Sinclair's Scorpions (The Omega War Book 5)

by PP Corcoran

  Croll scrunched up his face before releasing it, trying to remain calm. Slowly, the seed of an idea germinated in his brain. The line from an old twentieth century movie. ‘Adapt. Improvise. Overcome.’ An evil smile spread across the first sergeant’s face. “Hey Jackson, how much C6 you got?”

  * * *

  The situation was becoming desperate. Tim’s laser wound may have been cauterized neatly by the immense heat of the laser round, but the man was rapidly going into shock. “Tim…Tim stay with me,” Alastair shouted as Tim’s head lolled once more, and his eyes rolled up into the back of his head. The doorway the two Scorpions had sought refuge in was now pock marked and blackened by repeated impacts from the Jivool rifle fire and the occasional hit from the Lumar security guards, whose reinforcements had been arriving at a steady trickle, which was rapidly turning into a deluge.

  “If they have any common sense and tactical awareness, they’ll seal the entire level and send in enough men and equipment to overwhelm the Jivool,” Alastair said as a maudlin chuckle escaped him. Another burst of laser fire struck the edge of the doorway, forcing him to hunch over the now unconscious Tim to protect him as bright sparks flew in every direction. Without warning, the sheet metal door Alastair was leaning against flew to one side, and he fell backward flat onto his back, his head striking the unyielding floor with a bang, sending stars spiraling across his vision. Instinctively, his pistol flew up ready to engage the new threat, only for his arm to be grasped in a strong, vice-like grip.

  “Easy there, Colonel,” said Croll, as he released Alastair’s arm while keeping a wary eye on the flechette pistol in the colonel’s hand.

  A sense of relief filled Alastair as a wide grin spread across his face at the sight of the first sergeant. “What took you so long?”

  “Traffic’s a bitch today, sir,” replied Croll, looking across to where Jackson was giving Tim a brief but thorough examination. The trooper slipped a hypo spray from the med pouch on his combat rig and pressed against the captain’s neck. Swiftly checking the man’s vitals again, he gave a thumbs-up to Croll. “I’ll need to carry him, but we’re good to go. Nothing here that a night in the med bay can’t fix.”

  Croll fixed Alastair with an assessing eye. “Can you move on your own, sir?” Alastair rolled to his feet, shaking the last few stars from his vision before checking the load on his pistol. Under half a magazine left.

  “Jackson. Give your weapon to the colonel,” ordered Croll.

  In one deft movement, the trooper unclipped his rifle and passed it over. “Locked and loaded, sir.”

  Alastair hefted the rifle in his hands, briefly checking the fire selector was on three round bursts, before replying to Croll’s question. “Now I’m ready to go.”

  With Croll’s help, Jackson lifted Tim’s limp body over his shoulder. “OK, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  It only occurred to Alastair then that he had not asked how the first sergeant and Jackson had managed to reach him. The answer was the jagged hole in the side of the storage room and the corresponding hole in the wall of the neighboring storage facility which opened onto the service corridor, and the end run to the docking bay and the waiting dropship.

  The sound of rifle and pistol fire retreated into the distance as Alastair and his small party raced along empty corridors, through the service door into the bay, and up the ramp of the dropship, whose pilots did not even wait for their passengers to get seated or for the ramp to lock into place before applying power and heading for the bay’s outer doors, which opened at a command from Corporal Okoro’s hacking program.

  Clear to navigate, the dropship boosted for the Glambring, waiting a few hundred miles away.

  “Contact the Glambring,” Alastair ordered Okoro. “Tell them we have wounded and—” Alastair’s eyes fell to the prone, lifeless figure of Trooper Terhune covered by the only thing Okoro had on hand, a dusty and tattered cargo tarpaulin. Alastair’s stomach hardened, and a lump formed in his throat. “And one fatality.”

  Alastair forced his gaze away from Terhune’s body and retrieved his slate from his pocket. At some point during his and Tim’s escape, the information download had completed. Closing his eyes, he brought up the file index via his pinplants and the true extent of the amount of information was simply staggering. It would take weeks to go through it all, and Alastair had no idea why Deeral had entrusted him with it. Perhaps the Flatar knew he was dying, and it was a final one-digit act of defiance. Who knew? At the head of the index a single file was highlighted. Kathal.

