The Xenocide Mission (17 page)

A pause.

Will you now leave our system?

‘Ah, what the hell. Reply: no, we’re going to pick up our worthy sons from the third world.’

Do not approach the third world. The place is forbidden
to you. We have sent a ship to retrieve your worthy sons
and we will deliver them to you
.

‘Yeah, and I’m Arm Wild. Reply: thank you for the offer, we’ll do it ourselves.’

I am Marshal of Space. Approach may only be made to
the third world with my permission. I cannot allow
outlanders near it
.

McLaughlin clenched his teeth. ‘This is getting boring. Reply: sorry, we’re going and you can’t stop us. Captain Perry, how you doing?’

‘
Back on board in one minute, sir
.’

‘Peachy. Nav, plot a course to the third world. Engines, power up main drive, all hands stand by to manoeuvre. And keep the defence fields up until we’re out of range.’

Barabadar stared at the transcript. The insolence! What gave them the right to roam at will within her solar system? It wasn’t enough that they planted an underhand spy base, but to imagine . . . The outlander commander seemed to think he had won a victory, and open access to the inner planets was his by right.

And as for that last line . . .
you can’t stop us
?

She was fully justified. The Ritual was still in progress; she could finish this now with the means to hand.

‘First Son,’ she said. She stared at the image of the outlander ship on the display. ‘Open telemetry link.’

Thirty seconds;
Pathfinder
’s boat bay loomed in Perry’s vision. He had never seen a more welcome sight. Another moment and Able Platoon would be within the ship’s defence fields, safe from anything that the XCs could throw at them. He glanced at the three XC attack craft, previously rendered useless by
Pathfinder
’s lasers. At the moment they were the only visible reminder of the XC presence.
You didn’t get me,
you bastards, I’m still alive
, he thought.

Then he cast an eye at the boxes, each one suspended between four marines as they approached the ship. He knew what was in them, and it was frightening. Did the Commonwealth deserve something like that? What would King James make of it?

The good news was that it would be in safe, responsible hands.

A movement out of the corner of his eye, a glare, and proximity alarms went off in his helmet. He looked up just in time to see one of the attack craft, with its main engine on full thrust, smash through
Pathfinder
’s overwhelmed defence fields and crash into the side of the ship.

Eleven

Day Eighteen: 20 June 2153

Pathfinder
shuddered as the shockwave tore the length of the ship. Those standing were flung violently against deck or bulkheads. The screams of the passengers were added to the groan of the vessel.

Gilmore had been seated. His lap took the impact against the table and held him in place. He gritted his teeth against the assault on his eardrums: the alarms, the shrieking, the shouting over the intercom and all around him.

He pushed himself to his feet – unsteadily, the artgrav was fluctuating – and fumbled for his aide. ‘Shut down alarm to this module,’ he ordered, and that part at least of the background clamour stopped abruptly. He thought of calling McLaughlin, listened again to the noise from the intercom and decided against it. If the captain was still alive then he could do without the distraction. ‘Shut down data feed,’ he said instead, and now all he had to contend with was the noise coming from around him. He ignored it and abruptly pulled open a tall, man-sized locker.

‘My God,’ said Bakan. She stood up, slow and unsteady, and looked around her. Several observers were sitting or lying on the deck. Some of them were clutching at their arms or legs or heads and moaning loudly. ‘Does anyone have medical training?’ She was breathing heavily but was looking calmer and calmer with every second; someone determined to get the situation under control no matter what. ‘We’re going to have to take care of ourselves.’

‘First aid and autodiagnostic kit in that locker there,’ Gilmore said. He had the pressure suit out and was wriggling out of his jacket. ‘It’ll handle everything up to and including broken bones, instructions are self explanatory.’

‘And where are you going?’ Bakan said.

‘Flight deck.’ He didn’t add: ‘if it’s still there.’ He judged that the impact had been almost amidships. The flight deck was amidships, equidistant from bow and stern and from the hull in all directions. It was meant to be the securest place, shielded by as much ship as possible in all directions. But
Pathfinder
’s designers hadn’t taken into account the possibility of a midships ramming.

He also had no idea what he would do when he got there. But the fact was, he was a spacer. It was where he could do the most good.

‘We . . . we were told to stay here,’ Shintani objected, and Bakan rounded on the Pacifican.

‘Don’t be an idiot, Toshio. That was to keep meddling civilians from getting underfoot. Mr Gilmore is a trained spacer and he can do us all a lot more good there than here.’

Mr Gilmore had one leg into the pressure suit. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Could you give me a hand?’

Three minutes later he was through the module airlock and into the ship’s airless passages. The artgrav was still wavering and every other step was either too light or too heavy. The passageway was lit with red emergency light, empty and eerie, and the only sound in his ears was his own breathing and his suit’s systems. Now he had time to think again, he told his suit to tap back into the data feed.

