Postal Marine 1: Bellicose (25 page)

Right.

After a beat Smee spoke again.

It's about twenty seconds between volleys. Are you quite certain you want to do this?

Bophendze tried to clear his head for a moment to think it through. As he did, he started to feel more panic. He knew what he was doing was suicide. He had to reassure himself.
I'm not supposed to die today.

What, did your birth certificate have an expiration date? How do you know you're not going to die?

Because I'm here, flying at just under eight meters per second in what has to be the biggest fleet battle in the history of postal marines.
Makaan
should have killed me, I should have died on the
Spaka
or with
Angel
or with my team.

The ‘I'm-not-dead-yet’ theory of survival? Puppet, you are insane.

Smee tapped a bit more on Bophendze's suit controls. Their flight path changed, helping Bophendze line up with the aft gun.

The battleship's guns fired again as Bophendze closed. He flew through the muzzle flash as it dissipated, then grabbed the muzzle itself to adjust his course. He shot down the tube. He saw a light at the other end as he traveled through the tube. He only had a few meters to cover and less than fifteen seconds. He realized the firing cycle did not have the breach open all the time. Bophendze felt the fear wash out of his body. He trusted Smee's timing. He knew he would never be alone.

Smee was tired of being followed. For the past three cycles, he worked to evade whoever it was tailing him. But the pursuer was unshakable. Smee decided the best way to deal with a tail this good was directly. He reached the alley and began walking down it.

The alley ended in a dead end. Three buildings formed the end. Smee did not worry about whether the doors were locked. They were. He did not worry that he had no means of escape. Neither did his pursuer. Smee might have been followed, but he was not prey. He was the predator.

It took a few beats for his pursuer to make his way down the alley. Smee took note that this was not a foolish man. He was prudent and cautious. He had managed to thwart Smee's efforts to slip away. Not a man to be underestimated.

Smee smiled. He was not a human. He had a human shell, but he was a machine. Capable of lightening reflexes, able to read the threat before the threat had fully deduced its own action. Whoever was coming down that alley would certainly underestimate him. That was his advantage, being misunderestimated.

“There's no reason to take your time. It's just the two of us.” Smee tried not to sound too taunting.

A beat later, the pursuer came within view. “There's also less reason not to take my time.” The pursuer looked around. “Nice location you've chosen, Sirom.”

Smee laughed.

Does he not know who I really am? Or is he showing respect for the dead?

I guess we'll both just have to find out.

“It serves its purpose. I take it you're not out for a leisurely stroll.”

“No more than you are. I suppose you heard about the
Manticore
trials.”

Smee was confused. “I really haven't paid attention?”

“We have. We never thought Macrodyn would come through with the winning design. After all we did. My clients were quite astonished. When you knew the process was rigged, you still competed. You should know the rule is never mess with another corporation's done deal.”

“It must not have been a done deal if Macrodyn won.”

The pursuer sniffed. “
Manticore
was a battle, Sirom. You've ignited a war.”

“The coup?”

A shaking head. “I don't know what you're talking about. This is no coup. This is open war. Cel-Tainu will ravage Macrodyn before we're done. We have more assets, more resources.”

“If you did, then why did you come alone? Why not bring a friend?”

“Who said I didn't?”

That moment, Smee felt a debilitating shock. He dropped to the ground, convulsing. Before he could get control of Sirom's body, he felt his arms being bound behind him. A rope then tied his legs at the ankles and then pulled the ankles close to his wrists. Once he had regained motor control, he was properly bound.

“You think this is some kind of a game?”

A boot in the stomach.

Smee laughed. “Beat me all you want. You'll get nothing from me but laughter and taunts.”

After all, I'm not the one who will be feeling it.

You know what's happening, right?

Yes. They are going to kill The Prophet for stealing their business. Then, they're going to systematically destroy your family by destroying its company. They may not pull it off in a generation, but I'm sure Cel-Tainu will be thorough about it. Who do you think they'll send?

Several beats later,
Ryante, Bertin
Ryante Bertin walked into view.

Ah, they sent Bertin, the member of Cel-Tainu who nearly cut us out of the competition. How poetic. I'm almost weapy with nostalgia.

