Brink of Destruction, page 29
Several of the starfighters also died before they flashed past the station, skimming closer to the clouds below, having dropped into a lower orbit to overtake their objective and get back over the limb as quickly as possible.
The heavier Xiphos 40s had mostly stayed with the assault shuttles, though they’d have to peel off soon if they weren’t going to hover near the station and risk taking more fire. They could maneuver, but at that range, maneuvering would be of only limited utility.
The assault shuttles, meanwhile, were going to be stuck matching orbits with the station, and would be all the more vulnerable on final approach because of it.
Acceleration ramped up. The pilots had waited until the last possible moment to make their final orbital matching burns, trying to maintain as much delta-v between them and the station’s weapons as possible. Now they were out of time and maneuvering room. They could possibly drop down to a lower orbit and bypass the station like the alpha strike had done, but that would only leave the enemy more time to prepare for their return. And that was not the Corvanite way.
An assault shuttle vanished in a flash and a spray of glittering fragments, quickly falling away as it was no longer under power. The alpha strike had not disabled all of the station’s weaponry. Not that Bannon had expected it to. A clean sweep almost never happened.
He would mourn the men lost when he had time, should he not join them in the next few hours. At the moment, none were from his phalanx, so his plans did not have to change.
“Thirty seconds!” the pilot called out.
Bannon put a gauntleted hand on his harness release as he repeated the warning.
The gees seemed to mount even higher, and Bannon felt his vision start to go gray. The final approach had needed to be high enough in velocity to hopefully give them some survivability, but now they were paying the price, as the thrust had to be increased dramatically to bring the final orbits into alignment at the last moment.
When the final impact came, it was jarring, but almost gentle in comparison with the deceleration phase. Once the shock wore off, the sudden weightlessness was vaguely disorienting. Bannon couldn’t afford to be disoriented.
He hit the release on his harness, activating his mag boots in the same instant. They weren’t going to work on the ghost ship’s decks—they’d learned that from the fight above Zhogalgan—and they’d trained accordingly. But as long as they were still aboard the assault shuttle, the mag boots would help.
Planting his feet, he stood, his CR-196 in his hands. The ramps were already opening, pushed by hydraulics since there was no gravity to make them fall. “Go, go, go!”
He’d boarded Hern’s shuttle, more by habit than anything else, and now he pushed his way out with Hern and Alexius right on his heels. Trent held his position at the ramp, his boots still clamped to the deck, covering their exit with his autogun.
The bay was huge, and to Bannon’s surprise, his boots actually did lock to the deck, though there was a strange sponginess to the connection that made him wonder if it was actually a magnetic field or some other esoteric effect that he couldn’t guess at. It was probably useful for the ghost ship aliens not to have to float around or use maneuvering units, though the Corvanites had come equipped with the latter, expecting zero-gee combat.
Depth perception was difficult in this strange, dark place, with the eerie blue glow coming from nowhere and everywhere at once, but as he stepped out and moved away from the ramp to make room, pushing toward an unidentifiable piece of equipment at the base of the nearest ghost ship auxiliary craft, which seemed to be cradled in an armature that looked like skeletal black fingers rising as one from the deck, he estimated the bay was about a hundred yards across and nearly that high. The auxiliary craft cradled inside the bay made it even harder to see how deep it went, but it might easily be twice as deep as it was wide. A great deal had gone into the construction of this station, if the aliens could afford to waste this much space.
Three Corvanite assault shuttles were stark, angular shapes, lit blue on one side and red on the other, stacked just inside the great oval opening that showed the star-studded void outside, the lurid glow of the brown dwarf not quite bright enough to drown out the stars in the distance. Armored Corvanite warriors were spilling out, some stumbling as they unexpectedly found footing on the deck instead of the complete freefall they’d been expecting.
One of them died with a flash, as an energy weapon cut him in half.
