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Chapter Forty-Two

“Korelon, stand by,” Harry commed over the hardline to the second hab. “We’re coming up on the precession maneuver.”

Harry heard a ka-click on the circuit as Korelon double-keyed his comm in reply.

Obedient to Murphy’s requirement, they remained strictly segregated from the packet’s crew, and both teams had remained in their habs following the pod retrieval. Even during the terrifying meteor storm, or whatever the hell that had been, and throughout the heavy jostling they’d suffered during the transfer from the packet ship to the captured Kulsian lighter, the teams had accepted their lot, remaining in communications blackout. Then, almost three hours ago, they’d been rousted from the middle of the sleep period. The digital clangor of the general quarters alarm created a spasm of activity, and, while the men sorted themselves and their gear, Harry had received his first voice communication from outside the hab in nearly three weeks. He recognized Bowden, warning them of the closing distance to the target.

Despite the traditional enmity of ground pounders for the perceived cushy life of aviators and, by derivation, spaceship drivers, Harry had been surprised at the wave of emotion he rode hearing his crewmate’s voice.

Damn, they didn’t forget our ass.

And:

I’ll bet that guy has been eating proper food and enjoying hot showers in a climate-controlled cockpit while we’ve been in here.

Now he executed the next part of Murphy’s plan. The mission calculus deliberately backed the RockHounds into a corner. Harry admired the ruthlessness of it, for it could be nothing else. He knew his boss wasn’t one to leave something to chance.

At Murphy’s insistence, Harry had refrained from sharing the complete operational picture, instead limiting the information shared with both teams to the minimum of tactical details needed to successfully storm the corvette.

Now, per the plan, he briefed them on not only the immediate mission, but the consequences of failure. He gave them everything the RockHound Legate had been read in on. In particular, Harry laid out, in explicit terms, the significance of seizing the ship they were on right now, the enemy’s lighter. There was no easy way—no way at all, really—to hide from the consequences. If it were learned that the disappearance of that ship was not some unseen accident—one that also involved the corvette—the Kulsians would know to start scouring the system for the culprits. Consequently, they had to seize the corvette so the joint piloting team could move it to the hidden manufactories where Dornaani software updates would let the SpinDogs reproduce it as fast as possible. And Bowden’s team needed the freedom to ensure that the aftermath of the engagement looked consistent with some navigational or technical failure that was catastrophic for ships. If they failed, the Kulsians would learn of the existence of the space-based Families and move swiftly to destroy them. It wasn’t merely a strong possibility; it was a certainty. Not only did Kulsis need to eliminate any competition, but they also had to ensure they remained in compliance with the conditions the Ktor had imposed upon their exile.

Most of the information he shared was already a matter of supposition and conjecture among the assault team. The RockHounds looked especially alert. They understood the bleak outlook of failure. The Lawless were merely risking their lives; the very civilization of the Hounds was at stake. The grim silence that met Harry’s info dump simmered with equal parts anger and determination.

Harry recognized the silence and understood there would be a reckoning, but that was a problem for later.

“One last thing,” Harry said, holding their attention. He had to finish with something to kindle their anger, their discomfort, even their hate.

Perhaps, especially their hate. Harry would focus it like a shaped charge. Front toward enemy.

“Once the assault begins, we don’t stop until the ship is taken and every Kulsian is neutralized. Our casualties will be treated after the fight. If you are injured, you keep fighting. Lose a hand? Doesn’t matter. Lose your friend? Doesn’t matter. There’s only victory. Those arrogant bastards from Kulsis have no idea what’s waiting for them. They’ve become accustomed to being the undisputed rulers of this system. For generations, they’ve pillaged R’Bak. They’ve forced the RockHounds and SpinDogs alike to hide. To conceal your very existence. They stand between us Terrans and our home.

“That’s all over. We’re going to tear their hearts out and take their pretty, clean ship away. They’ll learn to fear leaving their own gravity well. We’re going to clamp their limbs and cut them off. They’ll learn respect for the Hounds. We’re going to steal their air, their ship, their pride, and their very legacy. And, after today, they will fucking quail when they learn they’re fighting both Terrans and Hound-Dogs together.”

A low, aggressive growl spread through the squads, like the last sound a startled deer might hear emerging from a dense, dark thicket in the heart of wolf country.

“Rodriguez, Korelon, take your posts.”

The teams emerged from the habs and took up their positions. After the training losses, Harry had reorganized the remaining men. Korelon led the Hounds of Bravo to the lighter’s airlock. As its hull slowly rotated and swung the exit out of line-of-sight from the approaching ship, Bravo would exit and hide behind carefully placed debris made to look like torn hull plating and ruptured cargo containers. Harry and the other five Terrans would remain in the hangar, out of view, and wait for the Kulsians to board. As soon as the first Kulsian stepped inside, Harry would initiate.