“Late as usual, Ryante?” Smee said.

“I arrive when the time is appropriate. I'm sure my associate here explained what's going on?”

“Yes. Yes he did. I'm about to die, and my family will eventually go down in flames.”

Smee, you don't have to be so cavalier. You'll be dead, too.

No. Actually, I won't be dead. I'm a computer, you moron. When's the last time you updated your will?

Not for years.

Thirty-four days ago, to be exact. Well, you didn't update your will. I did. Your young granddaughter is about to inherit a very special gift from grandpa. She's not even potty trained yet.

How dare you?

“Ryante, you might as well get it over with,” Smee said.

Bertin took the pistol from his associate. He aimed carefully. Smee thought the gun shook too much for Bertin to be comfortable shooting. Or perhaps he was uncomfortable killing?

Bophendze raced down the gun tube to the gun's breech. A few meters out, he saw the charge bags had been dropped. Bophendze knew the projectile would be next—a fin-stabilized, phased-plasma warhead. Technology that had been perfected on. These warheads were armor-piercing capped, but carried a plasma injector that assisted the penetration. Having worked on cruisers, he knew if he saw the warhead dropped into place it would be too late for him.

Instead, the charge bag proved to be a bit of a landing cushion. He slammed into it, the armor's HUD dutifully taking off a couple percentage points of remaining available armor.
Why does the armor show total body when the damage was to the head and shoulders?

The thought was left as an orphan. Bophendze looked up to see the projectile hatch opening. In a moment it would roll into place, which happened to be right where he was. He rolled and fell to the deck. A couple seconds later, the projectile dropped into place. Bophendze remained on the deck until it fired.

The detonation was surprisingly quiet inside the gun itself, though much louder than the silence of space. Smee started displaying a timer in Bophendze's vision marking the seconds until the next round fired.

Why couldn't you have done that before I went down the breech?

Picky, picky. Where's your rifle?

Bophendze lifted his hands up and looked at the empty palms. He thought back and realized where the rifle was.
Back on the shuttle. That could be a problem.

You think? You've just boarded a hostile battleship. There should be about 1,500 officers and crew—and you left your rifle at home. What chance does a single, unarmed infantry marine have on a battleship?

We'll just have to find out, won't we? It's too late now. I'll just get one on the ship. The Navy uses the
FACR
, right?

Bophendze started to scan the gun room. Like the Postal Marines, the Navy chose not to automate critical parts of the ship. The gun room was one of them. There were six crewmen, all of whom looked at Bophendze with a mix of shock and amazement. Unlike Bophendze, none were in combat armor. Combat armor that boosted the wearer's effective strength and gave him certain hard points for unarmed combat. They were soft targets. Weak targets.

Without thinking, Bophendze moved into action. He closed on the nearest gunner and hit him in the jaw with an armored left hook. The gunner fell to the floor unconscious. Bophendze then sprinted to the gunner nearest the intercom. He crouched at the last moment, then launched himself into the gunner. His helmet cracked the gunner's skull as the body check shoved the gunner into the bulkhead.

Bophendze inspected the inert gunner and found a holstered pistol. He drew the pistol and chambered a round. He then took aimed shots at each of the other four crewmen. As he did, the battleship's guns fired another volley, masking his pistol shots. He then went over to the gunner he hooked and fired a round into his head.

“That should keep anybody from calling for help.” As he said the words, he thought back over the short melee.
Smee, how much of this was you?

How much? None. I'm impressed—shocked, actually. I never knew you had it in you.

Thanks for the vote of confidence.
He popped the magazine out of the pistol to count the rounds. Four remained, plus the one in the chamber. He went back over to who had to have been the lead gunner and patted him down.
Rats. No more ammo. Let's just hope we're near a gun locker.

Not that it will help you much. Lockers have locks.

Bophendze took the holster belt off the gunner and put it on.
Yes, but they're guarded, right? The guard is holding my next gun.

Smart. I'm going to have to reconsider your worthiness. I don't recognize the battleship's design. If it follows design standards of its era, there should be a gun locker just forward of this gun.