  Alastair opened the file and began reading the summary. Having read it once, he read it again before letting out a low whistle.

  In the seat opposite, Croll gave the colonel an inquisitive look, to which Alastair replied with a weak smile. “It looks like Terhune’s sacrifice may not have been in vain.”

  When Alastair did not expand any further, Croll decided not to push it. Advantageously, a call from the pilot forestalled any awkward questions.

  “Colonel, the Glambring is already underway, and we are accelerating to catch up with her. Captain Kothoo reports that he has secured early departure through the stargate. Looks like he wants to put Ralla Station behind us.”

  “Him and me both,” replied Alastair.

  * * *

  Tim Buchanan opened his eyes with the trepidation that someone who has skirted death on too many occasions tends to. One day, those eyes might open to reveal a place of either wonder and everlasting joy or, more likely in Tim’s occupation as a mercenary, never ending fire and brimstone. As Tim’s eyes revealed his surroundings, it appeared he had cheated death one more time, unless of course, hell had a room especially put aside for him that was an exact duplicate of the Glambring’s sick bay.

  The noise of gentle snoring penetrated his pondering, and he rolled his head in the direction of the sound, and for a second Tim did question his surroundings for there, curled in a chair with a blanket draped over her, was a sleeping soundly Anna May Wong. As if aware of his scrutiny, Anna awoke, her jade-green eyes focusing on him as a slow smile formed on her lips.

  “Finally awake, sleepy head,” Anna said softly. Her tenderness confused Tim; he felt as though this was the first time he and seen or heard her. No shouting. No arguing. No swapping insults.

  Opening his mouth to reply, Tim’s throat felt as though he had gargled dry desert sand. A water bottle on the bedside table caught his attention. Without thought he reached for it with his right hand. He grunted loudly as the wound he had sustained from the Jivool laser round reminded him of its presence.

  Seeing what he reached for, Anna uncurled from the chair as elegantly as a ballet dancer and scooped up the water bottle, and offered the straw to Tim’s dry lips and parched throat.

  “The doc says the wound was a lot worse than we first thought. It didn’t just burn away the outer dermis, it flash-burned the underlying muscle and a part of the bone. Not to worry though, your nanites, with a little help from the doc and a sprinkling of fairy dust, will have you good as new in a few days. A week tops.” Anna graced him with a blinding smile, and he nearly gagged on the water at how attracted to her he was. Oh Christ, could Alastair have been right when he pointed out that they each had feelings for each other? Surely not. But, how can he explain the tingling in his hands and the lightness in his limbs. Must be the pain killers, thought Tim.

  With the water came the ability to speak, and Tim asked the question burning deep in him. “Why?”

  Anna gave him a blank look. “Why? Oh, why are you here? I told you, the Jivool laser...” Anna stopped as Tim shook his head.

  “No,” Tim said. “Why are you here? You hate me.”

  A gurgling laugh escaped her perfect lips. “Hate you?” Another laugh. “Oh, you silly man. I think I love you.”

  Tim’s mouth dropped open slackly. Words that made no sense came bubbling out. “But. You. I. We.”

  “Ah. I see you are awake, Tim,” called Alastair Sinclair, as he walk
ed into the room reigning himself to a stop as he noticed the interaction between Anna and Tim. “Perhaps I should come back later,” Alastair said hurriedly.

  “No need, Colonel,” said Anna. “I’m just leaving.” Turning to Tim, she planted a gentle kiss on his forehead. “We shall finish this conversation later, Captain Buchanan.” And with that, she skipped out of sick bay.

  Tim was at a complete loss for words as he ran his left hand through his short hair, slowly shaking his head.

  A deeper laugh now filled the room as Alastair enjoyed the confusion of his friend. “If you think that was strange, be grateful you were out of it when we docked the dropship. The airlock was hardly open when she came through it like a Tasmanian Devil. I think Croll still has the bruises and poor Toola was lucky not to be stood on. When the good doctor saw the body of Terhune, she thought it was you, and I swear I have never heard a wail like it. I thought the witches from Macbeth had descended upon us. When Jackson lifted you out of your seat, she was on top of you and hanging on like a mama bear. It took two of us to get her to let go so the medics could haul you off to sick bay. And she’s been camped out here for two days, refusing to leave. I’ll say one thing for her, she is one bloody-minded woman when she wants to be.” Alastair’s short laugh filled the room for a second time. “You’ve got your hands full there, Tim Buchanan. No doubting that. Even Corporal Vega decided it was more than his life was worth to get between the pair of you. He’s been living in the corridor outside.”