Once the fight was joined, the assault team could resort to radio, but the chaos would be resolved by surprise and aggression. All their careful planning and detailed walk-throughs would become subordinate to whatever unexpected thing happened. Harry had been in enough fights to know nothing ever went to plan.

He wasn’t disappointed.

* * *

Instead of fidgeting or looking around the windowless hangar, Harry checked his commpad repeatedly. No communications were possible until the assault began, so he reined in his agitation. After a relative eon, the hangar airlock proximity alarm sounded, and Harry knew the Kulsian corvette was matching the captured lighter’s slow tumble. A short time later, the airlock connection light shone green. A pressure readout began ticking up as air was pumped into the boarding umbilical.

“Initiate assault!” someone shrieked over the radio link.

Startled, Harry twitched. He realized it was the lighter pilot when the voice behind the warning continued, distorted by fear and haste, “Communication system sabotaged, we’re broadcasting to the corvette. Initiate, initiate! They’re being warned off!”

“Korelon, go!” Harry ordered. “Alpha, take the umbilical, now!”

Alpha, the hangar team, was already in motion, spurred by the first warning. Ahead of Harry, his five men converged on the lock. Rodriguez overrode the lighter’s safety interlock, and they were tugged forward as the atmosphere in the hangar surged past them to equalize the lower pressure in the boarding tube. Rodriguez led the way, tugging the expander jack off his back. He used both feet and his remaining free hand to swarm across the connection between the ships. The entire team swung through, making the accordion-like structure sway disconcertingly. Harry watched as the veteran sergeant moved faster than thought, ramming the tool into the upper corner of the seam between the hatch and the enemy hull, immediately starting the tool.

“Another one, get it ready,” Rodriguez called hoarsely, bracing himself as the door spreader bucked in his grip. “Below mine!”

Pham shouldered in, adding his entry tool to the equation. Together, the motors strained at the lock system. Designed only to contain atmosphere, it slowly began to yield.

“Enemy point defense engaging,” Korelon reported coolly. “Casualties severe. Seeking shelter on the h—”

“Korelon, grab some cover!” Harry ordered unnecessarily, and immediately felt like a fool. “Give me SITREP when you can.”

Harry’s suit mic picked up the breaching tools automatically gearing down, the motors slowing from a fast whine to a deeper whir. He couldn’t tell if the internal door mechanism was deforming, or they were overcoming the motor holding the lock shut.

An unfamiliar clanging began, and a spinning red light illuminated the narrow boarding tube.

“They’re trying to undock, get the fucking door open, now!” Harry yelled. Behind him, the remaining men were stacked single file, ready to assault into the opening.

Grave de Peralto unlimbered his bulky frame charge and started forward.

With a muted crack, the door surged open. Opposite the door was a Kulsian in a bright red suit, hammering on the inner door with one fist. The crewman spun just in time to meet Rodriguez’s charge. The furious sergeant shoved a grappler against the target’s throat, and the machine snapped closed as the assault team was still swarming inside.

Without warning, the umbilical deformed and tore away. The team was buffeted by the escaping atmosphere. A moment later, there was a short surge of acceleration, and the team—as well as their first victim—were pressed unceremoniously against the aft bulkhead. Harry looked to the enemy, but a stream of white vapor from the edges of the clamp and the scrabbling hands of their victim was enough confirmation the man was out of the fight.

They untangled themselves and Harry did a quick head count.

“Where’s McPherson?” he radioed.

“He was behind me,” Roeder replied. “He didn’t make it.”

“Right,” Harry answered, compartmentalizing his emotions. All that mattered was the essential understanding his team was down one. “Korelon, SITREP.”

There was no reply.

“Any Bravo team member, respond.”

The silent radio channel mocked him.

“Alpha, we’re it,” he announced. “Bravo’s gone. Roeder, Flea, get the lock closed if you can. Pham, Rodriguez, check the inner lock. We need to get in right away. The enemy is warned; we need to move—now!”

Harry checked the slumped, still form of the Kulsian. Through the cracked faceplate, he could see the perfect features of a young, dark-haired man, mouth still yawning open in mid-scream.

“Security rounds,” Harry announced, delivering a carefully aimed palm strike to the man’s helmet. All he felt was a sharp crunch as the spike half-shattered the Kulsian’s faceplate. A brief puff of gas emerged from the hole as liquid components of the man’s blood began to boil, but then slowed to a stop.

The sounds conveyed by Harry’s helmet mic also changed, taking on a tinny quality. He turned to find the outer door closed and the lock pressurizing.

“Another thirty seconds, we should be able to open the door,” Pham announced calmly. “The interlocks prevent opening till pressure is equalized, or nearly so.”

