0037, Saturday, July 3, 2027
+60 Hours 41 Minutes SMT
Low Orbit, Septus Minor
Aboard the Porsavar
The team is squared away in the glistening white elevator car with their weapons held in high alert position facing the door.
“Remember,” I say. “Our entry point is six o’clock. Right and left sides are three and nine. Far side is twelve. Everyone set?”
They reply in the affirmative.
“Good on your end, Chuck?”
“The bobbies are ready, Patrick. These IRA bastards won’t know what hit them.”
I give him a pat. “Well, we’re counting on you to do… whatever it is you’re planning on doing to cover our asses.”
“I know, Patrick. And I won’t let you down.”
“Hey,” Z-Lo says to Ghost. “Srin Ock Tall’s gonna be in there. Second chances, right?”
Ghost doesn’t respond.
“Cool, okay. Gotcha.”
“Ten seconds,” Bumper says, then quickly amends his count after hitting the side of his helmet. “Sorry, five seconds. Huh.”
That’s weird.
“Prepare to engage.” I raise Chuck to ready position and wait for the doors to open. My HUD view shudders like it just had a glitch. And then it’s back to normal. “Chuck? We good?”
“Yes, Patrick.”
A soft chime emanates from the audio system when we stop. Then my helmet translates a female voice saying, “You have arrived on the Command Bridge.”
The doors part.
First up, Bumper and Hollywood toss two VODs set to minimum yield flash-bang mode. They sail over the railing and disappear under the balcony, followed by a near-simultaneous puh-pop ! My helmet dulls the blasts even though I still feel the kick in my gut.
Vlad and Lada are out of the lift first. They aim across the opening to cut the angles, but they knock into each other and then the walls. It’s not enough to mess with their aim, but it’s sloppy.
The siblings fire three round bursts on the two guards standing beside the elevator. The bodies haven’t even hit the floor by the time Vlad and Lada pass along the balcony.
Bumper and Hollywood are out next. They cover center, fire, and then split apart along the balcony. Z-Lo and Sugar do the same, and then it’s Hobbs’s and my turn, with Ghost and Aaron in the rear. We duck right, firing on a security guard in the middle of the lower floor, while Ghost turns left and shoots a tech on the far-side balcony who’s reaching for his pistol.
Exfil from the car takes less than three seconds, and already my HUD shows five tangos down with—seventeen more to go? That’s not right. I double-check the count to see thermal only started with twenty-two hostiles, not the expected twenty-three. Must be off. Or someone stepped out. My guess is the captain.
With the element of surprise gone, blaster fire peppers the railing near my head as Hobbs and I duck for cover behind a mid-aisle vertical support at the five o’clock position. Only something solid hits my shoulder before I’m behind the beam. Hits hard. And hurts like hell too. But I’m more surprised that I can’t see what struck me.
“You okay?” Hobbs asks once we’re hidden.
“Roger.”
A quick roster check shows that no one has taken hits to their PSGs. I’m shocked. But I’m not complaining.
“Call ’em out,” I order to keep our momentum high.
“Three left,” Vlad says.
“Four right,” Lada yells.
Hobbs and I support Lada, Hollywood, and Sugar as they fire on the four hostiles along the upper level, sweeping to starboard. One enemy goes down from a headshot, while two others act like they’re rodents in a Whac-A-Mole game, popping up and down behind a computer terminal. Thanks to Chuck’s meddling, Lada takes one out. Sugar stumbles forward, takes three direct hits, and bounces into a railing. A beat later, he’s on the deck—bites it face-first.
“Kid,” I yell and reach out.
“Shit, man! I’m okay. I’m just bumpin’ into splick I don't see. Like when you trippin’ on some dust, only without being high, right? Sucks man. Just sucks.”
“Get to cover, kid.”
He does, just as Hollywood and Lada time their shots and drop the last hostile behind the computer terminal. The bastard didn’t even come close to hitting us. I’ll take it.
Hobbs and I double-team the last purple people eater when he leans out from an I-beam. Only, we don’t. One second he’s there, right behind my chevrons, and the next he’s not.
