Many believe that they have felt tension, but if you've never been among soldiers readying for a battle, you don't know the meaning of the word. It is as though the air itself is stretched tight as a guitar string, humming with energy. Every sense is on fire--eyes sharp, ears trained, skin tingling. Words, if spoken at all, are short and to the point. There is an unmistakable sense of preoccupation. The coming battle is fought a thousand times a second, each mind simulating every possible beginning and formulating every possible defense.
They say that pressure makes diamonds, and it is true . . . if you are talking about geology. Psychology, on the other hand, has established that pressure mostly just makes neuroses.
In Purcell's space station, the atmosphere was thick with pure, weapons-grade, military anticipation. There was silence aside from the click and rattle of tightening straps and fittings, the squeak of boots . . . and the piercing, off-key whistle of Karter as he tinkered merrily in the fab lab. In contrast to the agonizing sense of foreboding weighing down on everyone else, Karter was happy as an elf in Santa's workshop. Laid out before him, taking up nearly all of the available space in the lab, were the unfinished CME Activator cores. They were long, thin devices, about as thick as a man's leg and maybe three meters long. Tucked in a corner of the fab lab was a long, low furnace, creaking and pinging as it slowly cooled. Purcell was pacing outside the door of the lab, her second-in-command shadowing her.
“How much longer, Dee?” she demanded.
“They need to drop another seven-tenths of a degree Kelvin and they'll be ready to come out. Sixty seconds, give or take,” he answered.
“Only 0.7 degrees? Surely they can be removed now.”
“Sure they can, if you want them to have micro-fractures that will cause them to fail while they're passing through the chromosphere. Don't you have something better to do than pace around waiting for the cookies to finish?”
“My men are prepared. They are armed with your equipment and briefed in its usage. All that remains is to see to it that you fulfill your obligation without further treachery.”
“I'll have you know,” he said, tightening a bolt and holstering the tool, “I am officially done with my obligations. Once those things come out of the oven, they click into these reaction chambers, and then these whole assemblies slip into the superstructures down in the weapons bay. Even your idiots could do that.”
“Get engineering down here,” Purcell ordered. Her lackey quickly began quietly speaking orders into his communicator.
“There, see? I haven't done anything treacherous since I sabotaged the power grid.”
“When did you do that?” Purcell growled.
“Wouldn't you like to know,” Karter taunted. He looked over the dial of the furnace. “Just about . . . little bit more . . . there. All done. Hey, out of curiosity, what's with the red hair? I don't know if you were hoping it was intimidating or not, but basically you just look like a clown that was too lazy to put on the makeup.”
“Damn it, Karter, tell me what you did!”
“Oh, come on. The fun part is figuring it out. That's what makes this little game we've got going so exciting. Sometimes you catch me, sometimes you don't.”
“I don't have time for this. Motivate him,” she ordered.
Her second-in-command pulled out his slidepad and began to tap at the screen.
“I wouldn't do that if I were--” Karter quickly warned.
Before he could finish the sentence, the lights in the station suddenly dimmed and then shut off. The halls filled with the muffled commotion of soldiers going through the well-practiced power failure procedures and learning that it was considerably more difficult when anxiety levels have already ratcheted up to epic proportions.
“Now, that's your fault,” Karter said, crossing his arms. “You installed a stun device in my arm. That gave me access to a high-voltage device with a remote trigger. What did you think I was going to do with it? And then I clearly goaded you into zapping me. Come on. You're supposed to be better than this!”
“This isn't a game, Karter!” she growled, drawing her blaster.
Karter didn't even have the decency to flinch. “You're just saying that because you're losing.”
The lights flickered back on.
“There, see? It was just a power surge that tripped some safeties. It isn't as though I set up a feedback loop that would blow the reactor in eight minutes.”
Purcell's glare managed to become even more threatening than the weapon she was holding.
“I really didn't,” Karter said simply. “That would kill me, and where's the fun in that?”
“You have not fulfilled your obligation. I require the full design.”
“Pff. Technicalities,” Karter said.
He drifted over to the fabrication computer, tapped a few buttons, and removed a memory chip from it. With a flick, he sent it darting in Purcell's direction. When it reached the artificial gravity of the hallway, it dropped to the ground. The commander didn't take her eyes off of Karter. A few tense moments past before the representative from engineering showed up. He didn't even open his mouth before Purcell began to issue orders, still without taking her eyes off of the inventor.
“At my feet, you will find a memory chip containing the completed design for the CMEA. Validate it. Now,” she commanded steadily.
The engineer collected the chip and inserted it into the bottom edge of his datapad. Schematics and instructions filled the screen of the device.
“The schematics for the known portion of the device seem to match what we've been able to determine. The schematics for the previously unknown portions pass function verification analysis and appear to complement the existing portion. I would say that this is legitimate,” remarked the engineer.
“Excellent. Transfer the design into the main computer, then get together a team to complete the assembly of the devices,” Purcell ordered. “And as for you, Dee . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, empty threat time, I know the drill,” he said, turning away.