Bophendze opened the hatch carefully and scanned the passage. Seeing nobody, he slipped out of the gun room. Using the passage marking as a guide, he quietly made his way forward to where the passage made a turn. At the turn there was an open hatch. Just beyond it was another that was closed.
Good call. That's the magazine. There should be a locker there.

They've closed the hatch, but there will be a guard on the other side.

Bophendze spoke in a low voice, “That's why I've got armor, right? Whoever is there won't be alerted that the battleship has been invaded, so he won't shoot first.” He pulled the hatch lever, letting the suit's strength assist hasten the opening. Bophendze then opened the door and stepped into the magazine's anteroom.

The guard was asleep. The guard's rifle, a
FACR
like Bophendze hoped, leaned in the corner just inside the guard's reach. Bophendze closed the hatch and quietly latched it back. He then tried to softly close the distance between the guard and himself.

Before he could fully close the distance. The guard awoke with a start, then reached for his rifle. Bophendze rushed forward and grabbed the rifle. The two looked at one another, though what the guard would have seen was an anonymous suit of battle armor. Bophendze felt like he knew the guard, who was young like he was. Feelings of doubt crept in, causing him to hesitate. He could not find it in his heart to kill the guard.

The guard seemed to have no such aversion. He started to wrestle for control of the rifle. Bophendze's armor made it easy for Bophendze to retain control.
If I could just knock him unconscious.

An instant later, Bophendze's body uncontrollably pulled back, his grip still firmly on the rifle. This ended the contest for control of the rifle, with Bophendze having full control. Now he had the rifle in his left hand and a pistol in his right. The pistol hand deftly pointed the pistol at the guard and fired a shot into the right eye. The dead guard slumped onto the deck.

“Smee! He didn't have to die.”

Your sentimentality is going to get you killed. Of course he needed to die, not because you couldn't continue with him subdued, but because you need to accept that you're a killing machine.

Bophendze tried to drop the pistol, but Smee retained a firm grip. “This needs to stop.”

What needs to stop, Puppet?

“No. You need to stop treating me like a puppet. You need to let me be who I am.”

I don't think you understand. You are no longer you alone. You are now we; me and you. You don't get to call the shots. I do.

Korundaj
's bridge was alive with action. The targeting crew slowly shifted from chaotic panic to accidental professionalism. The nearer painters were down, which stifled the Navy's barrage for the moment. The Navy fleet no longer received coordinated targeting information. Once the Navy noticed the Marine's sharpshooting, Litovio knew they would adjust tactics and renew the barrage. It was the break Litovio needed.

The jump ship continued to elude them. Litovio felt as long as that ship remained active, the Navy would continue the fight. If a ship became too damaged, they would grab the latest jump solution providig the escape route and jump away.
Take away their escape route, and they'll be less willing to fight.
The Navy was not manned by fanatics.

He looked at his communications officer. “Signal the destroyer divisions. I want two divisions to reform and prepare for a penetration run. We need interceptors.”

The officer nodded and repeated the order.

Litovio scanned the bridge. It was an intimate space. Every member of the bridge was focused and calm. A change from a few beats before. He shook his head.
Bence and his precious money. How could he be so greedy that he would want to toss away all these men and material?

He shook himself out of his reflection. He needed to inventory the fleet, so he looked at the display. It looked like half the Postal fleet was gone, with not nearly as much wreckage. “Cowards, jumped when the fight started, no doubt.” His voice was low enough that he hoped nobody else on the bridge overheard him. He then pulled up the IFF transponder report. It confirmed his original assessment that several ships jumped away. Included among the cowards was the
Spaka
.
Glad we didn't keep it as a flag.

He took a moment to pull up the ship's report. All of the ships feed constant automatic battle damage reports. The
Spaka
's report was brutal. Several hull breaches, and likely most of the armor had been destroyed.
Jumping wasn't the right action there, Ravindra. If you're still alive now, you won't be when you emerge.
Despite the animosity between them Litovio felt a twinge of sorrow, which turned to anger as he thought of the hundreds of men who are dying on the Spaka. They could have launched escape pods.

“Sir, the destroyers are formed and starting their acceleration.”

Litovio shook off the wave of despair that washed over him as he finished threading through the casualty report. “Get your head in the game,” he whispered. Litovio turned to the communications officer. “Form two more, now.”