“The hell?”
“My apologies, Patrick,” Chuck says. “That’s on me. Try again.”
I wanna ask him what’s going on, ’cause I know he’s behind whatever’s happening, but the tango pops out again, and Hobbs and I fire as before. We hit him this time, and the enemy flips over the railing to drop five meters below. His body lands with a thud and draws the attention of the rest of the crew who’ve taken cover—just ten remaining.
I raise my CHK over the railing, but the muzzle strikes the upper bar. I swear I’m not that close.
“Ouch,” Chuck says. “Watch it.”
“Sorry.” I take a half-step back and try again, and this time I clear the top rail. Chuck’s doing some fancy-ass chess work here, I just haven’t figured it out yet. Goddamn irritating.
I’m about to fire down on a tango running for a better position when blaster rounds explode against the grate beneath my feet. While the shots weren’t direct hits, my PSG loses 20 percent. I push Hobbs right but find her backside much closer than it looks. Vision’s off.
“Move,” I yell.
She and I run to a solid deck plate around four o’clock where we can’t get shot from below—at least under our asses. But the enemy does spot us from across on the lower floor at nine o’clock and opens fire. We planned for this, of course. Now that we control the high ground, we can fire down on the first floor in a circle.
The remaining ten tangos are outlined in red and filled with heat color gradients. I target one bastard and wait for him to pop up behind a workstation. He does, and I knock his head sideways so that he cartwheels into a chair.
“Eleven o’clock,” Chuck yells.
But I’m too slow, and blaster bolts ping off the railing by my head. I pull back but peek out a moment later and spot a security guard decked out in light armor and a helmet. He’s crouched behind some sort of prefab barricade. Doesn’t look threatened in the least. The wall is like an extended riot shield with side wings and muzzle holes.
“Breach defenses,” Hobbs says. “They’re positioned just for this scenario.”
“Copy.”
I duck from another wild assault that smacks against the railing. More blaster fire scatters in the floor grate to my left too. I hold Chuck over the floor and blind-fire straight down. Half the energy splashes against my PSG and surroundings, while the other half goes through.
“What was that for?” Chuck asks.
“To get him to shut up for a sec. It’s annoying.” My mag’s nearing its end. “Changing.”
Return fire rings against the grate.
“I don’t think that was a very effective technique, Patrick.”
“No shit?”
“I’m… not sure how to answer that.”
“So don’t.”
I survey the lower command deck once more and see that our starboard side has a barricade at the one o’clock position with two tangos hidden behind it just like the port side has. It also dawns on me that the barricades are open at the top.
I’m not close to our side’s enemy emplacement, but Lada and Hollywood are. Likewise, Vlad and Bumper are closest to the port side’s mobile wall. The security guards will see anyone trying to move into position above them. But not if we draw their fire. With four guards in the two barricades, that leaves just three tangos below our feet.
“On my go, Bumper and Vlald, advance left behind the eleven o’clock barricade. Lada, Hollywood, you’re on the right one.”
“They’ll see us approaching,” Hollywood says.
“No,” I reply. “They’ll have something more interesting to look at.” I nod at Hobbs. “Wanna jump?”
She thumbs over the railing to the middle of the command deck. “Down there?”
“Yut. I feel like making a scene.”
She grins. “Go big or… go back to the planet you… Eh, I got nothing. Let’s jump.”
I place one hand on the railing—surprised that my hand meets it before I see it touch—and then stand. I throw my legs over and yell, “Go!”
As if in slow motion, I see Lada and Hollywood charge the starboard flank while Vlad and Bumper run along the port side. Hobbs is a split second behind me and vaulting over the top bar. Then blaster fire erupts from behind the barricades, aimed straight at us. I expect it to pelt our PSGs, but the capacity indicators aren’t dropping. Even as we fall toward the floor, the energy levels are unchanged despite the fact that I’m sure we’ve been hit a dozen times.
