Plans to hold in reserve only lasted until Fifth Fleet, who’d bypassed Third Fleet barricades from Mekong, began a counterassault through the lower cargo bays that quickly had Blue Squad falling back in strategic withdrawal. That exposed Red Squad flank, halting their advance about the lower, dock side of the bridge defences. At which Vanessa drew herself and Command Squad out of reserve, sprinted along a length of engineering accessway above the breakthrough, and thanks to a coordination of Blue Squad defences and some very snappy Intel overlaid upon tac-net by Lieutenant Singh, simply fell upon them from above.
It was the last thing an experienced Amazon marine platoon, in full pursuit of a rapidly retreating and obviously inferior opponent, had expected. Command Squad troops fell from the cargo-conveyor space’s ceiling, crashing down amidst a thunder of exploding grenades and rifle fire. Vanessa dropped from an overhead walkway, past a sus pended shipping container and into the erupting smoke and confusion of multiple grenade blasts. She hit and rolled with a power-assisted crash, shooting past decking pipes at shadowy shapes that fell, staggered, tried to adjust in the confusion that fell upon them from above.
She shot one marine point blank as he tried to get up, ducked as something hit the bulkhead, spun as a marine alongside tried to tackle her but staggered in a spray of blood that spattered her visor. She spun beneath the leg supports that held several massive pipes suspended, and shot another marine at point blank range in a thunderous burst that sent him crashing off the bulkhead. Fast motion erupted to her left and she restrained fire with difficulty, a Cal-T taking cover and firing, tac-net warning her just in time … a shot cracked off her chest armour and she dove for the cover of a bulkhead … and found a marine crouched there amongst the smoke.
He fired, she sprung aside and forward, slamming her weapon against his and driving a forearm under his chin to slam the head back … he countergrasped and slammed her into the wall. Vanessa dropped the rifle entirely to reverse grips on the arm at lightning speed, then something massive exploded and she was spinning, crashing to the decking. The armour must have shielded her from the worst of it because she barely even blacked out, recovering in a rush of enhanced adrenaline, hand grasping for a secured secondary weapon as she came up to a crouch … a Cal-T was staggering, missing an arm and screaming. Flames exploded in hellish orange from a ruptured pipe, engulfing a suspended container, burning the walls. Shots ripped past, and she rolled beneath the piping, feeling it shudder … her recent combatant was there, somehow, stunned and slowly recovering. Vanessa shoved her pistol under the chinstrap and blew his brains all over the visor.
Saw her rifle nearby in the midst of fire, and suddenly several Cal-Ts were at the nearest bulkhead, firing ahead in a hail of tracer, then ducking back as grenades exploded. Tac-net didn’t make any sense now, Vanessa rolled into the dissipating smoke, recovered her rifle, rolled back under the pipes and began running along beneath in a low crouch that only someone of her stature could have managed. Ahead to the left were two marines covering behind abandoned cargo, facing the wrong way. She hit one with her second-last grenade, sending him flying and the other apparently scattering in several directions at once-the first was hit by a storm of fire from up ahead before she could fire again, armour shredding, broken pieces of ceramic and flesh spattering the walls at all angles.
And then the formerly retreating Blue Squad were hurdling the bodies and racing past her, withholding fire as they plunged through Command Squad and onward, yelling furious, howling obscenities that would have made an ancient Viking warrior’s blood run cold. Vanessa rolled out from under the pipes, and was abruptly confronted by Lieutenant Arvid Singh, visor smoke-stained and armour battlescarred, asking if she were okay. Then exclaiming something at her in Hindi that she missed entirely before running off in pursuit of his blood-lusting mob. She took a moment to blink at that surreal image. Her little Arvid, from old, long-disbanded SWAT Four. The practical jokester, the irresponsible, fun loving, cheerful one, who had somehow blossomed when the CDF was formed, and had become-to her and Sandy’s mutual agreement and astonishment-one of the CDF’s best squad commanders. The universe was crazy.