“We split as briefed,” Harry ordered curtly. “The priority is to isolate and shut down engineering so they can’t boost or sabotage the fusion chamber. Roeder, Flea, on me. Marco, Pham, go forward. Kill anyone you see and take the bridge.”

“You mean, go join the Army!” Rodriguez said sardonically, checking the straps on his spike-punch.

“Travel to exotic, distant lands,” Roeder continued, taking a grappler off his belt and checking the safety.

“Meet exciting new people!” Grave de Peralto added cheerfully, hands patting his holstered pistol and then dancing across his equipment belt for another check.

“And kill them,” Harry finished the mordant litany. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Above Pham’s head, the airlock pressure indicator blinked green, and Harry stacked on the experienced NCO’s side. Harry looked back at the other three men, then gave Pham a squeeze on the arm, signaling “go.”

The inner door opened to a clear corridor, and Harry tried the radio again. He let Roeder lead the way toward engineering while Pham and Rodriguez headed in the opposite direction. Despite the brief surge of acceleration, they were in free fall again. Disconcertingly, the deck plates were “up,” presumably to provide a walking surface if the ship was spun on its axis. He studied placards on the wall, deciphering the hybrid Ktoran script. The brushed alloy corridor was narrow, and the view forward was interrupted by airtight hatches. Employing a mixture of caution and nervous haste, Harry’s trio pulled themselves past signs for medical, two small berthing compartments, and lastly environmental, although Harry made a mental note to return to the last as soon as the bridge and engineering were secure.

They reached the final airtight hatch without seeing a soul. Like the rest, this one was closed, but the red light on the chip reader port was lit.

“Our Lady of Plastic Acceleration, don’t fail me now,” Harry whispered, fishing around in his suit’s chest pocket. He placed the electronic lock pick against the device. In a moment, the chip reader blinked green. “And Open Sesame.”

Harry gestured left and right, ordering Roeder and Grave de Peralto to either side of the door. Standing to one side, he slowly eased the hatch handle to the open position and then gave it a shove. Roeder slipped nimbly through. The short Cuban followed, bumping against both edges as he caught first one side of his suit and then the other passing the threshold. Harry followed on their heels, noting the change from deck tile to a much rougher, black nonskid surface, almost like sandpaper.

This was definitely engineering. Narrow passageways split along the bulkheads of the compartment, leaving an island of equipment and small work alcoves in the middle. Cabling and piping, archaic hand wheels sprouting from the latter, created places to snag their suits. A surprising number of analog gauges were arranged across the closed doors of cabinets, supplemented by what appeared to be red digital readouts in Ktoran script, just like Harry’s digital alarm clock back in college. The space was brightly lit and a few benches were crowded against empty, shallow tables.

“Sossa?” someone queried, the sound faithfully picked up by Harry’s external mic. “Sossa!”

Ahead and to the right, Grave de Peralto charged around a corner, but a frantic, high-pitched mechanical whine pierced the surprisingly quiet compartment. A powerful bound drove de Peralto forward, but as Harry watched, the muscular tension that marked his teammate’s quivering readiness chopped off like a thrown light switch. Grave de Peralto drifted along his original course, passing out of sight.

Another one down.

“Doc, we got a shooter!” Harry yelled in English. “On my two, we push at the same time, got it?”

“Aye!” came the answer.

Harry drew his grappler and switched it to his left hand. Then he counted as loudly as he could.

“One! Two!”

He moved as fast as he could, knowing even speed wouldn’t save him if the Kulsian was facing the wrong way. One chance for life, one chance for death. Harry planted his foot and pivoted into the alcove, catching another Kulsian facing the wrong way. This spacer had good reason, though. Roeder must have pushed up and then rebounded from the overhead, because he was descending upon his victim like the bastard love child of a rock avalanche and an angry bear, arms spread wide. The frantic whining repeated, even louder at this distance, but Roeder tackled the man, a slightly built Kulsian wearing a red coverall. By sheer mass, Roeder bore the man to the deck, falling on top of him, squeezing the Kulsian’s arms to his sides. Harry took a knee. Careful not to hit Roeder with a through and through, he palm-slapped the Kulsian in the skull. The spike did its thing. The man went limp.

Harry waited for Roeder to get up, but he lay on top of the man, wheezing.

“Doc? Doc, you all right?” Harry asked, scanning the space beyond this alcove.

“He dinged me a bit,” Roeder said, huffing a bit on the last syllable. With a groan, he stiff-armed himself off the corpse and twisted off to hover above the floor. Harry saw the telltale smears of blood on the fabric of Roeder’s EVA suit on the lower abdomen and right leg. Harry plucked the pistol from the corpse’s flaccid grip. The controls weren’t suitable for EVA gauntlets. It had a very small bore, and the holes in Roeder’s suit were almost needle diameter.