My boots hit the ground a second before my brain says they’re supposed to. The jolt shakes my body, and I hit the deck on my chest. There’s more surprise than pain—no small thanks to my suit’s impact servos. Had I done this without death angel armor, I’m sure my knees would be blown out, and I’d have a cracked rib or two. But I manage to raise my rifle and fire on the ankles of three tangos that appear in a gap below some equipment. The hostiles flail, and one falls into my stream of fire—dead, after I pump its chest full of blaster rounds.
Hobbs is to my left. Her green armor glints in the light of her CHK as she unloads on the remaining Sci-Rung bastards. As if our combined firepower isn’t enough, Ghost and Aaron have managed to lift a deck plate in the balcony and join our assault from on high. They shoot from the eight o’clock position and cut down a tango who thought it was a good idea to flee our surprise drop-in.
As soon as the enemies are down, I climb to my feet and spin around to see the balcony assault teams in position and firing behind the barricades. Their shots drive the hostiles to their knees and fold them into the deck.
“Clear,” Hollywood yells when they’re done.
“Clear,” adds Hobbs.
Bumper sweeps left and right from on high and then raises his weapon. “And that’s how it’s done, people.”
“We still have one more,” I say. “Count’s short.”
Hobbs turns to the starboard-side captain’s quarters. “Think he got away?”
“Probably.”
Ghost is down and joins Hobbs on either side of the door while I punch the button. But a three-beat error tone sounds, and a red light flashes.
“It’s locked,” Chuck says.
“Can you override it?”
“It will be on my to-do list, Patrick. But first things first. I need you to place me on the center console there.”
There’s an island raised two steps off the deck. One of those large holo-projector domes hangs over it from the ceiling.
“I don’t see a slot to put you in. Can I just lay you anywhere on the table?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Goddammit, Chuck!”
“Sorry, yes. Lay me anywhere. Hmmmf .”
I take the stairs in one bound and set him down. Meanwhile, I order the team to muzzle-thump the dead and recover weapons and mags. Then it’s time to check in on Insarka. Rather than chance a possible distraction with a channel request, I ping her chat window:
BRIDGE SECURED
SITREP WHEN ABLE
A confirmation icon pops up. That means she’s not dead. But a lack of audio or video reply means she’s still engaged.
“Alright, Patrick,” Chuck says. “The doors are locked, and the bridge is secure. It also looks as though the Sci-Rung failed to initiate any ship-wide alerts about our little skirmish here.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You sure about that? What about the captain?”
“Interestingly, he does not seem to be in his quarters, nor does it look like the elevator was used during the assault.”
I nod at Ghost and Hobbs. “Check it out. Take Vlad.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“I don’t trust the captain.”
“But I—”
“What else you got?”
Chuck waits for a moment and then adds, “Many things, actually. Quite a plethora, if I’m being asked. But I need another few moments as this system is rather complex.”
“Can you multitask?”
“I said it was complex, not that I was a completely inept twat.”
“How’d we just clear a room full of twenty-two Sci-Rung?”
“Why, with the sentient power of the Supreme Galactic Duke of Phantom Land, of course. What else were you expecting, Patrick?”
“I mean, how technically speaking. They hardly got a shot off even though we were looking right at them with the intent to kill. That’s how it works, right?”
“Correct. Except you weren’t looking right at them.”
The rest of the Phantoms hear this and turn our way.
“Then… what were we looking at?”
“Where I anticipated they were about to be.”
“Holy shit,” Sugar says. “You used, like”—he squints like he’s searching for the term—“reverse psycho-projecting thought something-something?”
“For lack of a better jumble of meaningless words, yes. In order to prevent them from predicting your movements based on your brain waves, I decided to try to beat them at their own game by sending you my predictions of where they might be. Of course, not just any ASIK can do this. You are fortunate to have me.”
“Of course, yes,” I say, unsure if he’s telling the truth about all other ASIKs.
“I was anticipating what they were anticipating fractions of a second before they anticipated it.”
“Truly, you have a dizzying intellect,” I add.
“Wait ’til I get going!” He pauses. “This sounds familiar. Where was I?”
“Australia.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“My bad. So, when we bumped into things…?”
