He had eluded capture for years. Boyd had come close to Kitzov, and his current position on the Odium Fist was sure to bring him close to the man again. Getting captured now would end Boyd’s mission and the job of locating Kitzov would be given to someone else, another Blue Star Marine with a fresh cover.
But Boyd wanted to get Kitzov himself. He wanted to be there in the final moments of the hunt, to watch the terrorist leader get taken into Union custody. Boyd wanted to look Kitzov in the eye in that last moment, to let him know his criminal organization had been infiltrated and that he had been caught.
And Boyd would tell him then that Daniel Boyd was his brother, the Union Fleet Marine lieutenant killed leading the relief response after the mine accident at the battle on Black Rock Asteroid. The Union Marines had gone to deliver emergency assistance following the mining disaster, and they had all been killed when they stumbled across a Faction stronghold. It was known that Kitzov had ordered the ambush of the Marine squad. He was to blame for Boyd’s brother’s death.
Boyd wanted to be there in the end. To watch Kitzov dance. This was personal.
Boyd saw the pressure gauge begin to creep up as the pumps reversed, slowly refilling the airlock. It would take fifteen minutes or more for the airlock to pressurize at this rate, and there was no guarantee that the airlock would complete its purge cycle next time either. Boyd could be stuck here for an hour. Plenty of time for the Union cruiser to arrive and take Boyd back to his squad.
That was not going to happen. Boyd was still after Kitzov and determined to take the Faction Leader down. An airlock door stood in his way. It would not stand there for long.
Boyd pulled the power pack from his pulse pistol and laid it at the base of the outer door. He set the pack to overload.
“Get back,” Boyd said, pushing the young trooper back to the inner hatch.
“What are you doing?” the trooper said. He looked at the power pack, its display showing the overload in progress.
“Take cover,” Boyd said crouching in the corner as far from the outer airlock as he could get.
“What cover?” the trooper said, fear mixing with anger.
“Just set your suit’s grav field to deflect the blast.”
“How the krav do I do that?”
Boyd was about to explain as he set his own grav field. The field could be localized and would give some protection against the blast. The suit’s basic deflection shield, enough to deflect an indirect pulse round, would not be enough on its own to protect against a pulse pistol power pack overload in such a confined space.
As Boyd completed the task, he realized the trooper had no time.
The blast filled the confined space, enveloping Boyd. He felt the pressure push against him from all sides.
The airlock door blasted outward instantly, and the residual pressure in the airlock blasted him toward the smashed-open door. Boyd slammed into the edge of the outer hatch as he was shot into space. He heard the ringing in his ears, both loud and also strangely distant. He felt sick, and his vision went dull and then sparkly. He tried to administer a stim shot so he could function well enough to get himself orientated and safely back to the Fist.
There was no response from his onboard med package. He knew he needed to act fast. He activated his suit’s thrusters and they automatically stopped him from spinning and tumbling. The view steadied and he saw the outer airlock doors twisted and bent outward on the side of the Union freighter. Dust and sparkling particles were drifting outward.
And then Boyd spotted the trooper, tumbling wildly toward him. Boyd blasted a few jets from his suit thruster and put himself in the path of the tumbling trooper, grabbing him and turning him to look him in the face.
The trooper’s smashed faceplate gave Boyd a clear view of the face inside, choking on the vacuum, his eyes red and bleeding, his tongue filling his mouth. Panic and fear on his young thuggish face.
Then Boyd slammed into the hull of the Fist, his back landing square on. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and he lost his grip on the trooper. The trooper tumbled away, and the last thing Boyd saw was the man’s skin turn bright purple as the blood filled every pore.
“Boyd. Report?” Poledri’s voice barely registered over Boyd’s confused, concussed state.
Boyd turned and grabbed the hull of the Fist. He looked around to get his bearings. He was at the rear section, not far from the drive. Not far from a secondary access usually used for supply transfer.
“We lost a man,” Boyd said.
“Get inside now or I’ll leave you behind too.” Poledri sounded unmoved by the loss of the trooper.
Boyd scrambled along the hull and reached the secondary supply transfer access.
“Entering the Fist now.” Boyd activated the outer hatch and it slid open. A blast of residual pressure flung Boyd away from the Fist. His one-handed grip just kept him in contact with the Raider. He pulled himself inside the hatch and slid it shut. The hatch was dark. There were no lights here, since it was unnecessary for it to ever be lit. Boyd’s helmet light flickered and died. He was left in the dark, only able to see the faces of the Union crewmen he had shot and the Faction trooper now floating lifeless in space.