And wondered again that she could ponder such things, with bodies all about and flames gushing from a ruptured fuel line, like a small sun attempting birth within the station’s bowels. Fading now as the emergency cutoffs engaged, and she strode forward to recollect her troops and her breath. The one missing the arm was Enrique, now mercifully unconscious and pumped full of suit drugs and IV to keep her blood pressure up, attended to by several others. Dravid and Habie were also wounded, though less seriously. Wong was dead, as was Poloski. As, she discovered, was her old friend Zago, the only loss from her personal Command Section of five plus herself. She wanted to take time to look at the body, but couldn’t, there were commands to issue, people to organise, a broader tactical scenario to plug herself back into. Control to be reassumed. Private Deitrich seemed to think differently, so Vanessa grabbed her by both shoulders, and stared the young, tear-streaked private in the eyes.
‘Hey!’ Vanessa got her attention. ‘Fight now. Cry later.’ And gave the young woman a smack on the helmet as she departed, other Cal-Ts fanning ahead to scout the stairwells back up to dock-level. Tac-net, she realised, was informing her that Amazon had broken dock, taking a large number of docking grapples with it. She narrowed her com band to tactical com, relayed back to Callay via Jennifer and Mekong. ‘Amazon’s out,’ she said as she walked, ducking beneath the dwindling blaze from the ruptured fuel pipe, stepping past bullet-riddled bodies, bulkheads and shipping containers. ‘Do you have the fix?’
The reply took a few seconds to come back. Then, ‘Copy, Tac-two, we have the fix. ‘
‘Take that stupid fucker out of my sky.’
‘Engineering!’ Captain Rusdihardjo was yelling at her com now, in blind fury. ‘I want a reply! How the hell have we lost power!’
At the bridge engineering post, an ensign was poring helplessly over his screens, double- and triple-checking every indicator. ‘There’s no reply, Captain!’ he shouted back, desperately. ‘I’m not getting anything! I have to think the spinal feed’s been cut!’
Sergeant Raphael was not responding. None of the remaining marine contingent were. Spacers tucked into duty stations were unwilling to venture into the corridors. Familiar ship odours were now flavoured by something new. Fear.
‘Mid-ships,’ she commanded into her com, ‘I want a detail to go and check on that spinal feed! I want engines back on line, and I want them now!’ She was utterly unwilling to countenance the possibility that her grand warship, veteran of so many battles against the League, had been crippled at dock by a boarding party of two … all her intel had insisted that the CDF was nothing like this capable. The Fifth had subdued the station population, Callayan Parliament had finally begun to cool in their frenzied denunciations, Secretary General Benale had been slowly growing an ear-to-ear smile at all his briefings … things had been slipping into place. Soon, word was to have come from Earth, and additional ambassadors, to assess the latest situation. Third Fleet, and Captain Reichardt, had seemed increasingly resigned to circumstances. Where had it all gone wrong?
‘Mid-ships!’ she yelled into com.
‘Captain,’ a crackling voice came back, ‘we’re not reading real clearly, I think the corn’s been damaged. Could you repeat the last instruction?’
Rusdihardjo nearly exploded with rage. In all her military career, she’d never had her crew pull that old trick. It was Fleet-versus-Fleet. They’d assured the lower ranks that it would never come to fighting. The lower ranks had followed on that trusting assurance. But they’d been on board. They’d believed in the cause. Marines had been picking fights all over station, and sometimes even on Callay, with those who disagreed. Now was no time to be changing minds, with so much at stake.
She stared at the tactical display, separate to station-side tac-net- Amazon was now pulling away from the station, joined by the cruiser Berlin, with Tehran and San Diego making fast preparations to follow. Inbound at fractional-V, Pearl River and Kutch were well away from Callay’s gravitational strictures, free to manoeuvre and reposition rapidly with jump-fields giving capabilities far beyond simple propulsion. Sitting at station, content in their numerical superiority, no one had considered the possibility that the two Third Fleet warships would turn around to surf the gravity slope back toward station orbit. Outerlying picket vessels would not realise Pearl River and Kutch had moved for another half hour at soonest, as the light wave reached them. And the light wave from both vessels was itself forty minutes late. Tactical was rapidly calculating a likely approach vector along the probability cone, attempting a guesstimate of the ships’ true location. It was possible that they’d already fired. At fractional-light velocities, any warship hit by so much as a deep-space pebble was in serious trouble.