“Everything you saw was me sending you renderings of what you were about to encounter. But with so many HUDs to update, including Insarka’s—she’s fine, by the way. Just wrapping up now—sometimes things got laggy. In essence, everything you were seeing was happening milliseconds before you thought it was, thus keeping the Sci-Rung off your scent while still allowing you to fire on target.”
“So then, you’re saying our reaction times were slow enough to account for this because there’s no way—”
“Of course your reaction times are slow! How else do you think I was supposed to pull this off?”
Hollywood shakes her head a little and looks down. “I know we just won, but somehow it feels like we didn’t.”
“Well, it was a weird fight for sure, but that was some good thinking. Nice job, Chuck.”
“My pleasure, Patrick. Again, you owe it all to my über lush sentient processing abilities. Oooo! I’m fully sexing the Porsavar ’s command architecture.”
Vlad lets out a snort. “You are really son of lucky gun.”
“Tell us what you got, pal,” I add.
“First and perhaps unsurprisingly, the Sci-Rung we killed here are among the only remaining on the Porsavar . The ship’s manifest does list that there are seven more, but I believe five of those were previously dispatched by your valiant efforts, one by mine—yes, I made sure the Verv Slayer, as he was being dubbed, met an unfortunate end with the blunt sides of a trash compactor.”
“And the seventh?” I ask.
“That would be the captain. And I can now confirm with 100 percent certainty that it is indeed Srin Ock Tall.”
Z-Lo puts a hand on Ghost’s shoulder. “This just isn’t your day, my dude.”
“Do you value that hand?”
“My bad.” The kid yanks his arm back.
“Where they at with the refugee transfer?” I ask Chuck.
“The first wave has been unloaded. Would you care to see?”
“Bring it up.”
A holo projection snaps to life over the table. It shows a massive cargo bay with some sort of force field across an open door to space. I can even make out Septus Minor below. Our ship’s two pancakes sit this side of the door with their ramps down. Where the metal meets the deck, poles with glowing blue lights atop them mark the sides of paths that run together and then disappear off camera. Outside the marked lanes, fifty or so mercs track the last numbers of refugees headed to holding.
“I assume those paths are bordered by a force field or something?” I propose to Chuck. “No way fifty hired guns keep track of 100,000 people.”
“That’s correct, Patrick. Like the Androchidans with their herding rings, the Sci-Rung have leveraged technology to suit their needs. They’re quite efficient too, if you ask me.”
Hollywood steps up and points to where the refugees are walking off camera. “Can we follow them?”
“Of course, yes. Stand by.”
The image flickers for a second and is replaced by several more camera feeds. Each shows the refugees en route to vast holding areas lined with rows of pens. But instead of chain-link fence like we might use in a detention facility, these stalls are made up of more poles with blue lights on top.
“Looks like twenty-five people to a pen,” Hobbs says. “There’s gotta be thousands of them.”
“Four thousand, to be precise. And ten more chambers like this one,” Chuck replies. “At one time, these spaces were more like small apartment complexes. But according to the dry dock engineering records, the Sci-Rung dismantled those after decommissioning the vessels from registered personnel carriers to black market smuggling ships.”
“So there are just two then?” I feel the others look at me. “I’m just curious how many toys these bastards have.”
“My knowledge does not yet extend into all the Sci-Rung’s underworld holdings. However, I believe it’s safe to say that, yes, we will only encounter two like this. As for the refugees, they will have access to community latrines, potable water, and biologically compatible nutrition supplements. Which, I might add, is a step up for some of them after Septus Minor. Don’t tell Winters I said that. He’d be soooo pissed.”
“Copy that.” I ask Chuck to go back to the cam feed of the pancakes in the main hangar bay. “And these guys are just gonna load up and do another four loads each?”
“That’s correct.”
Ghost chimes in. “Any word on where the captain is?”
“Not yet, Ghost. But I’m working on that. For the time being, I believe it’s safe to say that he knows nothing of our assault on the bridge in that he has not raised the alarm. That said, I don’t anticipate that he will make contact with the bridge crew, an act that I will obviously intercept and do my best to field.”
“You like baseball?” Sugar asks.
“Cricket.”
“What?”