She pulled the trigger. A bolt of energy hissed through the air and struck Karter in the small of his back, filling the room with the stench of singed flesh. The injured inventor screamed and clutched at the injury. His face, rather than the usual expression of annoyed disinterest or mischievous glee, was twisted in pain and surprise.
“That was this weapon's lowest setting. It isn't supposed to be fatal--but, then, this is a prototype, and this design was abandoned for being overpowered, so I wouldn't be very confident in your chances without treatment,” she advised.
“What are you doing!?” he growled through the pain. “You need me!”
“No, Karter. You are useful. You are even irreplaceable. But now that you have given me the CMEA design, you are not necessary. You would be an asset to our cause if you were cooperative, but your current behavior makes you a much greater liability. From this moment forward, you live or die depending on how well you can prove your usefulness and loyalty. Do you understand?”
“What I understand,” he coughed, “is that you might have just cost me my one natural kidney. That was my favorite kidney!”
The color was draining from his face, but his expression had already slipped back to one of its defaults--anger.
“I want him taken to his cell. Take away his arm and stabilize him, but no painkillers. He needs to understand consequences,” she dictated to her second-in-command. “I want there to be no--”
“Commander,” said her assistant urgently, “we've got a sensor alert. There's a weak signature approaching!”
“I want one medic and one guard on Dee, and keep the engineers working on the CMEAs. Everyone else, battle stations! You're with me,” Purcell demanded. She began marching down the tight hallway as her assistant scurried behind her and various soldiers scrambled to get back to their posts after the short blackout. “How many ships have we got?”
“Two gunships, two troop carriers, both in Docking Bay A. There are also four single-man short-range fighters on patrol.”
“Where are the rest?”
“The other gunship was destroyed by Alexander. We left a troop carrier on the surface of Big Sigma. Of the four remaining, three were sent on surveillance missions, one was sent to retrieve the alloy. The Manticore surveillance ship was destroyed, and another has been recalled but has not yet arrived. That leaves us with the ship that just returned with the alloy, and the ship that just returned from Proxy-12. We've also got our support ship and a wing of fighters patrolling Big Sigma.”
“Fine. Keep the fighters on patrol. Get one gunship and one troop ship out there, too. Keep the others for reserve. Recall the Big Sigma patrol. If this fight doesn't go our way, we'll need reinforcements, even if it takes them days to get here. What do the sensors tell us about this approaching signature?”
“Not much. It is just a minor blip. We've been getting it for about three minutes, but it wasn't until now that it was strong enough to suggest it wasn't just background noise.”
“Sounds like a stealth ship. Fine--they want stealth, let's show them what stealth really is,” she said, finally ending her trek across the station on the command bridge.
A far cry from the massive, spacious rooms with giant view screens and elaborate chairs that one usually thinks of when a commander takes the bridge, the space station's bridge was a match for the rest of the facility. It was a cramped, darkened room. The only light came from the handful of screens that dotted one wall, and the innumerable LED indicators that speckled the walls. There was room enough for the commander, the second-in-command, and a single tactical officer, and only if two of them remained standing. Frankly, it had more in common with the audio-video room of a public access TV station than an epic place of command.
Purcell looked over the screens, covered with dots representing her ships, each tagged with designations, technical readouts, and motion vectors. Carefully, her mind formulated a plan.
“Put me on general broadcast,” she ordered, speaking again when she received a nod. “TC-4, engage cloak and take up position alpha-6. GS-2, cloak and take up position omega-6. Target the enemy vessel and fire only when you achieve a weapons lock. Fighters, pair off and approach the enemy vessel from oblique angles. Target and pursue. Keep clear of cloaked ship locations to avoid collision.”
Outside the station, the veteran soldiers swiftly complied. The pair of ships, gunship above and troop carrier below, assumed their positions and activated their cloaks, vanishing from sight and sensors. Next, the fighters complied. They were small, light vehicles with little more than a pilot's cabin, a pair of small engines, and a pair of oversized cannons. If the gunship was like an eagle, the fighters were like bees--small and fragile, but they could easily be deadly if they attacked in large enough numbers or stung the right target. Two fighters peeled off and approached the slowly-strengthening sensor reading from the left, the other two veering right. Just as the form of S.O.B. was becoming visible on the fighter's visual sensors, though, it accelerated, pulling a long, gradual turn, picking up speed all the way.
“Lock and fire!” Purcell ordered, watching intently at her screens.
“Negative. Can't get a lock. Sensors aren't getting a strong enough reading,” came the reply from the lead fighter.
“Fine, manual fire, wide spread!” she ordered.
All four fighters began to unload their weapons. Piercing dots of purple light fired in staggered, irregular patterns, trading accuracy for volume. S.O.B. didn't even try to dodge, absorbing a handful of hits before tearing past the fighters.
“Station shields to maximum! Turrets, target and fire, avoiding top-center and friendly ships.”
The rattling tractor beam/jackhammer made a few useless taps at the shield as S.O.B. whipped past, the massive but slow-to-target cannons on the station firing vaguely in its direction without once coming close.
“Target locked, firing,” announced the pilot of the gunship, its more acute sensors finally managing to pick up the elusive little ship.