The rumble of the drive assembly coming up to power filled Boyd’s ears as the access hatch pressurized. He was back aboard the Fist.
“This isn’t a pleasure craft, Mr. Boyd. Get up to the flight deck now.”
Poledri’s voice sounded distant. Maybe the speaker was damaged, or maybe Boyd himself was. But at least he was alive. He climbed up and in through the inner hatchway that led to the cargo bay. He heard Thresh’s voice over the ship-wide broadcast as he pulled his helmet off.
“Union cruiser in weapons range. They are firing now.”
The Fist rocked, knocking Boyd off his feet. He staggered and regained his footing. Another blast sent him sideways into the bulkhead. He climbed toward the hatch out of the cargo hold that was filled with the black ice from the Union heavy. He slid his hand over the crystal surface. It was an impressive haul for a single raider. He guessed Poledri was happy about his haul. This much black ice could power a reactor for years. Plenty of Faction ships would do any kind of favor for a bite of Poledri’s haul, and he’d be happy to let them buy into it—after Kitzov had his cut, that was.
Boyd made his way towards the flight deck. The lights flickered and the Fist lurched with another blast of weapons fire from the Union cruiser.
The flight deck was busy. The crew were at their stations and Poledri himself was in the pilot seat. Boyd tapped him on the shoulder.
“You look like death,” Poledri said, glancing over his shoulder. His hands moved over the flight console. Boyd could see Poledri knew his ship, but Boyd was a better pilot.
“Let me take her, Captain.”
Poledri looked back to the flight console, then up to the holo-stage and the flickering image. The cruiser was closing in. Its flank spitz guns were pouring a heavy stream of pulse rounds toward the Fist that were mercifully missing as Poledri evaded the fire with a series of wild maneuvers. Poledri moved the Fist violently to port. Boyd knew she was never going to move as Poledri hoped. A stream of spitz rounds raked across the forward section of the Fist as she turned into the stream of fire.
“Captain, let me.” Boyd pressed Poledri away from the pilot seat. The captain was furiously trying to evade the Union ship’s fire, but reluctantly gave way to Boyd.
Having watched the captain putting the Fist through its maneuvers for the last few seconds, Boyd had already planned his next set of maneuvers before he even had the flight console at his fingertips.
Dropping the number
two reactor and firing port thrusters straightened the Fist’s course. A stream of spitz rounds from the cruiser flickered as they passed the Fist, narrowly missing, before carrying on into empty space where they eventually dissipated.
Boyd brought the reactor back to full power, all thrusters pushing the limit, and Boyd pitched the nose of the Fist up.
“Take it easy, Boyd,” Thresh said, moving from the weapons console to the engineering station. “The superstructure can’t take too many maneuvers like that. I’m putting more power to the rear stability field.”
Boyd knew the tolerance of the Fist well enough. He would push her to that limit, but not beyond it. The last thing he wanted was to tear the ship apart and be floating in space, his eyes swollen and lifeless like the trooper he was now leaving hundreds of kilometers behind the Fist as she raced to escape the cruiser on her tail.
Sending the Fist into a wild spiral, Boyd narrowly evaded another salvo of fire. He looked up at the orientation of the two ships on the holo-stage. The Fist was climbing up from the plane of the ecliptic in a wide spiraling maneuver that Boyd was tightening moment to moment, flipping the nose this way and that, throwing off the cruiser’s targeting.
Boyd could see on the holo-stage that the cruiser would soon be in range with its high-energy laser. The laser would not miss. Boyd had only seconds, but he had nowhere to run.
“She is going to put a laser beam through my drive assembly any moment, Mr. Boyd.” Poledri was gripping the armrest of his command chair as Boyd flung the Fist through another series of wild maneuvers. The gravity field fluctuated and made everyone on the flight deck stagger. Boyd felt on the edge of vomiting, growing dizzy as he looked at the vibrating flight console before him.
“That cruiser is evading my hail shot,” Thresh said, her voice quivering as the Fist shook all around her. “It’s slowing her down, but it won’t stop her. That forward shielding is too much. We have to get right up on her drive assembly and give her a sustained blast with the spitz guns.”
Blue Star Marine Boxed Set Page 15