“Stay put, I need to check the rest,” Harry said, and performed a quick search, satisfying himself that engineering was empty. He also confirmed Grave de Peralto was dead. He scavenged the man’s grappler and then returned to the instrument console where they’d found the Kulsian. Nothing screamed sabotage or emergency. Aware of the time passing, Harry frantically looked for an isolation panel, recalling the plant shutdown procedures the RockHounds had diagrammed for the team. There was a series of small switches striped in the telltale yellow-and-black diagonals: the main breaker.

Harry threw the master and the lighting blinked off, instantly replaced by wall-mounted electric lanterns that cast pools of yellow light along the walkways and upon each workstation. He went along the row, flipping switches. He disabled weapons, sensors, and communications. Then, just to be certain, he moved the main engineering output control to idle and restricted the plant to local control before turning back to Roeder.

“I think I’ll stay and guard engineering, boss,” Roeder said, pressing a fist to his leg and wheezing heavily. “Ah shit, that smarts!”

“No problem, Doc,” Harry said, patting Roeder’s shoulder. “I’ve got this. I’ll go see how many bodies Marco and Pham have got stacked, then we’ll call the lighter back in to get you some first aid. Hang tough.”


“Tapper to bridge team,” Harry radioed, moving toward the bow of the ship, using his legs to push off helpful projections and relying on his hands to control direction. It was just a matter of retracing his route along the main corridor so far. “SITREP, over.”

There was no immediate reply. He repeated the call, continuing past their original point of entry. Sweating, he licked dry lips. Too long; this is taking too long.

Beyond the airlock, the paired port and starboard passageways merged into what he believed must be the main, spinal corridor. To rush headlong was to invite disaster; moving too deliberately, the same.

He paused nonetheless.

Through the next hatch, drops of ruby blood floated. The walls were liberally dappled with it. One obvious source was the vacsuited Kulsian stuck to the bulkhead, both arms extended in front of the body, dangling in the odd way only found in micro. A grappling claw projected from the presumed corpse’s thigh, visibly constricting the tough material to half its diameter. Harry cautiously checked the Kulsian. The back of the dead Kulsian’s suit was hung up on an emergency lantern, creating an eerie glow around the body. Punch poised to strike, Harry tilted the helm to see inside. He gulped and examined the rest of the suit. Two punch holes across the chest of his—no, make that her—suit matched the spike on Harry’s arm.

The trail of blood beads and smears led forward, toward the bow.

“Tapper to anyone, come back,” Harry said, approaching another hatch.

He tried the radio again after opening that one and visually clearing the passage beyond. “Any station this net, respond.”

“Rodriguez here,” Harry heard the clear, if faint, reply. “And I’d like to officially note this op sucks, sir.”

“Glad to hear your voice, Marco,” Harry said, grinning in relief. “Give me a SITREP. Tell me you have the bridge.”

“No such luck. Pham got one, and I winged another, but the wounded guy made it to operations, and he’s got a buddy. Pham is down. How about you, over?”

“We secured engineering,” Harry answered, carefully peeking around yet another hatch. The blood trail continued. “Two enemy down and dead. Grave de Peralto’s dead. Roeder’s out of the fight.”

“Shit, how bad?” Rodriguez asked, audibly exhaling. “Never mind. Look, they can’t get out of the bridge, or whatever is behind the last damned door, and they can’t lock it, either. But we’re going to have a helluva time getting in.”

“There isn’t a door we can’t blow if we have to,” Harry answered, careful to sound confident.

“Maybe Bravo can help?”

“I still haven’t heard from anyone from Bravo, so it’s just thee and me, Marco.”

There was a pause. Harry took the time to clear two more small compartments. A small refectory and a supply closet, of all things.

“About that, Harry.”

Shit, not Marco.

“How bad is it?” Harry asked levelly. “Can you fight?”

“I’m holding the bridge door open,” Rodriguez answered gamely. “If they try to come out, they’re easy meat. But I caught a few in my leg. They got these little needle things, great penetration on anything soft, shatter on metal. I’m not losing too much blood, as far as I can tell, but it’s gone numb. But since you turned off the power—wait, that was you, right?”

“Yeah, engineering is ours,” Harry replied.

He must be out of it. I just told him we took engineering.

“Roeder is holding back there, so no one is turning the power back on till we say,” Harry continued. “Whoever’s on the bridge or operations can’t call for help or move the ship.”

“Good, something going as planned,” Rodriguez said, sounding a bit cheerier. “My leg’s pretty useless, but I can get around okay in free fall.”

At that point, the ship lurched about Harry, and he grabbed a handhold, only to be pressed outward, braced against what had been the ceiling.

Ah, there it is: Murphy’s Law.

The ship was under spin.


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