Empire Of Man 3 - March to the Stars (61 page)

* * *

“Julian, hold what you've got. I'll see what I can scrounge up.”

Pahner looked over at Temu Jin and raised an eyebrow. The IBI agent had been attempting to hack the ship's infonet for almost two minutes. It was clear that whatever they'd run into—smugglers, pirates, or whatever—this was no “tramp freighter.”

“So, what did we just walk into Agent Jin?”

“Well, if it's a tramp freighter, I'm an Armaghan High Priest. No offense, Sergeant Major.”

“None taken,” Kosutic rasped. “We need to do something here, Captain.”

“Yes, we do, Sergeant Major.” Pahner looked over at her. “But we really, really need some information to decide what, don't you think?”

* * *

“Personnel, personnel . . .” Gunny Jin muttered, looking at the faded signs stenciled on the bulkheads. “Where's the crew quarters?”

“Kyrou, cover your sector,” Despreaux snapped. The private had been glancing over at Jin as the gunny tried to navigate the unfamiliar maze.

“Yes, Sergeant,” the plasma gunner replied, turning back to the right.

“Ah, crew quarters,” the gunny muttered finally, then took a few steps and turned left into a cross-passage. “Oh . . . shit.”

Despreaux froze as the gunny and Kyrou vanished in a ball of silver and the bulkheads to either side began to melt.

“Nimashet?” Beckley called. “Sergeant?!”

Despreaux felt her hands begin to shake. For just a moment, Beckley seemed kilometers away, and she closed her eyes. But then she drew a deep breath and opened them once more.

“Alpha Team, lay down a base of fire. Bravo, move!”

* * *

The sergeant major glanced at her schematic and grimaced.

“Lamasara's gone,” she said bitterly. “We're losing people by the minute, Captain.”

“Yes, we are,” Pahner replied calmly. “But until I know to whom, we're just going to hold where we are. With one exception.” He flipped to a different frequency. “St. John. Go, go, go.”

* * *

St. John (J) looked over at his brother and smiled.

“Oh, goody. Time to take a little walk.”

“I hate freefall,” St. John (M) grumped, but he also tapped the controls of the Class A Extra-Vehicular Unit. The round EVU pack, more of a small spaceship than a suit, accepted the previously set up commands and released carefully timed puffs of gas that sent the two Marines on a course that hugged the surface of the globular starship. A course that would eventually intersect the first of two weapons hard points.

“Ah, just think of it as a stroll down to the bagel shop,” St. John (J) said. He cycled his bead cannon to ensure that it was working in vacuum. “Or the Muffin Man.”

“Them was the days, wasn't they, Bro?” Mark sighed. “Do you know the muffin man . . .”

“The muffin man, the muffin man,” John replied.

“Do you know the muffin man,” they chorused as the EVU packs picked up speed, rocketing them towards an anti-ship missile platform. A platform that probably would be heavily defended. “Do you know the muffin man, he lives in Drury Lane!”

* * *

“Got it,” Jin called. He watched the data streaming out of the ship-sys and blanched. “Oh, no.”

* * *

“Sergeant Julian, this is Pahner.”

Julian leaned forward and sent a stream of heavy beads down the passage to cover Gronningen. The big Asgardian darted across the opening and dove through a hatchway, barely avoiding a stream of plasma fire.

“Go ahead, Sir,” the sergeant gasped.

“There's bad news and worse news. The bad news is that this isn't a tramp freighter. It's a Saint Special Operations insertion ship under the command of one Colonel Fiorello Giovannuci.”

“Oh . . . pock. Commandos?”

“Greenpeace Division,” Pahner confirmed. “And in case you didn't recognize the name, Giovannuci was the bastard in command of the Leonides operation a few years back. He's as good as they come . . . and a true believer.”

“Oh . . . I—” Julian paused, unable to think, then shook himself. “Go ahead, Sir.”

“This is where we get to the worse news,” Pahner's voice said calmly. “Gunny Jin is down, probably gone, at what turned out to be the Armory, and not the crew quarters, ship's plans notwithstanding. Where Despreaux's squad is apparently blocking the majority of the commando company from making it into the Morgue.”

“Oh. A full company?”