Even as she considered the situation, she could hear Lieutenant Commander Tupo issuing an ultimatum to Mekong, ordering unconditional surrender. Mekong gave no reply. A separate channel opened on com, parallel to the highest command channel, and she opened it. The channel unfolded from bridge com, transmitting to every Fifth Fleet ship.
‘Captain Rusdihardjo,’ said a vaguely familiar female voice in her ear. ‘This is Commander Kresnov of the Callayan Defence Force. CDF forces have control of the station bridge. I have personally disabled your ship’s engines. Your vessels have lost the strategic high ground. Any further hostile action on their part will ensure their destruction. On behalf of the people of Callay and the free Federation, I demand that you cease your unprovoked hostility toward my world and my people. ‘
Rusdihardjo’s hands grasped so tightly upon her chair restraints that she nearly buckled metal alloy. ‘Get off my ship, you mechanical bitch!’ she hissed.
‘This reply is not acceptable,’ Kresnov said calmly. ‘You underestimated this world, Captain, as you’ve underestimated the will of the entire Federation. I’ll give you one last chance to save the lives of your people. ‘
‘Get the fuck off this channel!’
‘Wrong answer.’ The connection ceased.
‘Priority!’ yelled com. ‘Two marks, intercept trajectory … !’ Rusdihardjo’s screen lit with multilayered graphics, plotting an emerging course on a direct line toward Amazon …
‘Oh by the Prophet …’ Rusdihardjo murmured as her eyes followed the trajectory trail back to its origin.
‘It came from the planet!’ yelled Tactical. ‘Northern continent, grid reference 144 by 381!’
From out in the vast Callayan wild, there came multiple strikemissiles, accelerating at forces that could only mean a modern reaction drive, for a projectile that size and mass. But they’d tracked all imported materials and systems to Callay for years! There was no way they’d imported such a sophisticated weapons system directly under watchful Federal Intelligence eyes. Unless … unless they’d built one themselves? Equally impossible-from Callay’s neophyte armament industry status to cutting edge in two years? It just couldn’t be …
Amazon applied main engines too late, a silent roar of bonecrushing power that surely smashed any unsecured bodies to pulp and drove breath from the lungs at close to ten-Gs … both missiles struck before the pilot could rotate to bring defensive armaments into line. Amazon disappeared in a huge, pyrotechnic flash, nav-signal fracturing in a million directions, close-zoom visual blanking out completely …
‘The planet is live!’ someone was shouting on com. ‘They’ve got it rigged, that trajectory was directly across station orbits! We’re going to have to assume the entire orbital access is covered … ‘
Should have scanned, Rusdihardjo thought dazedly. Should have scanned from orbit. The construction activity should have been visible, if nothing else. It had not even crossed anyone’s mind that Callay could build such systems so quickly. Two years to prepare for this moment, and no one had thought to check. With two serious warships on highV approach, they needed to get vessels undocked and burning for outbound velocity to meet the threat. But anyone who undocked was a target … defensive systems could counter some planetary assaults, but doing so forced evasive manoeuvres that would throw outbound burns wildly off-course. They were trapped.
Vanessa strode the corridor outside the bridge, stepping carefully to avoid bodies, bits of torn metal from walls, ceiling or armour plate, and discarded equipment. The thick smoke made it difficult to seelife support on this level had broken down, and much of the lighting was out from shrapnel or bullet strikes. They’d passed CDF wounded on the way up, being evacuated to emergency medical teams in safe zones on lower decks. Now, she stood aside as the same was done for several Fifth Fleet wounded. The dead remained where they’d fallen, mostly marines, but including another three Cal-Ts. The tally was nineteen so far. Sometimes she hated tac-net’s precision.