The cloaked ship fired a cluster of the same missiles that had given Lex so much trouble at the array, briefly becoming visible as it did. For a few seconds, the missiles drew steadily closer to the retreating S.O.B.--then there was a dim flash of light and the same EMP that had saved him the first time sent the trailing missiles twirling away uselessly. Purcell barked coded command shorthand at her pilots, coaxing complex maneuvers out of her men in order to prepare for the return run by S.O.B. This time, it came from below, and it was the troop carrier that sent a volley of powerful shots in its direction.
“He hasn't got the weapons to do any damage. Keep the pressure on him and we'll take him down,” Purcell advised.
“Establishing target lock, prepare--” came the beginning of a transmission from the gunship, but it was suddenly interrupted by a blaring warning tone.
“Evasive maneuvers! Evasive maneuvers! We've got--”
There was a burst of static, and the symbol for the gunship dropped off the tactical display.
“What the hell happened? The enemy ship wasn't even close!” Purcell roared.
“I don't know, there--Commander!”
“TC-4, evasive maneuvers!”
An explosion swallowed the cloaked ship and another icon dropped from the display.
“Sensors! I want to know where these attacks are coming from!”
“There--there were a pair of temporary blips at vector 013, mark 015. It's a cloaked ship, Commander!” the tactical officer realized.
“How!? Never mind. Fighters, break pursuit and protect the docking hatch for Bay A. GS-1 and TC-3, deploy! Shields up and cloaks down. I want you to turtle until that cloaked ship fires, then target attack origin and fire! Sensors, get those meson arrays up! If that thing is cloaked, it'll be the only source of meson emissions in the area.”
“Initializing,” replied the tactical officer. “GS-1 deployed and beginning sensor sweep. TC-3 deployed and beginning sensor sweep. Docking bay doors secured. Meson array active. We've got a meson emission source . . . inside Docking Bay A!”
Purcell opened her mouth. A lesser woman might have exclaimed that it was impossible. She would have pointed out that the doors to the docking bay had been open for mere seconds, and that she had assigned the fighters to guard the entrance. She would have reasoned that most of the time the doors were open, they were occupied by other ships. She would have insisted that no one could have possibly flown a cloaked ship through so narrow an opening during so narrow a time window without colliding with something. The commander said none of these things, because regardless of how ironclad the logic might have been, the evidence contradicted it, and there was too little time to waste any of it denying what was obviously so.
Instead, she said, “Troopers to Docking Bay A. We have been boarded! Repeat, we have been boarded!”
#
In the docking bay, the now-pointless cloak hiding The Declaration of War dropped, leaving them as a very large, very visible target in an otherwise empty bay. Fancy new space stations had marvels of modern science to keep them running. Things like semi-permeable force fields allowed ships in and out without allowing all of the air and dock workers to get sucked out into space. This space station, despite the group's dedication to the bleeding edge, was neither fancy nor new. A user-friendly approach was to have individual bays and pressurized exit tunnels that connected to the ship. This station wasn't user-friendly either. An efficient design called for ships to remain outside the station, interfacing with universal, airtight docking ports. Once again, this was not a facility built with efficiency in mind.
Its primary role, prior to being co-opted by the Neo-Luddites for their purposes, had been ship maintenance and restoration. Thus, what it had was a pair of massive, unpressurized bays with individual landing pads and no gravity, plus a scattering of external docking ports in the case of evacuation. Workers, when it was necessary to move about in the bay while it was in use, wore space suits. Anyone who wanted to get in or out of the rest of the station had to do so through a huge, freight elevator-sized airlock with sturdy doors and no windows, or wait for someone to trot out something that looked like an overgrown piece of dryer vent to hook up to the ship as a means of access. It was for that reason that there were no soldiers currently manning the bay, but that wouldn't remain the case for long.
The crew door of The Declaration hissed open and three people darted out. Silo and Garotte were wearing the sleek, snug space suits favored by most people who had to operate in a vacuum with any regularity--silvery, nearly skin-tight suits with high-visibility face visors and small but efficient jet packs for zero-G navigation. They were also heavily armed. Lex was wearing a distinctive, textured, tan flight suit and was attempting to wrangle what looked like an inflated blowup doll, but was, in fact, a third sleek-style suit with an undersized occupant.
“All clear,” announced Silo through her suit radio, after a quick but thorough survey of the area. “That was some impressive maneuvering, Lex.”
“Thanks. High-speed, illegal docking while invisible. I can cross that one off the list, I guess,” he said through a mouth full of gum.
“That makes me two for two in blind-targeting cloaked ships, too,” Silo remarked with a bit of pride.
“Ma, are you sure they aren't going to blow up S.O.B.? I'm not too comfortable with her being on automatic while things are shooting at her,” Lex continued.
“Your ship has been directed to leave the area of combat until recalled, and the other ships are unlikely to pursue while we are on board their command station. In the meantime, I urge you to revise your list of priorities,” the AI answered, struggling a bit inside a suit that was not built with a furry quadruped in mind.
“Yes, my boy. Very shortly we will encounter a rather large number of people interested in killing us. Try to keep that in mind,” Garotte instructed.