  Tim was completely baffled by the turn of events, and Alastair could see that he was losing him so snapped him back to reality.

  “We need to bring you up to speed as we are already—” Alastair checked the ships chrono, “Fifty-one hours into our journey to Kathal.”

  “Who or what is Kathal?” asked Tim, bringing himself back to the business at hand.

  “Kathal is, or rather was, a red diamond mine. It’s a fairly large moon, one of seven, in orbit around a gas giant in an otherwise obscure system in the Tolo arm. The atmosphere is breathable with the aid of re-breathers for a limited time, but too long and the skin absorbs the nitrogen-rich atmosphere and it eventually replaces the oxygen in the blood stream. It’s what the old deep-water divers called ‘the bends.’ Not a nice way to go.”

  “And why are we headed there? Tell me that little rodent Deeral is not sending us on a wild goose chase,” said Tim.

  “On the contrary,” replied Alastair. “According to his files, which admittedly are not overflowing with details, the mine was closed down in a hurry when the Caroon who operated the mine were forced out by none other than our friend General Peepo, when they discovered an ancient Dusman facility. Rumor has it, it was an energy research facility, one which built power sources for Raknar.”

  “Rumors are one thing,” Tim said, flapping a hand dismissively. “How many times have we came across so called Dusman artifacts only for them to turn out to be fakes?”

  “I would agree with you except for one thing,” Alastair said as he looked Tim directly in the eye. “Would you guard a ‘rumor’ with a battalion of Besquith and declare a no-fly zone within five thousand miles of the moon?”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  Heave To For Inspection

  The fleeting moment of falling vanished nearly before Charlie Sinclair realized it was upon him. “Damn, you would think after years of traveling the universe I would get used to translation.”

  In the seat beside him, Lieutenant Torey McDonald was sitting with her eyes closed as the last flutters left her stomach. “You and me both, Major,” she said sotto voce.

  Packed into the too-small cargo pod which had been hastily converted by the Zuparti crew of the Tla’koz, the men and women of First Platoon, Gamma Company, Sinclair’s Scorpions were mumbling and joking among themselves. Charlie was sure that on the opposite side of the tramp freighter Second Lieutenant Stacey Kamala and the members of Second Platoon were doing the exact same thing. If Kamala was suffering any side effects from the transition from hyperspace to normal space, Charlie was willing to bet his last credit that she was doing her damnedest to hide it from Sergeant Deacon. The senior NCO had stepped up to fill the first sergeant post left vacant because First Sergeant Croll had returned to Earth along with Tim Buchanan, Charlie’s second-in-command, to brief Alastair Sinclair directly. Now that all hell had broken loose on Earth after Peepo’s invasion, their whereabouts were unknown.

  The half-strangled buzzing of the inter-ship caller mounted on the grime-streaked wall galvanized Charlie into motion. How the hell anything on this tub worked will never cease to amaze me, Charlie thought as he slipped his seat restraints and half bounced, half floated, over to the caller. The Tla’koz had carried virtually no delta-v across from hyperspace, meaning that she was crawling clear of the emergence point. This was not unusual as it was expensive in reaction mass and, therefore, cost to dump speed and alter course, so some ships’ captains preferred to come through emergence points at the lowest navigable speed.

  Charlie tapped the accept key, but before he could speak, the excited voice of the Zuparti ship’s captain exploded out of the speaker.

  “I wish to renegotiate our contract, Human.”

  Charlie tried to disguise his surprise by asking a simple question. “Why?”

  The Zuparti rushed on dismissively. “It is of no importance, Human. I am willing to make you a generous offer if you expand our simple transportation contract to one covering anti-piracy operations.”

  “Well, what you ask is not something we specialize in—” said Charlie, stalling for time as he sent a message to Torey via his pinplants. “There is something up; the captain wants to employ us, and he is in a hurry to do so. Check the ship’s sensors.”