It was a little more orderly than before . . .

‘
Get attitude control back . . .
’

‘
All main systems are o fline . . .
’

‘
Get external video back online! I want to know what
they’re doing . . .
’

‘
Get the main drive back and get us the hell out of
here . . .
’

Not much. But at least the voices meant the flight deck was still intact.

‘
Marines, what is your status?
’

Then a voice that he recognized: the New Zealander woman. ‘
Charlie Platoon is back on board. We
got thrown around but we’re OK.
’

‘
Able Platoon coming back in
.’ It was Perry, and his voice was taut with anger and a desire to commit violence. ‘
Three men killed in the impact.
’

The lifts were non-operational; Gilmore wasn’t surprised. He resigned himself to a long climb up the ship’s ladders.

Halfway up, he had to step onto the deck as a repair crew of humans and Rusties hurried down past him. Apart from them, the ship seemed deserted. Everyone would still be in their modules.

Two more decks up, and he noticed a change in the light. He climbed one more deck and looked out into space.

‘Bloody hell,’ he breathed.
Pathfinder
had almost been snapped in two. An enormous chunk had been torn from its side, three or more decks worth. The outer hull had shattered, the inner structures that it was there to protect were torn and twisted.

With the missing decks would have gone optical cabling, command channels, a large part of the ship’s integral strength.
Forget it
, said the voice of his old enemy at the back of his mind, as his appalled eyes took in the damage.
This ship isn’t going anywhere,
there’s no way you’re getting to Joel, let’s just sit down and
give up
. . .

For a moment the smooth, velvet black of space called to him. Mesmerized by the emptiness, by the void that so exactly matched his feelings, he took a step forward. He could step out of the artgrav, out of the ship, into space and his worries would be over. He polarized his faceplate so that he could see the stars; they were rotating.
Pathfinder
was spinning head over tail around its centre of gravity. And there . . .

His despair was forgotten, banished to the back of his mind with an indignant yelp. ‘Perry!’ he shouted. ‘Perry, can you hear me? McCallum? Anyone?’ The ladder led up through the wreckage; he started climbing with double the vigour.

‘Pathfinder
is in a state of emergency. You are not
authorized to engage with the command systems of the
ship
,’ said his suit’s voice. Gilmore swore, but because he knew from experience how much chance he stood engaging an artificial intelligence in logical debate, he kept going. He didn’t dare look behind him.

‘
Caution
,’ said his suit. ‘
Biometrics show imminent
danger of hyperventilation
.’

He was at the right level. He swung off the ladder, ever mindful of the torn plating that reached out from all sides, ready to prick a gentle little hole in his suit’s fabric. Bullseye; the airlock of the flight deck module was dead ahead, out (thank God) of the damaged area. Another minute and he was through, and into the flight deck. His suit was still wittering about hyperventilation as he twisted his helmet off.

Several still forms had been laid against one bulkhead, human and Rustie. One in particular caught his attention: he couldn’t see the features but he saw the four gold rings on the sleeve. But McLaughlin had a crumpled shipsuit to pillow his head and the face wasn’t covered.

Those humans and Rusties who were still mobile swarmed over the command desks, fighting to bring the ship back under control. A Rustie saw Gilmore come in. Sand Strong,
Pathfinder
’s second in command.

‘Mr Gilmore,’ it said, ‘you should be—’

‘Get Perry,’ Gilmore gasped. ‘There’s a huge great hole around deck fifteen and there’s XCs heading towards it.’

Colonel Stormer had been itching for action, his men fully prepared, and they swarmed out of the airlock towards the stricken ship seconds after the Martial Mother’s order was given.

‘
Finish the Ritual. Finish the intruders
.’

The wound in its side was the obvious entry point. From there they could work fore and aft, wiping out the intruders, removing the challenge to their conquest. It would be good.

Then plasma bursts erupted all around him. The Not Us had divined his intentions. They were inferior creatures but not stupid.

‘Return fire,’ he ordered. He could see the Not Us soldiers, armoured forms jetting down from the prow of the ship. There was no cover out here. Both sides were in plain view, and who lived and who died would be down to chance and the battle gods. But Stormer had no doubt in the superior prowess of his own gods over those of any outlanders.

Two worthy brothers perished alongside him, their suits torn open by the plasma fire, their contents exploding through the rents into the vacuum. Lives lost and gone for ever, no chance of Sharing, but the ship was too close and the battle hormones were too strong in him for any regrets. Two, three of the outlander figures exploded ahead of him; he would leave it up to the dead to thrash out their differences in the afterlife.