“Easy for you to say. You didn't just put a fresh coat of paint on it,” said Lex.
“Enough banter. Ma, I want access to the airlock, now. Silo, let's unload.”
#
On the interior side of the airlock, a dozen troops had gathered. Each was wearing a bulky space suit of a similar design. The added mass came from overlapping plates of composite armor. Their weapons were a mismatched assortment of ballistic and energy weapons, most representing designs that had been abandoned for having one or two strengths that were more than offset by dozens of major weaknesses. The first on the scene was tapping at a control panel.
“No good, it is occupied, and being pressurized,” the scout reported.
“You heard him, boys. The enemy is inside the airlock. Weapons ready, eyes sharp,” instructed the squad leader. “We can end this here and now.”
The panel beside the door ticked various indicators, pressure up and time down, as the soldiers anxiously waited for the door to open and reveal their targets. Finally, the pressure was equalized and the heavy door began to pull open. Triggers were squeezed and sights lined up as the group drew in a breath . . . but when the door finished opening, there was no one there. Rather than a few armed and dangerous targets handily corralled into a box with no escape, the airlock revealed . . . a crate. It was about a meter cubed, sturdily built, and had a lid held tightly on by eight or so mechanical latches.
“No one fire,” the squad leader ordered. “This could be an explosive. Wilkes, cycle the airlock again and send this thing back into space.”
Wilkes worked at the control panel. “No good, sir. They've got someone blocking the controls.”
“Well, unblock them! And change the cypher! I don't want--”
He was interrupted by a heart-stopping sound. Like falling dominoes, the latches on the crate flipped up in sequence. When the final latch was undone, the edge of the lid hissed with a release of pressure, causing the squad to shudder, and one of the jumpier soldiers to reflexively fire a single blast. The energy struck and warped the lid, causing it to leap off of the crate and rattle to the floor. Inside, there seemed to be nothing but old-fashioned puffy packing material.
“Keep it together, soldier!” reprimanded the squad leader. “Wilkes, investigate. I'll work on the cypher.”
The unlucky underling cautiously walked up to the crate. After a visual survey of the outside didn't turn up anything, he reached out with the muzzle of his rifle and poked into the box, striking something hard and metallic. His rummaging unearthed a small plastic tube from among the Styrofoam. He picked it out with his gloved hand.
“I've got a new cypher active. If you found anything threatening, I'll cycle. What is it?” asked the squad leader.
“It . . . I . . . I think it is one of those asthma-sprayer things, sir,” he said, holding it up.
Whether it was fate, dumb luck, or a cruel sense of humor, the key item in the crate chose that moment to reveal itself. In an explosion of fluffy plastic peanuts and gleaming metal, Zerk launched from the crate and into the cluster of soldiers.
#
On the exterior side of the airlock, the rescue party watched minor dents and dings pepper the heavy-duty door as the hapless force tried to deal with something that no sane person would have dreamed of preparing for. They each strapped blue bandanas to their arms as they did.
“Um . . . you know that rule about not firing weapons inside a pressurized facility?” Lex asked.
“I do,” Garotte remarked, as he looked over the floor plan displayed on the slidepad he'd clipped into the arm of his suit.
“I can't help but notice these guys aren't obeying it.”
“If you'd ever seen Zerk in action, hon, you wouldn't blame them,” Silo remarked.
“I wouldn't worry too much about it. This old bird was built back in the days when you had to expect to take a few love taps during the average day,” Garotte said, slapping the sturdy wall. “She can take a few hits and hold together.”
“Okay, and what about Karter? We're here to rescue him, right? Wasn't it not a great idea to unleash an unstoppable killing machine into the place they're holding him?” Lex asked.
“Karter knows how to handle Zerk. He's the one who managed to back out the shutdown procedures. There is more than one,” Garotte remarked. “All right, it looks like the excitement has died down. Ma, let's see this airlock do its thing again, shall we?”
“I am endeavoring to reestablish an interface with the desired systems,” Ma stated from within her poorly-suited piece of equipment. Her voice had the jittery, stressed quality it tended to adopt when she was concentrating. “The encryption of this system is extremely complex. My initial route of access has already been closed and secured.”
“Yes, well, military encryption tends to be rather significant,” Garotte countered.
“Not entirely military . . . redundant encryption schemes. Mostly corporate.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Lex asked.
“It means we've got a delightful and entirely irrelevant mystery on our hands,” Garotte said. “Just cycle the chamber.”
“Limited access restored. Activating,” Ma said, the stress gone from her voice.
After atmosphere was pumped out of the lock, the quartet stepped into the chamber, and waited for the process to reverse. Air hissed in, causing Ma's unwieldy bundle of a suit to seemingly deflate; gravity slowly faded in. When the inner door opened, it revealed a tight corridor completely covered with bullet and energy damage and scattered with the remains of soldiers who were extremely dead, and who had been delivered to that state with great enthusiasm and creativity.
“Uh . . .” Lex said with a hint of nausea, as he tried to avoid looking at the remains, “I'm not feeling too heroic right now.”
“Take it from a man who does this for a living, my boy. Don't try to be a hero, just try to get the job done. To that end, you take the computer and try to find Karter. Silo and I will take care of the blasted device they were after--destroy prototypes, delete designs, things of that nature.”