“Yes. They are, therefore, the current priority. If the Peacers get to the Armory, we are well and truly screwed, so we're just going to have to take care of them before we can reinforce you.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Cover your back. Do not let reinforcements into the Bridge. By the same token, do not let the Bridge guards, who are almost the only ones with heavy weapons, out. Understood?”

“Hold what we've got. Nobody goes in, nobody comes out. Engineering?”

“Gunny Lai bought it there, so did Sergeant Angell. But Georgiadas has the situation under control; there's a security point there that they took, and they're covered in both directions. You're not, so hold on hard. Got it?”

“Got that in one, Sir. What's to stop them from taking off, Sir?”

“Nothing.” Julian could hear the grim humor behind that single word. “Georgiadas reports that the drive is warming up under remote from the Bridge even as we speak.”

“Yes, Sir.” Julian licked his lips and cursed quietly. “Sir, I'll be asked. What in the hell are we going to do? I think I'd rather face the Kranolta again.”

“I'm going to do the one thing that I swore to myself I would not, under any circumstances whatsoever, especially if things were bad, stoop to.”

* * *

“Go! Go! Go!”

“Your Highness, just wait!” Dobrescu snapped. “Thirty more seconds to lift. That's the optimal window. So just sit the hell down and shut the hell up.”

“Goddamn it!” Roger almost punched the display, but he remembered all those centuries ago, the last time he'd been in a cramped little compartment like this one in powered battle armor and gently tapped a control panel. Yet it was hard to restrain himself. Hard. The display showed that the thirty Marines who'd lifted off to the “tramp freighter” had been reduced to twenty-four already. At this rate, there wouldn't be anyone to rescue.

“Prepare for lift,” Dobrescu called over the all-hands circuit. “Helmets on! You sc—Mardukans get ready. You're going to feel realll heavy. Three, two, one . . .”

“Just hang on, Nimashet,” Roger whispered. “Just hang on. . . .”

Four Marine assault shuttles, containing the Mardukan contingent of the Basik's Own, lifted skyward on pillars of flame.

* * *

“All units, hold what you've got,” Pahner called. “The cavalry is on the way.”

“Satan, protect us,” Kosutic snapped as a team of commandos rolled across the corridor. She winged one, but the other three got away. “We're getting outmaneuvered and outshot, Captain.”

“I've noticed,” Pahner said calmly. “Suggestions?”

“Let Poertena and me take it to them,” Kosutic said. “Having a mobile force will force them to react.”

“I'll have a mobile force here in—” He consulted his suit. “Seven minutes.”

“Seven minutes is a lonnng time, Armand.”

Pahner sighed and nodded.

“That it is.”

* * *

“Aaaahhh!”

“Oh, calm down, Rastar,” Roger grunted. The shuttles still had the extra hydrogen tanks installed, and the plotted intercept had been calculated based upon that almost limitless fuel supply. So they'd lifted at three gravities and would hit a DV-Max of almost seven. For Roger and the pilots, that was simply very unpleasant. For the Mardukans, who had never experienced more than a couple of gravities during their limited micro-gravity familiarization flights, it was a nightmare.

They'd put all of them through at least one lift, but nothing like this. The humans had managed to convince themselves that there was no conceivable situation in which the Mardukans would actually be used for a combat assault, so they hadn't subjected them to the real stresses of such a launch. And now the Mardukans, and their allies, were paying the price for that complacent gentleness.

“All hands, remember, crunch!” Roger gasped. “Squeeze your stomach like you're taking a dump, but plug your butt.” He glanced over at the telltales. “There's only another . . . three minutes.”

* * *

“I hate freefall,” St. John (M) said as he hugged the hull of the ship.

Their EVU packs were gone, and the two Marines were now flat on their faces behind a tiny exterior catwalk. The first emplacement, a missile launcher, had been undefended. But by the time they made it to the second and last, a heavy plasma cannon, the Saints had suffered a rush of common sense and sent one of their few “free” heavy weapons to protect it. The ship-to-ship cannon itself couldn't depress far enough to engage the Marines, or they'd already have been reduced to constituent atoms, but the heavy bead gun that had popped out of the firing port had them well and truly pinned. Because of the angle it had, they couldn't even back up and swing around.

“Mom always said we'd come to a bad end,” St. John (J) said.

“Don't go all heroic on me, Bro,” Mark said. “There's got to be a smart way out of this.”