Bannon pivoted toward the source of the bolt as Trent opened fire, his CAG-47 silent in the vacuum. Bullets smacked against dark hull material with equally silent puffs of disintegrating metal and synthetic. The image enhancers in Bannon’s helmet turned the murky, low-lit scene into one bright as day, and he tracked toward the ghost ship aliens—familiar long necks curved low to try to find cover behind the strange, soft-edged objects stacked behind the auxiliary craft—his optic raised to hardsuit height.
There were a few bodies floating just above the deck already, and part of one that had been crushed in half by an assault shuttle’s landing claw. Those claws were now punched into the deck, holding the shuttles firm. They were hardened to punch through even starship armor tiles, so the softer decking of the alien station’s docking bay was little trouble.
It looked as if the aliens had attempted to hold a defensive line partway across the bay, and the assault shuttles’ landing had all but annihilated it. They’d fallen back to the portal, and their energy weapons were blowing sparks and glowing fragments off the shuttles’ armor, but even as Bannon spotted one that was a little too high above its chosen cover and blew a six-millimeter round through its helmeted head, sending globules of blue fluid spraying against the bulkhead behind, the aliens were already starting to crumble.
Trent, Nguyen, and Starr were raking the makeshift barricade with fire, and the shuttles’ point defense cannons were adding their own fire, smashing some of the containers into spinning debris in the process. The incoming energy weapons fire was already beginning to slacken, and in an instant, half a dozen of the defending aliens broke and tried to dive for the membrane-covered portal behind them.
Bannon got one, his first round glancing off its torso armor to rip open its neck, sending yet another spray of weird, blue globes of weightless blood spinning away from the body in an arc as the alien twisted and tumbled in its death throes. The other five were ventilated just as quickly.
This was not the sort of defense he’d expected from the ghost ship aliens, not after the encounters on Zhogalgan, Thuraban, and Eredin IV. Yet, as he prepared to move forward, he realized that it made some sense. If this was supposed to be a hidden base in a brown dwarf system no one would ever have any reason to explore, why would the aliens be prepared for a full-scale assault?
He refused to allow their apparent disarray and lack of preparedness lead him to relax. He was looking for the next piece of cover before he moved.
First Special Tasks Phalanx’s mission might only be to secure the bay so that the rest of the assault force could board, but that was still two hundred yards—plus the auxiliary craft—to deal with.
“First Squad, hold. Second Squad, move to the left flank and anchor on that far auxiliary. Third Squad, prepare to move on me.” There was space underneath—for certain values of the term, though the strange attraction of the deck seemed to have created a “down” despite the freefall that the rest of his body was feeling—to get men through the docking cradle along the auxiliary’s hull. The strange, finger-like arms of the cradle itself could provide some cover.
Yet before anyone could move, a storm of bolts, faintly visible as ghostly lines connecting alien weapons with their targets, slammed out from two points on the alien barricade. Three of the men of First Squad were cut down, and bolts punched deep into First’s assault shuttle.
“Omnibangers!” The concussion would do nothing in the vacuum, but Bannon wasn’t worried about that. He wanted the obscurant, plus what disorientation the flash could inflict. He suited actions to words, ducking behind one of the docking cradle arms as he took one hand off his weapon and prepped his one omnibanger with it. He lobbed it around the docking arm, careful to pull the throw somewhat due to the lack of gravity or atmosphere.
Several more of the small cylinders sailed through the space inside the docking bay, bursting with bright, soundless flashes before spewing the thick, conductive mist that interfered with visual and electromagnetic scanning both.
Bannon was already moving as the omnibangers flooded the central part of the bay with swirling mist. He ducked beneath the low hull of the auxiliary craft and began to work his way from docking arm to docking arm, searching for more targets as he went, even as the clouds of obscurant lit up with bolts of energy as the defending ghost ship aliens picked up their fire to try to suppress the attacking Corvanites.
He’d gotten about halfway down the length of the auxiliary spacecraft, about the same size as the one he had boarded with Hern, Alexius, and Baddlet on Zhogalgan, when its hatch opened like a gaping maw only a couple of yards away, the long-faced humanoids that they’d encountered on Thuraban already leveling their weapons.
