by PP Corcoran
A brief puff of maneuvering jets came from the closing pirate ship, slowing its approach to a bare crawl. Charlie activated his suit’s lidar and allowed it a single scan over the ship. His suit’s onboard computer ran the electronic image against its database and projected its assessment into Charlie’s line of sight. “Hey, Torey, looks like I got a converted Il’ak intersystem tug. Extra external reaction mass tanks and—” Charlie double-checked the suit’s assessment. “A twin railgun mounted in a chin turret that looks like it was welded on by a blind man. Not a fantastic amount of firepower, but enough to turn the Tla’koz into a flying sieve.”
Clamped a few feet from the stern airlock, Torey McDonald assessed her objective. “Same amateur night equipment here, Major. Computer is calling it a tug boat which has been around longer than I think humanity has been out of our caves. This guy has a single, fixed spinal laser, and, with the power output of the tug’s reactors, I think it’s safe to say, it’s somewhere in the ten- to twenty-megawatt range. Easily enough to punch through our ship’s unarmored hull.”
Torey’s opinion was enough for Charlie to be confident his original plan was the correct choice. Switching across to the company command net, Charlie put in a call to Lieutenant Kamala and Sergeant Deacon. “OK, guys, stick with the plan. Let them board. I only need a minute at most for Torey and I do our thing.”
From behind a sheet of replacement hull she was using as a makeshift barricade blocking the access corridor twenty feet from the bow airlock, a pressure-suited Stacey Kamala acknowledged Charlie’s orders before switching channels and addressing the three troopers crouched beside her. “We let them board and advance to within a few feet of us. We need to give the major and Lieutenant McDonald as long as we can, so weapons tight until I give the order.”
The corridor was simply too narrow for all the troopers of Second Platoon to fit into it, and Stacey had deployed the rest to a secondary barrier in case the pirate’s boarding party were able to force their way past her. Sergeant Deacon had a similar block at the stern airlock, though he had deployed the remainder of First Platoon throughout the Tla’koz’s engineering spaces rather than at fixed defense points.
A sound like a hammer hitting a bell was accompanied by a shudder that ran through every frame of the Tla’koz’s hull as the pirate crews used magnetic clamps to secure themselves to the outer airlocks.
“Stand by. Stand by,” said Kamala, settling her laser rifle into a more comfortable position. The smart tech of the weapon projected the aiming dot directly onto the face plate of her light-weight pressure suit. There was no guarantee a random round from either side would not breach the ship’s hull and cause decompression, so the Scorpions had opted to fight in pressure suits. If the pirates were not similarly equipped then that was too bad for them.
The telltale light above the airlock changed from red to green, and Kamala got her first view of the pirates as the heavy door swung to one side. Humanoid in appearance, but beanpole thin with bulbous heads that made them a dead ringer for a child’s stick drawing. Those heads had wrap around, dark glass goggles which completely covered their eyes, and oversized ears located on either side of those bulbous heads. Shortened arms held equally-stumpy weapons. Rapid fire laser carbines each with a wicked looking foot long blade extending beyond the barrel. Each had an ill-fitting utility harness with a random assortment of pouches. There was no sign of body armor.
Shit! thought Kamala. Dragoos. Pirates by choice and slavers for fun of it.
Four of the Dragoo exited the airlock, heads moving from side to side warily as they scanned the corridor. “Probably looking for the captain who was meant to surrender himself to them on entry,” said one of her troopers helpfully.
“Well whatever is slowing them down is good news for the major,” replied Kamala, praying the Dragoo would remain undecided for a few seconds longer.
* * *
Deactivating the magnets holding him to the hull, Charlie applied a gentle amount of pressure to the CASPer’s suit jets and edged clear of the freighter’s hull. Centering his vision on the Dragoo ship, he picked a spot near the rear of the tug where a large square of red was painted around a removable hull plate. If the CASPer’s computer was accurate, then that plate was the emergency plasma vent designed to blow off and allow superheated plasma to escape from the tug’s reactor.