“In about thirty seconds, the prince is going to come over the horizon, Mark.” John readied his plasma cannon. “So you've got exactly twenty seconds to figure something out.”

“Oh, that's not hard,” Mark said . . . and stood up.

The first bead took him in the left arm. The heavy projectile smashed the ChromSten armor like tissue paper, severing the limb just above the elbow in a spray of gas and body liquids.

“Pock, not again,” he gasped as he aimed his cannon one-handed at the base of the defensive platform and locked the trigger back.

* * *

“Pollution,” Giovannuci whispered as he turned away from the display. The armored form had taken three bead rounds before the plasma platform went up, but it was still firing. Whoever it was had to be dead. But he kept firing until Emerald Dawn's last space defenses turned into floating bits of wreckage.

“What does it take to kill these people? Who the fuck are they?”

“Sir,” his com tech said, “you have got to hear this.”

“Saint ship, this is His Highness Prince Roger MacClintock. Cease resistance to this legal boarding, and you will be detained for eventual repatriation as prisoners of war. Continue your resistance, and you'll be considered unlawful combatants under the laws of war. In two minutes, I will be performing a forced boarding with the remainder of Prince Roger's Own. You have until then to comply.”

* * *

“Is there any indication which shuttle that's coming from?”

“Negative, Colonel Giovannuci. It's being rebroadcast from all four.”

“Pity,” Emerald Dawn's commander murmured, then shrugged. “Put me on.”

* * *

“Approaching shuttles, be aware that the prince is dead. He was killed in a shipwreck. So you're not him.”

Roger looked at the communicator and shrugged.

“Believe what you will, but the report of my demise was exceedingly exaggerated. One minute, twenty seconds.”

* * *

“If we surrender, they'll probably do what they say,” Beach said over the discrete command channel. “These can't be jackers. Only Imperial Marines are this precise. Its Empies, all right.”

“And that means it might be the prince,” Colonel Giovannuci mused. “But it doesn't really matter. If we surrender and they repatriate us, the clerics will send us to the wall. The only real choice is to win.”

He considered the situation, regarding the monitors covering the three main fights. He knew that Beach, like most naval officers assigned to SpecOps, resented the tradition which put Army officers in command of the ships assigned to them. He was even prepared to admit—privately—that the Navy's arguments against the practice might have a point when it came to naval actions. But this was his sort of fight, not Beach's, and he thought about his options for a moment longer, then looked up at the commando lieutenant at his elbow.

“I don't like them holding the Bridge passage. I want some freedom of movement. Take some of the Bridge guards and work around to the other side of them. Then we'll try to nutcracker them between us—clear them out and get ourselves some room to maneuver. While you get into position, I'll be dealing with this pompous oaf.”

* * *

“Prince Roger, or whoever you are, thanks for the offer. But, no. I think we'll take our chances.”

Roger shrugged again and flipped the schematic to show the approach vectors.

“Have it your way. See you in a few minutes.” He changed frequencies and nodded at the image of Fain that appeared on the monitor. “Captain, when we dock, send one platoon to the Bridge, one to the Armory, and one to Engineering.”

“As you command, Your Highness,” the Diaspran said.

“I'll be going to the Bridge. I recommend that you take one of the other locations.” Roger turned to the Vashin who shared the compartment and waved a hand. “Rastar, I want your guys to head for the boat bays, but other than that, just spread out and slow down these Saints that are trying to sneak their way to the Armory. Send one unit to Captain Pahner, though, for him to use as a reserve.”

“Okay,” Rastar said as the acceleration finally came off. “That's a relief,” he added with a sigh of bliss as the shuttle changed to freefall.

“Don't get used to it,” Roger advised . . . just as the deceleration hit.

“Aaaaaaahhhh . . .”

* * *

“Colonel, we're getting killed down here,” Beach said. “I've slipped a few people through to the Armory, but they're just making up for our losses. We're stalemated.”

She looked at her schematic and shook her head with an unheard snarl.

“And we've got somebody moving around. I just lost a team by Hold Three.”

“I know,” Giovannuci replied, watching his own displays. The internal systems hadn't been designed to handle a pitched battle, but he'd been able to use the monitors to follow at least some of the action. Not that very many of them were left; the invaders had been systematically shooting them out. He could more or less tell where they'd been from the breadcrumb trail of smashed pickups in their wake, but not, generally, where they currently were.