“Yes, Sir. What are your orders for the first two divisions?”

Litovio looked over the battle display. The jump ship still did not stand out, which was a tribute to the admiral leading the Navy—a real admiral and not a Lieutenant frocked as a Colonel who staged a coup and seized control of a mass of ships that presumed itself to be a fleet. Again, Litovio pushed doubt out of his mind. No choice was a bad one.
Serendipity, right?
A full beat staring at the display and he made up his mind.

Litovio pointed at a ship roughly near the center. The Navy fleet was thinnest there, giving them a chance to breakout. “Tell the two divisions to split, then converge behind this ship here. Have them fire defensive barrages until they get near that ship, then hit anything they can.” Litovio looked over to see the communications officer repeating the order to the two divisions.

Over the next several beats, he watched the divisions split and execute the order. They lacked the precision Litovio remembered from simulators and academic replays of classic fleet actions that he was subjected to in the Academy. He sighed, wondering whether he should have listened to his father after all. Or would he just go down with the ship?

At last, the destroyers began to converge. Litovio focused on the opposing fleet, looking for indications about what the fleet cared about. The ship the destroyers targeted winked out under the maelstrom of postal gunnery. The postal destroyers crossed and finished punching through the Navy fleet. The divisions continued their separation, turning toward utility ships that afforded them targets of opportunity.

“Sir, the other destroyer divisions are formed, but one lacks its command element.”

“Then we'll have to join them. We can't be a destroyer that hangs back. The Navy will figure out we're important and target us. Tell them to form up on us and spin up to full thrust.” While he gave the order, his eyes remained locked on the display.

The Navy seemed not to react to the first destroyer rush, though utility ships were closing on Navy ships that could provide them covering fire. A few were breaking contact altogether, creating separation to improve their jump solution.

“That's it.” The utilities were trying to avoid the gravity of the two fleets. Proximity to gravity increased the risk of the jump. Rather than create maximum distance, a ship could go to libration points, where the gravity of nearby objects is nullified by the gravity of others. The jump ship would constantly calculate the total potential gravity in the local volume and feed the libration points to the rest of the fleet. Litovio suspected the libration points would expose the jump ship.

“Quick, where are the l-points? Have the computer plot them on the battle display. Nothing fancy, just probability spheres.”

Within the beat, the libration points appeared as faint, fuzzy spheroids. One l-point was within the Navy fleet, at its gravity center, which was not its true center. Within that point was a single ship. That libration point shifted as the first two postal destroyer divisions pursued the utility ships. The ship in the spheroid adjusted course to recenter itself in the l-point. The timeliness of the adjustment was too natural to be feeding off input from another ship.

Litovio pointed. “That is the jump ship. There.” He was beaming.
How to get close without spooking the ship? We'll feint after another deep target.
He scanned the display until he found a suitable decoy. “Tell the other division to break away from us, arc up, then target this ship.”

After the communications officer nodded, he turned to the navigations officer. The officer was focused on maneuvers, so Litovio grabbed him by the tunic shoulder to get his attention.“Look at the display. I want you to turn down, and plot a course that will have us arcing just outside weapons range of that ship. When we get close enough, I want you to turn us directly into that ship. Comms, did you get that?”

“Yes, Sir.” The communications officer relayed the orders to the other ships.

This time, the wait was more nerve-wracking.
Korundaj
was a part of the rush, more likely to be a target. Litovio noticed that the Navy admiral had not focused on the destroyers. Instead, the Navy's destroyer group sent its own divisions in pursuit.
Maybe they'll ignore us and send other destroyers after us.
If Litovio pulled the maneuver off, then the Navy fleet will be trapped. The ships would be slightly more willing to surrender than jump away.

The arced course flattened, careful to avoid the appearance of going after the jump ship. Litovio was satisfied as the ship continued to remain within the libration point's spheroid, though drifting slightly to the more distant lobe.

At the last possible moment, the destroyer division cut course. The ships all started driving for the jump ship, as much as they could as they fought with their momentum. The
Korundaj
shook as its guns fired. A moment later, the jump ship disappeared.