CHAPTER 38
Breck paused before the door. “You stay out here.” He handed Draven one of his captured weapons, adding to the two that Draven himself was already carrying.
There hadn’t been time to hide the bodies, but they’d given it what they could anyway, finding a shadowed alcove to quickly shove the corpses into. Sooner or later they would be missed, Drass especially, but although the strange wailing alarm still sounded throughout the base, they had as of yet seen no one on the trek back to their holding cell.
Now that they were here, though, Breck was becoming more cautious, and Draven wished he could ask what the plan was. With Yun’s loyalties somewhat in question—though Breck had trusted the other first sergeant with one of the captured weapons—it seemed the captain didn’t want to spell things out just yet.
It was possible he was simply winging it. Draven realized that he’d probably be doing the same thing were their roles reversed, though he’d been looking for an opening to start a breakout ever since they’d watched the starships be destroyed in the sky overhead. He still didn’t know what he’d do about getting off the planet and out of the system, but he knew that they had to fight back somehow.
Breck stepped to the door, while Draven slung the third weapon and stepped out a little farther into the hallway. They’d been instinctively hugging the walls on their way, if only because it seemed a little dimmer there. Draven had been in battles where hugging walls would only get men and women killed, but for the moment, it had felt right. Now he moved farther into the blue glow, positioning himself where he could cover the door as Breck got closer, while also watching Yun out of the corner of his eye.
Draven didn’t know Yun well, but he’d trusted him more than some would, given his reaction to Violaire’s treason. Still, he remained wary. Violaire’s execution at Breck’s hand had changed something.
Breck touched the control that opened the door. It wouldn’t work from inside—they’d tried—but several of the non-coms who had been taken out for questioning before the officers began to be drawn to speak with Rathavas had noticed where it was.
The door irised open, and Breck stuck only his head inside, not exposing the enemy weapon he now held. With some of his fellow officers already having sold their souls to the enemy, if only privately, he wasn’t taking chances.
“Colombe!” Breck’s voice was low, and it probably wouldn’t have traveled far in that place with the strange deadness to sound in the pebbly walls, even had the siren not still been howling. But Baker Company’s commanding officer heard him. Baker’s remnant was situated closer to the doorway, which was probably why Breck had chosen Colombe to begin with.
The younger man looked over at hearing his name, and frowned slightly, seeing only Breck and part of Draven standing out in the hall. He spoke briefly to his own first sergeant, Diemholt, and then cautiously walked over to join them.
Breck ushered him out into the hallway, letting the prison door iris shut behind him. Colombe glanced over his shoulder as it closed, his brow furrowed, the frown deepening as he saw the alien weapons now in Zolarian hands, and the distinct lack of an escort.
He took a step back, his eyes flashing, and Draven realized that what he’d taken for confusion was, in fact, suspicion. “If you’ve turned already, don’t think I’ll go quietly.”
Breck shook his head in disgust, glancing up and down the hallway at Colombe’s raised voice. “Don’t be a fool. Do you think they would trust us with weapons, unescorted?” He reached out a hand, Draven put one of the weapons in it, and then he shoved it at Colombe. “Quickly. Who of your officers and men can you trust?”
Now Colombe was confused. He looked down at the bell-mouthed energy weapon, then back up at Breck. “All of them.”
Captain Breck looked like he wanted to spit on the floor. “You can’t trust all of them, or haven’t you been paying attention? There are some of us who will happily go to serve the vithang in a heartbeat if they think it will get them out of that holding cell alive.” His gaze hardened and his jaw worked. “Captain Violaire was one of them.”
Colombe’s eyes flicked to First Sergeant Yun, who was pointedly covering his sector and keeping his back turned to the rest of the Zolarians in the hallway. Draven was trying to watch both him and Colombe at the same time, wishing he had independently turreted eyes like the corunnus.