The perfect place to deposit Charlie’s little present.
Ignoring the spinning stars that gave him vertigo, Charlie reoriented the CASPer to allow him to land on the tug beside the red-edged plate feet first.
“Nice and gentle, Charlie,” he said to himself. “Let’s not bounce off and have to go around for a second attempt. Sooner or later those Dragoo are going to run out of patience and go looking for the crew.” As soon as his feet touched down, Charlie engaged the magnetic boots and moved onto the second step of his part of the plan. Reaching into the snap-on pouch attached to his leg with both hands, he felt for the twin handles of its contents. Finding them, he pulled the anti-armor mine clear of the pouch. Linking his suit to the mine’s controls, he swiftly programmed it for remote detonation. The blinking red light went solid as the mine’s tiny computer brain acknowledged the command. Satisfied the mine was ready for action, Charlie tethered it to his CASPer while his hands dipped into the pouch again, this time retrieving a can of adhesive. Bending at the waist and knees until he was just a few inches from the hull plate, Charlie sprayed an area roughly the size of the mine’s diameter. The chemicals in the bright blue adhesive bonded at the molecular level with the hull. Untethering the mine, Charlie ensured he pushed it down firmly into the adhesive, which bonded to the mine’s casing in seconds. Stepping back, Charlie admired his handiwork before releasing his boot magnets and jetting back to the Tla’koz.
“Torey, I’m clear; how are you doing?”
“Heading back now, Major. The mine is armed and linked to your CASPer’s fire control.”
“Understood.” Charlie switched to the company-wide frequency. “All Scorpions, this is Scorpion Actual. Light them up!”
* * *
“All Scorpions, this is Scorpion Actual. Light them up!” With the Major’s order resounding in her ear, Kamala squeezed the trigger of her rifle, sending enough energy to melt a steel plate into the chest of the lead Dragoo. Although not as spectacular on impact as other weapons, the vaporization of the Dragoo’s entire chest was, nonetheless, just as satisfying. Switching targets, she dropped another Dragoo, who was unlucky enough to be moving as Kamala’s laser round struck, removing a goodly portion of his lower bowel, hip, and upper leg. A follow-up shot eased his pain forever. The fight for the bow airlock was over before the Dragoo even knew it had begun.
However, the Dragoo aboard the tug must have been watching via remote surveillance because without warning the ship carried out an emergency breakaway maneuver which ripped the still open airlock clean off its mounting, exposing the corridor to space. Air rushed out the tear with the force of a jet engine, pulling anything not tied down with it.
Kamala was swept off her feet before she could activate her mag boots only for the trooper beside her to wrap both arms around her floundering legs before she could be sucked into the depths of space. “I’ve got you, Sir,” came the reassuring voice over her comm over the sound of her racing heart. The screaming quickly dissipated as the air vented into space, leaving the corridor in silent vacuum. With the wild forces of decompression no longer pulling her, Kamala activated her mag boots and felt them reassuringly anchor her to the deck.
Through the gaping rupture left in the Tla’koz’s outer hull by the pirate’s emergency undocking, Kamala watched as the pirate ship rapidly receded. “Don’t think you’ve got away, you bastards. A Scorpion always has a sting in its tail.”
* * *
“Safe distance achieved, Major Sinclair,” said Charlie’s CASPer, as he continued to watch the pirate ship recede. Charlie, like many mercs, had programmed the suit to talk to him in a famil
iar voice, and his CASPer’s vocalization matched Mhairi’s intonations precisely.
Mhairi’s calming inflections reassured and comforted him. She was never far away, no matter the distance which separated them when he took a contract. Perhaps strange to those who did not live the merc life, but Charlie equated the boost he got from listening to his CASPer to that of an old-time soldier receiving a letter from his sweetheart before the advent of first contact.