“And everybody be careful!” Silo added as they ran their separate ways.
“Which way am I heading, Ma?” Lex asked, as he sprinted down the corridor in the direction with the fewest casualties, and therefore the least chance of running into their highly effective diversion. Hanging across his back was the smallest energy rifle that the others had been able to find, along with a tightly bundled spare space suit. Hanging on his belt was a holster containing a small energy pistol; the rest of his belt was covered with variable-strength grenades, and under his arm was the weakly struggling tangle of silver suit that contained his guide.
“I will direct you, but while we are still unharassed by soldiers, please remove me from this suit.”
“You sure? How will you get back to the ship?” Lex asked.
“At this stage, my ability to aid in the completion of the mission is of greater importance.”
“But what if--”
“Get me out of this damn suit, Lex.”
“Your coarse language is not called for, Ma,” Lex said, as he carefully unfastened the triple-sealed zipper.
Ma tumbled out from the suit, scrambled to her feet, and rustled her fur.
“If you were covered in a layer of fur and wrapped in airtight fabric, you would agree regarding the necessity of such language. Now, affix a blue bandana to me.”
Lex removed the blue bandana from a pouch on his flight suit and shook it out, tying it around her neck. Once it was in place, Ma planted her feet, raised her head, and drew in a long, slow breath through her nose.
“Anything?”
“Scent tracking in a space station is non-ideal. Carefully sanitized and maintained air quality coupled with atmospheric isolation prevents scent from spreading. I am also only moderately familiar with Karter's scent,” she informed him. After a moment, she darted toward a side corridor. “This way. Leave the suit. We will fetch it upon our return.”
“You caught a whiff?”
“No. It is an educated guess.”
“Great.”
Lex tossed the suit away and briefly considered drawing his pistol, but abandoned the idea when it dawned on him that if he was holding a gun, they might think he knew how to use it and decide to shoot first and ask questions later. Sure, the chances were good that it was their general policy to shoot first and skip the questions altogether, and it wasn't as though he was going to be able to convince them that he was a tourist who took a wrong turn--but Lex felt that as long as he was a harmless idiot, he ought to look like one. Leaving the gun on his belt took care of the harmless part, and just in case there was any doubt as to the idiot part, he set off to follow the scampering critter with a radio strapped to its back who was calling the shots by acting on a hunch.
#
Half a station away, a single guard was watching from the other side of a locked cell door as a medic worked on Karter inside the cell. The inventor had stopped screaming and grunting in pain a minute or two ago, and now seemed to have lapsed into a state of delirium from the pain. A patch attached to his chest was bleeping off the irregular rhythm of his heart. All around them, the station was echoing with the sounds of distant battle. The soldier twitched at the sound of each ricochet like a dog straining its leash. In his hands was the mechanical arm that had been removed from the scientist, which the soldier was fiddling with in irritation.
“Listen, hurry up! The first real action I've had a chance to see besides babysitting this mad scientist is happening and I'm missing it!” he urged.
“It is going to be a few minutes more. I need to check if there is any internal bleeding.”
“Look, just let him die, right? He did his job, and he wants us dead.”
The medic stood and faced the soldier. “Listen, don't you think I want him dead? But I've got orders.”
“You think it matters how well you follow orders if whoever is invading manages to blow this place up?”
There was a rattle and crash. The medic turned to find Karter convulsing, having knocked the contents of the med pack all over the floor.
“Now you see what you let happen? He could be going into shock. You want to go fight? Fine. He's pretty far out of it. I don't think I need you looking over my shoulder and distracting me.”
“Finally!” the eager soldier proclaimed, throwing the prosthetic limb to the floor and rushing off to find glory.
The medic crouched and sifted through the tools scattered on the floor.
“Where did that stim go?” he muttered.
Suddenly, Karter stopped convulsing and the patch on his chest gave a long, even tone.
“Goddamn it!” the medic growled, leaning low to check the scientist's respiration and begin pumping his chest.
In a lightning motion, Karter's remaining arm whipped around and plunged a hypo-injector into the medic's neck. The futuristic replacement for a needle blasted a dose of unknown medication into the hapless medical technician's bloodstream. He had enough time to lurch to his feet and get out half a syllable of a cry for help before he shuddered and dropped to the ground.
Karter sat up, breathing heavy and pouring sweat, and glanced at the spent vial in the injector.
“Heh, sedative. You lucked out,” he remarked.
He frowned and looked down at the monitor on his chest, which was still blaring out the helpful reminder that his heart was not, in fact, beating. He made a fist and tapped his chest a few times, like a man trying to unearth a decent belch. The monitor stuttered and began to beep again.
“Let that be a lesson to you,” Karter said wearily. “Never trust an off-the-shelf heart monitor to monitor a custom-made heart correctly.”
He tore the monitor off and tried to stand up, but grimaced and fell back to the floor, clutching his back.
“Okay, fine,” he grumbled, rolling over and fumbling his hand through the scattered medical equipment until he came up with the appropriate vial, which he chambered in the injector and administered to his neck. His eyes rolled back and he grinned. “Ooh. That's the stuff.”