With the bridge taken and eyes on the refugees, it’s time we see about our exit plan. “Chuck, you have a nav point on that quantum tunnel?”
“Working on it.”
I furrow my brows. “Try looking under ‘Where we just came from.’”
“Alas, it’s not that easy, Patrick.”
When he doesn’t elaborate, I say, “Enlighten me.”
“I would if I could, but I can’t, so I won’t.”
“Try harder.”
“Ugh. It… seems that they’ve hidden the coordinates.”
I exchange looks with the rest of the team. “Why would they hide the coordinates? You’re telling me they were suspecting pirates?”
“Not as far as I can tell.”
“So?”
“Soooo… I’m working on it.”
I sigh at him on purpose; nothing communicates frustration quite like a long exhale from an NCO. “Fine. Just, let me know as soon as you have it.”
“Rodger dodger, Patrick.”
Hobbs signals me. “So what do you wanna do now that we have control of the ships?”
Chuckles interjects before I can reply. “Ummm, I wouldn’t say control just yet.”
I lean over my gun. “Whaddya mean ‘just yet’?”
“Well, I have control over life support, shields, communications, navigation, sensors, and the works.”
“But?”
“It’s minor, really. A small thing that Patrick will probably overreact about but that I’ll remedy shortly as I’m—”
“Oh my God,” Hollywood interjects. “He doesn’t have propulsion.”
“What?” I blurt out.
Chuck rallies. “You see? I told you he’d overreact.”
“We’re dead in the water?”
“Who said anything about that? Stop being so melodramatic. Engineering is 100 percent A-okay. Not a thing wrong.”
“You just don’t have control.”
“I just don’t have control,” he parrots.
“Eh, peachy.”
Hobbs puts both hands on the table and leans in. “Any particular reason why not?”
“In a word? No.”
We all wait for his majesty to expound, but he doesn’t.
“So… that’s it, then?” I ask. “You don’t care to spill the beans?”
“No. Firstly, that would be a terrible waste of legumes. And secondly, I have no explanation to give. Engineering is located on levels thirteen through seventeen, sections nineteen and twenty. All sensors, including life support and even hallway cams are just poof !”
“Poof?”
“Yeah. Poof ! Not there. Gone. Like Elvis.”
Bumper has his arms folded and looks like he’s trying to work the problem. “It’s a blackout. Whatever’s in there, they don’t want anyone to see, including the crew.”
“Who wants to keep a trinium engine a secret?” Aaron asks. “Isn’t that what these species run on?”
“It is,” Charles confirms. “But perhaps there’s something more. Like maybe a My Little Pony or a unicorn. I’ve always loved unicorns.”
“Chuck.”
“What? They’re the national animal of Scotland.”
Vlad laughs. “Ha! Is good joke, yes? National animal. I like.”
“No, I’m… being serious,” Chuck adds. “None of you knew that?”
“I did,” Sugar says after a beat. “I got an uncle who’s Scottish.”
Ghost raises an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”
“Anyway,” I interject. “What are the chances that our elusive captain of the Porsavar is hiding out there?”
“One second,” Chuck says. He starts muttering the drums and bass parts to a vaguely familiar song. I just can’t place it.
“Is he… beatboxing?” Hollywood asks me. “You jamming out there, Sir Charles?”
“Yes—boots n cats n boots n cats —as a matter of fact, I am. It helps me—boots n cats n —process. Oooo! I got it.”
A new camera feed replaces all the others. It’s a nondescript hallway somewhere in the ship. Actually, it seems like a still image…
…until a figure walks down the passage.
“Freeze, Chuck.”
The figure stops in mid-stride.
“It’s him,” Ghost says. “Where’s this?”
“Level fifteen, section three,” Chuck says.
I look at Ghost and then Bumper. “Just before engineering.”
“And the blackout,” Bumper adds.
“Then that’s where we’re going too,” I say. “No sense bringing our people up to a ship we can’t fly. Plus, we need to know what we’re dealing with in case we’ve gotta move everyone back down. What about Insarka’s ship? They have the same thing?”
“It seems so, yes, Patrick. Identical blackouts on the same decks.”