And then he was at the hole in the hull, through it, and in.

‘
Never mind us
.’ Perry’s voice was harsh. ‘
You’re
already onboard. Get down to fifteen and provide back-up.
’

In other words, some of the XCs might get past Perry’s people and be unleashed on to a defenceless human crew. Gilmore shuddered at the thought but he approved of Perry’s thinking.

‘
Bill, we’ll take for ever . . .
’ That was Donna.

‘
Just do it! Perry out.
’

God, it
would
take for ever, Gilmore thought. The endless passages, ladders, stairs, all still in partial gravity so thrusters would be no use . . .

Gilmore reached for his aide, then remembered he still wasn’t cleared to talk to anyone. He grabbed the aide of the nearest human crewman and ignored the automatic yelp of outrage. ‘McCallum, where are you?’

‘
Who the hell’s this? We’re in the boat bay
.’

‘This is the flight deck. There’s a hatch. A maintenance hatch. Marked . . .’ Gilmore screwed his eyes shut, trying to remember. ‘Marked something like “hull inspection” or “hull maintenance egress” . . . it’s directly opposite the boat elevator.’

A pause. A frantic, horribly long pause.

‘ “Intra-hull inspection egress hash 407 dash 1?” What
about it?
’

‘It takes you into an airlock, and then you’re through into the hull space. You can get right down between the inner and outer hulls, no grav, free fall all the way.’

‘
We’re on our way!
’

Gilmore breathed out, then turned to Sand Strong.

‘Close . . . I mean, Sand Strong, I
recommend
you close, seal and lock all bulkheads around the damaged area. And the systems down there are iffy so send maintenance crews to check they really are closed, sealed and locked. And you might want to cut the artgrav in that area – it’ll save power and make it easier for Perry’s people.’

‘At once.’ Sand Strong was no longer the second in command of a starship but a Rustie – a genetically bred servant. It turned to the rest of the crew and relayed Gilmore’s orders.

And then
, Gilmore thought,
leave it to the marines
.

It was like the jungle again. A shadowy mass of obstacles, every obstruction a potential threat. But at least it wasn’t humid and there weren’t any snakes.

Charlie Platoon spread out around the ship, between the two hulls, falling down towards the stern.
Pathfinder
’s innards were a blur of support struts and infrastructure as their suit thrusters carried them down towards the enemy. And there were the XCs ahead. No time for finesse.

‘Charlie Platoon,’ Donna ordered. She would give the order she had always wanted to give in the jungle but hadn’t dared: meeting the enemy on their own ground, you just could not afford to get into an anything-goes firefight. The enemy might have planned for that. But here a firefight was all they could afford: the situation was that desperate. ‘Fire at will!’

She raised her own gun, eyeballed the commands to her shoulder lasers and let rip.

Plasma and laser fire blazed down the dark tunnel between the hulls. Donna kept her finger on the trigger and sprayed fire back and forth, only just remembering the thruster commands that slowed her down. Some of the squat, four-armed XC figures exploded, others poured back fire of their own. A section of the outer hull exploded right by her and sent her smashing into the inner. Her suit fought to control the spin. She collided with an XC and the two of them spun down sternwards, past the hole and through the firefight. Thruster gas flared in all directions, hers and his; her suit began to settle, and she and the XC fell away and came round to face each other. She sent the commands to her suit lasers just as it brought its own gun up. The front of its armour tore open under laser fire and it died messily, and then she was jetting back up to the action. She clipped a fresh charge into her carbine and opened fire again as she rose to the combat.

Stormer was almost killed by an outlander lurking behind one of the struts that linked the two hulls. The Not Us already had its gun up when he saw it and he was just bringing his own gun to bear when a shot from one of his lieutenants took its helmet visor away. Stormer nodded his gratitude to his colleague and repaid the compliment by taking out another outlander that had been half hidden by a torn section of inner bulkhead. But then the lieutenant was transfixed by shots from two other outlanders, one coming up from around the hull and the other emerging briefly from behind one strut before disappearing behind another. Stormer was dangerously exposed and with a curse he kicked off for a more sheltered spot. Part of his mind registered that he was out of the hull space and into the ship.

The outlander that the lieutenant had killed was hanging in space, its arms flung out, but its feet stayed attached to the hull. And that, Stormer thought grimly as he let rip with another clutch of plasma fire that took chunks off the outer hull and scared two more outlanders away from what had been an advantageous firing position, was the problem. The armour these outlanders wore, naturally enough, went with their ship. Somehow their soles were designed to grip onto whatever material the ship was made of, which wasn’t steel. His own were not. He and his men could only manoeuvre with suit thrusters; the intruders could use thrusters and run around, which gave them far more freedom of movement.