He loaded three more vials of painkiller into his pocket, then paused and grabbed three more for the road. After a few seconds to let the painkiller kick in, he grabbed the bars and hauled himself off of the floor, struggling to the edge of the cell, and reached around to the keypad that controlled the lock.
“Another lesson, since you're here,” Karter said, his voice somewhat slurred by the effects of the medication. “If your prisoner has a wireless datalink built into his eye, don't put a security camera directly opposite his cell. I tapped into that baby six hours after I got here. Doesn't matter how many times you change the key code if I can see you enter it.”
He managed to key in the code, causing the door to click open. The combination of medication, missing limbs, and injury made retrieving his arm a less-than-simple matter, but once it was affixed, he dragged himself to the nearby bank of lockers until he found where they kept his leg.
“There,” he said, clicking it into place and mopping the sweat from a face that was steadily getting paler. “Time to cause some problems.”
#
Silo and Garotte pounded their way down the battle-scarred hall. Spitting wires and hissing pipes that had been torn apart by the rampaging Zerk were scattered across the walls.
“Now then,” Garotte announced as he ran, “we are looking for a weapon, so it would stand to reason the weapons bay is a good start. That is three decks down. We should find an access ladder--cover!”
Garotte dove to one side of the corridor, Silo to the other, each cramming themselves as far as possible behind the bulkhead surrounding a submarine-style compartmentalization door.
“Four on the left, two on the right,” Silo dictated. “Small arms, energy weapons, lightly modified. I'll take--”
As she was speaking, a quiet whine had grown steadily louder, and finally interrupted her with a vicious crackle of energy. An instant later, the bulkhead a few inches above her helmet exploded into molten metal. A few drops of incandescent liquid metal sprinkled on her helmet and quickly began to melt through. She scrambled to pull the helmet off just in time for the white-hot drop to fall through into the space that moments earlier would have been her skull.
“What the hell are they shooting!?” she screamed, briefly looking through the widening hole left by the weapon.
Garotte leaned out and took a few shots with his pistol, causing the soldiers to take cover. A second later, one of the men stepped out and tapped a control strapped to his arm, two or three behind him doing the same. Garotte aimed and fired. The bolt of energy hit its target . . . and rebounded off of a briefly visible glimmering surface, deflecting into the wall.
“Bad news. I think Karter might have equipped them with some of his toys,” Garotte said, with a tremor of nerves in his voice.
The shielded soldier smiled, squeezing the trigger of his fully-automatic ballistic rifle without even raising it to his eye. A deafening sequence of blasts was followed by a peculiar rattling clatter. Along with the sound came a random shimmer of shield and shudder of the soldier. It wasn't until the sound finally stopped and the soldier crumbled to the ground, perforated with bullet holes, that it became clear what had happened. The shield was equally good at reflecting projectiles fired from the inside and, from the looks of it, his body hadn't been enough to keep some of the bullets from making multiple trips back and forth.
“. . . make that half-finished toys,” Garotte amended.
The soldiers who had just moments before activated their own shields made panicked motions to deactivate them, while others stepped forward and raised a few more charge-gun-enhanced weapons. In a well-rehearsed rhythm, Silo and Garotte began to alternately lean out and fire shots. The fire was enough to keep the soldiers from unleashing their over-powered weapons, but only one or two shots met their mark.
“This is no good,” Garotte said between shots. “If we don't make any ground, they can get a second squad in to flank us. I don't want to get into a turkey shoot. The access ladder is in the no man's land between us. We just need to break the stalemate for a few seconds.”
“Coming right up, hon,” Silo said, pulling a grenade from her bandolier and tossing it into the chamber ahead.
“Grenade!” came the cry from the soldiers as they evacuated in panicked unison.
As they moved back, the rescue party moved forward, striding quickly to the ladder and sliding down. After a few seconds, no explosion came and the most courageous of the soldiers stepped forward to find the grenade. The pin had not been pulled. He rushed to the ladder to find the access hatch closed and fused.
While tools were deployed to release the door and soldiers were deployed to find alternate routes, Silo and Garotte continued toward their goal.
#
In her control center, Commander Purcell looked on. The bulk of her men were facing off against something that looked like a hurricane of cutlery. The cameras inside the ship were barely able to register any details beyond streaks of black and silver. It usually didn't take long before the cameras--and, in some cases, the power systems for the section of the station currently playing host to the mayhem--were destroyed. Her mind grasped at possibilities.
“Commander, we need orders!” the tactical officer urged.
She looked to the ship layout.
“Close bulkhead L3-8 and L3-10,” she ordered.
Two indicators toggled; on the cameras, the machine and eight of her men were sealed between the bulkheads.
“I want those men formed up in the center of the sealed area,” Purcell said.
The tactical officer delivered the orders and she watched through the one remaining camera as her soldiers, men who had been delivered into the arms of the Neo-Luddites by the mind-searing psychological scars of having had to face a mindless machine, valiantly attempted to follow orders in the face of something that made their past trauma seem like a pleasant dream in comparison.