  Torey was sitting in her acceleration couch when she got Charlie’s message. It was a matter of moments to access the ship’s systems as the run-down protective firewalls matched the condition of the rest of the ship. The freighter did not have the best sensor suite in the world, but you could not help noticing the pair of radar returns that were closing in on the Tla’koz. Small and nimble, they screamed pirate. Torey shot the feed over to Charlie who gave a grunt of acknowledgment.

  “Your sudden offer would not have anything to do with the pair of vessels that are closing in on us would it?” asked Charlie of the Zuparti, his voice dripping with sarcasm. The silence on the other end of the line was all the answer Charlie needed. “Very well, Captain, consider our contract expanded.”

  “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” gushed the captain.

  “Don’t thank me yet, Captain,” said Charlie. “My payment shall be transport for myself, my men, and all our equipment back to Earth.”

  “That is outrageous!” bellowed the Zuparti. “The cost in F11 alone, never mind the lost revenue in missed completion times—”

  “Will all be covered by my company on our safe arrival at Earth,” reassured Charlie. Once more the line fell silent. “The clock is ticking captain, and those two pirate ships are getting closer.”

  “Very well, Human. You have a deal.”

  “A wise decision, Captain. Now do exactly as the pirates tell you and leave the rest up to us.” Without waiting for a reply, Charlie terminated the call and spun to face the expectant face of Torey McDonald.

  “Break out the small arms and pressure suits, and let’s get ready to give our unexpected visitors the sort of reception they deserve.”

  “What about the two pirate vessels? Even if we take care their boarding party they could simply pull away to a safe distance and blast the crap out of us.”

  Charlie paused. Torey had a point, and then an evil grin split his face. The grin, Torey instantly recognized, meant Charlie had settled on one of his impulsive and mad-cap plans.

  “We’ll need a couple of anti-armor mines,” Charlie said, as he pulled his haptic suit from his deployment bag and stripped out of his ship suit while he spoke. “Fancy a spacewalk, Lieutenant?�
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  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later Charlie was still breathing hard from the mad rush to get his Mark 8 CASPer out of its transit case and powered up. The Mark 8 may have been smaller than the CASPers that had proceeded it, but it had a fifty percent greater endurance and a new modular system which made swapping out weapons and surveillance systems easy; it was a perfect fit for the Scorpions’ deep reconnaissance work. The state-of-the-art suit was one which Alastair Sinclair had insisted was an investment well worth spending the small fortune each suit had cost the Scorpions. The speed at which Charlie had been able to bring it on line and ready for action justified the expense to Charlie.

  Calming his breathing, he double-checked his suit’s power emissions were as low as he dared, just enough for life support, heating, and basic suit functions. Perched where he was on the outer hull of the Tla’koz, held in place by magnetic boot clamps, Charlie watched the approaching pirate ship close with the Zuparti freighter’s bow airlock. A command to the suit caused his Tri-V display to split and show the view from Torey McDonald on the stern. The second pirate vessel was making its own approach to the rear airlock.

  Charlie replayed the sole message the pirates had transmitted. No video. Audio only. “Zuparti freighter! Cut your engines and prepare for boarding. Do not resist. Anyone who deviates from my orders will be immediately executed. We only want your cargo. Once we have it you will be free to go. You have my word.”

  A pirate’s word indeed, thought Charlie, as he watched the two small craft close. No way they were big enough to handle the amount of cargo the freighter was carrying, and the Zuparti captain was smart enough to know it or he would not have come to us for help.

  The pirate ships changed course angling for the bow and stern of the freighter. Classic pincer maneuver, thought Charlie. No doubt the pirates were going to go for the command deck and engineering as their first targets. Take those two areas and you effectively controlled the ship. Any crew who were brave enough to put up a fight could be sealed into whatever section they happened to be in, and that section opened to space. A grisly death which Charlie did not think for a minute the pirates would lose any sleep over. Once they had secured the ship, the pirates had a range of choices. Sell off the cargo and ship or ransom it back to the original owners. As for the crew, their fate was more uncertain. If the ship owners were inclined, they could pay a ransom to secure their employees’ freedom or, more likely, the crew would simply disappear into one of the myriad of slave markets scattered across the Galactic Union. For all its preaching about taking the high moral ground, slavery was still legal in many parts of the Union.