It reminded him that no matter where or what he fought, a pair of loving arms awaited his return.
“Keep going. Keep going. Take your medicine, gather up your toys and go home to play another day,” said Charlie to himself.
“Aspect change on both pirate ships, Major Sinclair. My sensors are detecting fire control radar. The ships are targeting us.”
“Well don’t say I didn’t give you a chance,” Charlie said with an edge of disappointment. “Detonate the mines.”
Traveling at the speed of light, the radio signal reached out from Charlie’s CASPer and was received at virtually the same instant by the mines placed by Torey and himself. Two pounds of C6 explosives warped the copper cone at the mine’s base.
The intense heat and explosive force converted the copper into a stream of super-heated plasma which cut through the pirate’s hull like a hot knife through butter. The plasma flashed through pipework and electrical conduits surrounding each ship’s reactor core.
The interaction of the plasma, the protective casing surrounding it, and the reactor’s own mass was nothing short of cataclysmic. Charlie witnessed two new stars burn brightly in the night sky for a fraction of a second, before the greedy nuclear blast ate its own mass and fizzled to an expanding cloud of gas and hard radiation.
Charlie began the trudge back along the hull to the airlock, hoping there was not too much damage to the hull’s integrity and that a makeshift airlock would be functional soon. The thought of having to evacuate a whole corridor to use as an airlock just seemed such a waste of resources.
“Major Sinclair, the captain is trying to contact you.” Charlies face took on a pinched expression. The Zuparti probably wanted to haggle over the contract now that his ship had sustained damage, no matter how minor it was. No matter. Charlie would haggle over reparations; the important thing was he would hold the captain to his agreement to get Charlie and his troopers home. Though Charlie wondered what to expect when he got there.
“Put him through.”
* * * * *
Chapter Thirteen
Old Friends
Alastair Sinclair perched on the jump seat which had become his in all but name at the rear of the Glambring’s bridge as the frigate made transition back into normal space. Immediately the sensors reached out and the navigation and threat boards began registering contacts.
The Scorpions’ colonel had never pretended to be a naval man; he left that to people like the Glambring’s captain, Captain Kothoo. However, he did know his way around a threat board and noted the bubble superimposed around an area on a planetary object bearing the name Kathal. The tactical computer was calling it an overlapping group of fire control radars which were capable of detecting any air or ground movement out to a range of 220 miles from the mine’s main site, while the Glambring’s radar picked up a number of satellites in geo stationary orbit above the site. From their electronic emissions profile, a number were additional radar detection satellites which were probably providing coverage for the no-fly zone. The remainder had little to no electronic footprint at all so were either dead or, if the Besquith were serious about nobody coming within five thousand miles of the moon, were missile- or laser-equipped defense satellites. This was going to be a tough nut to crack, thought Alastair. On the bright side, there did not appear to be any other warships in the system nor, for that matter, anything in the way of interstellar shipping. Releasing his restraints, Alastair pushed off from his seat and deftly snagged the corner of Kothoo’s seatback before he swung his feet down to the deck and engaged his mag boots to hold him there.
“Well, we’re here,” said the elSha captain. “And, from the lack of radio traffic asking about our business here, I’d say there is no system government. Mind you, with the amount of electromagnetic interference created by that gas giant, authorities may not notice our arrival. Now what?”
There’s a good question, thought Alastair as he took in the various planets of the system floating sedately in the captain’s navigation Tri-V. Fifteen moons made up the gas giant’s own solar system, similar to Jupiter’s back home; a bright, white ring encircled the third one. That would be Kathal then. “Well, the Cartography Guild catalog states there are no planets with a breathable atmosphere in this system.”
“Breathable by Humans,” corrected the elSha.
“I stand corrected, Captain,” said Alastair, slightly embarrassed by his inadvertent Human prejudice toward races from oxygen-rich planets.