“Close bulkhead L3-9 and L3-10.”
Two more heavy doors dropped into place, sealing off five men and Zerk.
“Blow evacuation hatch L3-K. On my authorization. Command voice code six-eight-eight-three.”
The tactical officer's hand hesitated over the execute command. “I can't execute without two senior officer's codes.”
“Do it, number two.”
“Commander, five of our men--”
“Now!” she cried.
“Command voice code nine-four-eight-four,” he murmured.
A small breaching charge detonated, and the audio feed from the camera registered a brief burst of sound and cluster of screams before the air, the soldiers, and the war machine were all sucked from the chamber. The man at the controls stared at the soundless screen, watching the silent struggles of the last man to be pulled out, until the dim light of the chamber and the angle of the camera would show no more. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.
“Those men died for our cause,” Purcell said without emotion or apology. “And never, never hesitate in following my orders. Tactical, locate any additional intruders.”
The officer tapped at the controls.
“The machine caused extensive damage to our power grid. Most visual scanners are down. Based on the last fully-functional sweep, it looks like we've got two intruders, military, that were heading to the lower decks.”
“I want all lower-deck soldiers near vertical shafts to attempt to intercept them.”
“We've also got a third intruder, lightly armed, and . . . some sort of animal. They were leaving the docking section. Most of the soldiers from that section of the station were killed by the machine.”
“Redirect one squad from Deck 2.”
“Continuing analysis of sweep. Commander--Karter! He's out of his cell!”
“How did that happen? Where is he?”
“I don't know. It looks like he was heading to the storage section. Based on system access, he's been attempting to disengage security on the storage bays. He's finished one through four, and he's working on number five now.”
“Storage bays . . . dear god! Any soldiers we can spare, get them down there, now! I want him stopped, killed if necessary, before he gets into storage bay eight! Do you hear me!?”
“Issuing orders now.”
She pulled her communicator. “Engineering! Status!”
“Engineering here. Just a few more minutes and we can begin downloading the final software routines.”
“Get it done, now! Do not stop for anything!”
#
“How are we doing, Ma?” Lex asked, as he hustled after the little creature.
Thus far, they had been unbelievably lucky. Only one detachment of soldiers had sprinted by, and, fortunately, they had seemed to have better things to worry about, since they hadn't even slowed down to check the area.
“I am confident that we are approaching him. I believe I have achieved a level of proficiency in interpreting the fine pattern recognition capabilities of the funk olfactory system,” she replied.
“You figured out how to smell better?”
“The deodorizing treatment is still effective. I smell fine, Lex.”
“What? Ma . . . was that a joke?”
“There is considerable evidence that humor can have stress-reducing effects.”
“That may be true, Ma, but there isn't a joke in the universe good enough to do the job right now.”
“Acknowledged. This way,” she stated, scrabbling her claws across the grating and bounding down the nearest ladder.
Lex slid down after her, to find her standing perfectly still with squinted eyes.
“What's wrong?” Lex asked, looking desperately around to be sure there weren't any soldiers or traps evident.
“I believe I have identified the cryptographic cypher for the short-range communications. One moment, patching in,” she stated, her “voice” once again stretched by concentration.
“Closing in on male and female . . . good. Engineering here. Final module is being installed. Software download ready to begin in thirty seconds,” a variety of voices announced across the radio.
“The missiles are nearly complete. Silo, Garotte, what is your status,” Ma asked, her voice unstressed.
“Making progress, but a bit pinned down. Also, Silo has lost her helmet, so our egress may be a bit more complicated than previously intended,” Garotte replied.
“You have as few as three minutes before the CME Activators will be ready to fire, depending on the efficiency of the equipment and technicians,” Ma explained.
“That's going to be tight,” Silo warned.
“Karter is extremely near. We will secure him and attempt to render aid or cause a delay,” Ma advised. “This way, Lex.”
She rushed down the corridor, Lex close behind.
“So far, this whole rescue has been me following you around,” Lex mused.
A bolt of energy crackled through the corridor and blasted a hole in a control panel behind them, knocking the lights out and replacing them with the intermittent red glow of an emergency light. Lex dove aside and took cover, with Ma skittering opposite him.
“Your sense of timing remains a statistical curiosity, Lex,” Ma stated dryly.
Lex fumbled for his pistol. “This is about to go really wrong, isn't it?”
“They are getting closer,” Ma unhelpfully informed him.
Lex reached his pistol out from behind the cover and fired a handful of shots aimed mostly by wishful thinking. Most of them did little more than leave black marks on the ceiling, but it was enough to prompt the soldiers to take cover as well. Lex glimpsed out briefly.
“There are three of them. What should we do?”
“Improvisation is not among my strengths.”
The radio crackled in his ears. “This is Team Gamma. We have located the second set of intruders. Preparing to close on their position.”
Lex muttered a few breathless profanities before his beleaguered brain managed to deliver a crumb of an idea.
“We can hear these guys. Can they hear us?”
“Currently we are on receive-only. Transmission is possible.”
“Do it!”
There was a muffled tone.