“There’s something there,” Bumper says. “Something they definitely don’t want us to see.”
“Oh man,” Z-Lo says. “I got a baaad—”
“Shut up, kid,” Bumper yells. “How many times do I have to tell you not to jinx splick like that? Damn.”
“Sorry.”
I take a second to look around and process what we’ve just seen. I wish I had more time to think, more time to be alone and see this thing from every angle. But, like most combat scenarios, both time and solitude are luxuries no one but the dead have.
“Alright, team,” I say at last. “Looks like we’re headed aft.”
“What about the refugees?” Hollywood asks.
“The ones in the holding block don’t look like they’re in harm’s way. And as long as no one acts up in the next batch, we shouldn’t see any more casualties.”
Aaron seems like he’s trying to keep his mouth shut, but his curiosity is getting the best of him. “Why not take care of the mercenaries first, then stop the shuttles and go after the captain?”
“Because,” Lada says. “If captain has access to propulsions, he can depart and leave the rest of us behind. Then we are worse than before.”
I nod. “Better to let the mercs keep going. We take care of them after we know what the captain’s up to. And we will take care of them.”
“You’ve got an idea,” Bumper states more than asks.
“I’m working on it, yut. But first things first.” I turn back to Chuck. “Any word on those quantum tunnel coordinates?”
“Yes.”
I wait a few seconds. “And?”
“It’s not there.”
I wait a few more seconds. “Then look on another computer, different Wi-Fi, I dunno.”
“I mean, the quantum tunnel is not there, Patrick. No coordinates because there’s no tunnel.”
You know those awkward pauses at Thanksgiving where Grandma Sally says something really stupid about religion or politics that she probably shouldn’t have, and everyone goes dead silent because they can’t tell if she’s being serious or cracking a joke? Well, this is one of those moments, and everyone’s looking back and forth at each other, hoping someone has the punchline.
It finally falls to me to probe my rifle a little further. “So, when you say there’s no tunnel, is that because the Sci-Rung burned all records of it? Or because Insarka was wrong about how they got here?”
“Trust me, Patrick. I wish it was because they burned the records. But with my superpowers and this ship’s stellar redundancy, not even the Sci-Rung could hide something like this.”
“Well, splick it all to hell,” Bumper says. “Now what are we supposed to do?”
I voice my oft-repeated mantra, “One problem at a time. Chuck, how did they get here then? They didn’t just… magically appear out of thin air. What’s the flight log say?”
“That’s just it, Patrick. The log says that they pretty much did appear out of thin air.”
I decide to go over Chuck’s head on this one and ping Insarka. She takes my call but seems out of breath. “You good?”
“Yes, Patrick-Wic. We encountered heavy resistance, but Chuck—”
“Messed with your heads, I know. Same. Listen, we’ve got an issue. The quantum tunnel doesn’t exist.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Chuck takes the next sixty seconds to outline his findings and provides ample evidence as to why there is no such thing as a quantum tunnel anywhere in this sector. Unlike me, Insarka doesn’t push back.
“You see?” Chuck says to me. “Some people trust me by nature.”
“This isn’t good, Patrick-Wic.”
“Ya think?” Then I reconsider my response. “Sorry about that.”
“I am frustrated as well.”
Huh. Coulda’ fooled me. But I don’t say that. “Any clue on how they got here then?”
“Unfortunately, no. I’m sorry.”
Well this blows. And frankly, I’m getting a little tired of being jerked around so much. Probably what Winters feels like, poor bastard.
“Whadda we do now?” Sugar asks.
“What we came to,” I reply. “Finish taking the ship and then secure the refugees. Just because we can’t jump to Insarka’s universe doesn’t mean we can’t use these starships to find new places to settle.”
Even as I say that I realize I don’t have the slightest clue about star faring or what it’s going to take to cross interstellar distances in this craft. I’m just a gunfighter who’s watched way too many reruns of Star Trek. If anything, staying put on Septus Minor is the most prudent call. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
“Alright, everybody,” Chuck exclaims. “Draw your sabers! Because it’s Mutiny on the Bounty time!”