“Where is she?”
Captain Breck’s face had gone blank as he kept Colombe pinned under his unblinking, basilisk stare. “She is with Drass.” His tone spoke volumes, and Colombe’s eyes widened as he realized what Breck meant.
“So, this is it?” He was adjusting fast.
“It is.” Breck kept staring him down. “Who can you trust?” He tilted his head toward the closed, membranous door. “Some of those in there will fight us rather than risk the wrath of our captors. I don’t want to turn this into a bloodbath of Zolarian against Zolarian, not unless I have no other choice.”
Yun might have twitched a little at that.
Colombe looked down at the weapon in his hands, turning it over. “Lieutenants Rambaud, Sorenson, and Kier are reliable, though Kier might balk from fear and overthinking. All of my non-coms will step up.” He winced. “Well, all but one. Utgerd has never been too blatant about it, but he is a climber, and will look for wherever he sees an advantage. He has little to no loyalty to anything or anyone, and if he believes that we stand no real chance, he will side with the enemy and those who would surrender body and soul out of excessive caution.”
Captain Breck nodded. “We will have to either separate him or deal with him.” He glanced around at the still-abandoned hallway. Draven felt his frown. Where were the vithang’s servants? The sirens had not yet ceased, and what might have been distant comms chatter seemed to echo through the sound-deadening halls.
Breck glanced at Draven, and a rueful grimace crossed his face. “How well can those officers fight?”
Colombe looked positively pained. “The non-coms are probably better fighters,” he admitted. “Except for Rambaud. He is uniquely skilled.”
Draven doubted that, but then, he’d been wrong about Captain Breck, so he decided he should reserve judgment.
Breck looked at the weapons they had. “Bring out two more you can trust, who can move and shoot. Three, if you’re not sure you can step up.” It sounded harsh, but under the circumstances, it was fair. Draven still almost flinched, knowing how Zolarian officers could take offense at the slightest things.
Captain Colombe didn’t seem to be one of those. Or, if he was, he had come to realize that their circumstances were far too dire for his pride. “I will bring out Rambaud, Torg, and Georgios.” He raised an eyebrow. “I will go too, but they are better with their weapons than I am.”
Breck nodded and opened the door again. Colombe ducked through, and Draven’s eyes narrowed as he heard the Baker Company commander get bombarded by questions from curious Zolarian soldiers, none of whom Draven could be sure of. From the look on Captain Breck’s face, the captain wasn’t sure either.
Just before the door shut again, Colombe raised his voice. “I can’t say what’s going on. I’m not entirely sure myself.” Then the membrane irised shut and cut him off.
Draven watched their surroundings, the tension rising as the distant noises continued, but no aliens appeared to try to recapture them. Or kill them. The vithang’s servants had to know that they’d escaped by now. If nothing else, Draven expected the compartment to be vented to space, or filled with poison gas at any moment. The Zolarians, stripped of their hardsuits, wouldn’t last long.
Apparently whatever had triggered the wailing alarm now had the aliens’ full attention. That wouldn’t last, he was sure, but if they moved quickly, they might have a chance.
A chance at what, he didn’t want to think about. They were no less cut off and isolated in this unknown system, despite the fact that they were now free and armed. Unless they could somehow teach themselves how to fly alien starships—and none of them were spacers except for a couple of shuttle pilots who had survived—they were just as stranded and surrounded as they had been a few minutes ago.
He didn’t care. He was fighting back, and even if they all died in the process, it was preferable to whatever the vithang had in mind for them. The memory of what Rathavas had said to Violaire haunted him.
There was a faint sound at the door. Draven lifted his weapon, unsure what he’d just heard. Breck glanced at him, his own weapon held muzzle high, and touched the control.
The door irised open and Colombe stepped out, followed by three others in the plain undersuits they all wore beneath their armor, only one with the pips of an officer woven into his collar. There were more soldiers and officers visible on the other side, watching with a mix of curiosity and dread.