“Attention, Team Gamma!” Lex proclaimed in his most military voice. “There is a building power surge at the end of corridor--” He squinted at the nearest indicator in the pulse red light of the hall. “--7-I. Karter may be attempting to destroy the station. Break off pursuit and investigate immediately. Top priority!”
“That goddamn maniac! Acknowledged!”
The soldiers retreated and sprinted down the adjoining corridor. For a moment, Lex stared in disbelief. A moment turned out to be a bit too long.
“Negative, Team Gamma, disregard previous orders. No power surge is detected,” the tactical officer corrected.
Wordlessly, Ma followed the scent of Karter down the hall and Lex followed.
“Acknowledged. Doubling back!”
“Negative!” Lex urged. “Power surge is critical. Investigate now!”
“Belay that order! Give me that communicator,” came Purcell's voice over the transmission. “Who is this? Who is giving these commands!?”
“Agent . . . Smith,” Lex replied.
“Communications have been compromised. Switch to communication preset five!”
The radio crackled, and then there was silence. Behind them, the sound of boots on grating echoed through the halls.
“Stop,” Ma stated.
Lex slid to a stop, barely avoiding crashing into his diminutive guide.
“Are you sure that's a good idea?”
“Blood. Karter's. Excellent,” she said.
“Why is that excellent?”
“Because it is a trail you can follow without me. Fire at that access panel, please.”
“But I--”
“Now, please.”
Lex fired the pistol, releasing a bolt of energy that shattered the panel.
“I will pursue a parallel contingency plan to enhance our chances of success. Follow this trail of blood in that direction. It will presumably lead to Karter,” she said, squeezing through the ruined access panel and into the wiring conduit behind it.
“Wait, but what if the soldiers show up again?”
She peeked her head out again. “You are clever and inventive. I am confident you will think of something.”
“Well I'm not!”
“You are also a very fast runner. Try that,” she said, ducking inside again and worming her way along the conduit.
“Great, yeah, running. Let's do that,” he decided, sprinting off in the direction of the blood.
His adrenaline-fueled run only managed to take him down three blood-speckled halls before he came to a series of storage doors that were open, and, finally, one bulkhead door that was closed. On the other side was Karter. He was wavering slightly, tugging at an access panel.
“Karter! Karter!” Lex cried, banging on the window.
Karter turned and squinted at him, lurching unsteadily to the door and tapping a control. It rattled open.
“What are you doing here?” he said. Rather than the tone of surprise and disbelief one might normally show when a friend from across the galaxy mysteriously appeared in a prison, or maybe the relief and gratitude one might show a potential rescuer, Karter sounded annoyed. It was as though he'd been rudely interrupted.
“I'm here to save you! Let's go!” Lex urged.
“What?”
Lex popped up the face mask of his helmet. “I said, I'm here to save you!”
“Oh. Hey, you don't happen to have an auto-spanner, do you?” Karter slurred.
“We don't have time for that, listen . . . are you drunk?”
“Medicated. Never mind, this will do,” he said, pulling a grenade from Lex's belt.
“Karter, we've got a ship, and I've got a spare suit here. We're going to destroy the CM . . . the CM . . . the missile things, and we're going to get out of--”
“You wanna get out of the way of the door? It won't close with you standing there,” Karter said, tapping the control repeatedly.
The sound of approaching soldiers inspired Lex to step inside, allowing the door to close and lock just as the first of them reached it. The pilot looked nervously at the door as the soldiers worked on it briefly. A glance in the other direction--the only other direction, his mind helpfully reminded--revealed that soldiers had gathered there, too. A cutting torch was already beginning to trace its glowing line through the thick metal of the door. On Lex's side, whoever was manning the weapon that had nearly obliterated him and Ma a minute ago was fighting with the device, which was smoking.
“Karter, we've got to--”
“Fire in the hole!” Karter announced, covering his ears.
The variable-strength grenade burst with a force just slightly too powerful for the purpose at hand, which was the removal of the control panel, and just about exactly loud enough to make Lex's ears ring painfully. The inventor then casually grasped two sparking wires and twisted them together, causing the storage bay to open.
“What is that?” Lex asked, the sight before him temporarily enough to push the pair of terrorist squads from his mind. The ceiling and floor had been removed from the chamber, expanding the center of the storage bay into a massive three-level sphere, traced out by spindly metallic braces studded with what appeared to be tiny satellite dishes. Nearly the entire bottom half of the cut-away portion of the floor was filled with rocky gray soil. A rack beside the door contained a handful of pen-shaped metallic gadgets. Karter picked one up and twisted its top before tossing it out the door.
“This,” he said, shutting and locking the storage door, “is my new favorite toy . . .”
#
“Commander, we are getting reports that Karter and one of the intruders have breached storage bay eight,” the tactical officer announced.
“What about the CMEAs?” Purcell demanded.
“Engineering states that the software download on the CMEAs has begun, but the other two intruders have nearly reached the weapons bay.”
Purcell removed the energy pistol from its holster, replaced the clip, and hammered it into place with finality. “Inform the men I want three soldiers to peel off for a rendezvous. Tell the engineering crew to put the rest of the process on automatic. Get out of the weapons bay and aid in its defense. I am taking care of this myself.”