“None the less, Colonel,” Kothoo went on tactfully ignoring Alastair’s comment. “The Caroon who originally established the mine on Kathal were oxygen breathers like ourselves, so the nitrogen rich atmosphere of the moon would be as unhealthy for them as it would be for ourselves. Though there are a number of species who would be equally at home in that atmosphere as we are in our own, the majority of races in the Galactic Union prefer a more oxygenated environment.”
“Including the Besquith guarding the research facility, never mind the various scientists and technicians,” said Alastair, as he got an inkling of where Kothoo was going with his line of thinking.
“Exactly, Colonel,” Kothoo stated, as he tapped a finger on another of the gas giant’s moons which expanded until it filled the majority of the Tri-V. “Moon 5 has an atmosphere which can sustain our form of life. The Cartography Guild don’t appear to have ever got around to giving it a name. What it does have, however—” Kothoo enhanced the image once more until smudges on the surface resolved themselves into easily recognizable shapes. “Is a medium-sized settlement complete with a couple of landing pads. If I were to hazard a guess, I would bet troops or scientists looking for R and R would be right here.”
Alastair eyed the settlement’s buildings, landing pads, and neat lines of agricultural fields. If they were to find a safe way onto Kathal, then a loose tongue from the settlement was their best bet.
“Still, a frigate arriving in this area of space without good reason is bound to raise suspicions,” said Alastair, as his forehead wrinkled in uncertainty.
“Who said we were a frigate?” the elSha captain said as he turned to his tactical officer. “Select Ghost Program Three, Tactical.”
Tactical tapped a command into his station then sat back. “Ghost Program Three engaged, sir.”
Kothoo looked at Alastair and chortled. “Our transponder now confirms that we are the Pillos, a Sidar trading vessel. And—” Kothoo touched a control on his armrest, an image of a wiry haired being with a large bony head and leathery wings filled the captain’s Tri-V. “Meet Captain Yesh’al.” As Kothoo spoke the Sidar’s mouth mirrored him.
Alastair nodded appreciatively. “Impressive.”
“I can take credit for the original idea, but the brains behind it is Doctor Wong’s assistant, Larras. That Jeha is a master programmer, never mind a skilled engineer.”
“So, as long as you keep any visitors out of visual range, no one will suspect that a Winged Hussars’ warship is in the vicinity?” mused Alastair.
“With the range of dropships and the number of moons in orbit…I’m confident that I can keep Glambring away from prying eyes,” replied Kothoo.
Alastair looked back at the small settlement hovering in the navigational display. “Let’s pay it a visit then!” said Alastair, and returned to his seat as the Glambring brought her drive online and headed for Moon 5.
* * *
“Hang on back there folks, this is going to get a little bumpy,” called the dropship pilot to his three passengers a few seconds before the entire craft s
eemed to drop vertically until the straining engines caught the ship and the pilots regained control. Looking around him, Alastair saw that his companions were outwardly making light of the heavy turbulence. Without warning the entire dropship was flung violently to one side, tipping the ship up onto one wing. Alastair was pushed back into his seat while directly ‘above’ him First Sergeant Croll’s limbs flopped loosely ‘downwards’ before the dropship righted itself.
“Helluva ride, eh, Colonel?” Croll grinned as Trooper Jackson, sitting beside him, tried in vain to cover his mouth with the affectionately known ‘barf bag’ before losing his breakfast onto the floor.
For a moment, a feeling of regret passed over Alastair as he thought of the downcast face of Tim Buchanan when he had told the man that he would not be accompanying Alastair to the surface. Tim had been about to argue his case when Anna Wong succinctly pointed out that the med tech had recommended at least another twenty-four hours of nanite and regen-therapy before doing any strenuous activity or risk causing more damage which would lead to another stay in sick bay. Realizing this was an argument that he was going to lose, Tim had reluctantly withdrawn his request to accompany Alastair but had insisted the colonel take not one but two troopers as escort. Hence Croll and Jackson’s presence in the dropship.