The smoke was flowing into the bridge through the damaged blast doors, a sure sign that the bridge’s separate life support systems remained functional. Vanessa strode in past Third Fleet marine guards with Mekong clearly emblazoned upon their shoulder armour, and found Captain Reichardt supervising bridge posts filled with temporary crew, a mix of his own marines and partially qualified Cal-Ts, watching the systems. To one side, bodies were piled in a grisly tangle of arms and legs, clearing walking space the only way possible. There was blood all over the deck, spattered upon chairs and control panels among bullet and shrapnel holes.
‘Show me,’ she said to Reichardt, coming to stand at his side as a Mekong marine stood respectfully aside. Reichardt pointed to the display, manned by another marine sans-helmet … damaged bridge systems and inexperienced bridge crew meant that some readings were not uplinking to tac-net as they ought.
Vanessa flipped up her visor, and peered at the station display. It showed the broad station wheel, with a particular focus upon the central hub. The station reactor glowed multiple shades of red and orange. Coolant flows were tracked up and down the station arms, technical grapics to one side indicated a range of temperature and magnetic readings that would surely make more sense to a fusion technician … except that some of them were flashing red, and displayed alongside other numbers that appeared to indicate the optimum reading. The figures did not match, and the mis-match appeared to be increasing.
‘How long?’ she asked Reichardt.
‘Twenty-eight minutes before it goes critical,’ Reichardt replied grimly. ‘I think it’s a marine Lieutenant Colonel named Bhatt.’
Vanessa winced, trying to recall that particular briefing. ‘What’s he like?’
‘Arsehole,’ Reichardt replied, predictably. ‘He’s not responding. We thought he might be around here …’ pointing to another part of the station, ‘… over in red sector, supervising the station maintenance schedules after all the mech-shop folks refused to keep working. Well, now we reckon he took an elevator up the arm and commandeered the reactor. The elevators are all sabotaged, we’ve got one of our teams headed up the three-arm, but your guys in the two-arm are closest.’
Vanessa nodded, and opened her link. ‘General? Captain Reichardt estimates twenty-eight minutes before we lose the reactor.’
‘I copy that, Major,’ came Krishnaswali’s reply. He sounded faintly out of breath, the rhythmic thudding of footsteps in the background, as if he were moving at speed. ‘We’re nearly halfway up to judge from the gravity, we’re receiving sporadic small arms fire from the top, firing straight down the arm. ‘ A loud, unmistakable thud. ‘Grenades too. We are laying suppressing fire where possible, but we’ve already taken two wounded and will undoubtedly take more as we get closer. ‘
‘We could do a vacuum assault,’ Reichardt said in a low voice to Vanessa’s side, off-net and not audible to Krishnaswali. ‘Undock a ship, we’d just make the deadline.’
‘Too much risk and not enough time,’ Vanessa replied, momentarily off-net. And reconnected. ‘General, the containment mechanisms on that reactor ensure it won’t go thermonuclear no matter what they do to it. A failure is survivable. If you feel the casualties aren’t worth it, best that you back off-we’re in the process of gaining control of the space lanes, we can evac all station personnel off on ships or escape pods before the emergency batteries drain and we lose life support.’
‘Major,’ Krishnaswali replied with a note of familiar, stern reprimand even past the exertion, ‘this reactor will take months to replace or repair. I will not allow some fanatical fool to put this planet’s primary trading station out of action for that period. A damaged economy will cripple everything the government is attempting to achieve vis-a-vis reforming the Federation. I assure you it shall not happen. ‘
He disconnected. Vanessa restrained a low mutter. And looked up at Reichardt-a long way up for her, even in armour. His lean, angular face was deadpan, almost nonchalant. As if he’d barely noticed the dried blood from a cut upon his jaw, nor the surrounding carnage, nor the acrid smell in his nostrils. Sandy had described some of the station actions during the war to her. Descriptions that gave some insight into the mindset of Fleet soldiers of any insignia. Reichardt had seen worse than this. They all had. Reichardt seemed to be more than just acting calm. He was calm. Combat-reflex, it seemed, was not exclusive to GIs.
‘Damn fool’s determined to get himself killed,’ Vanessa said darkly.
‘Cut him some slack,’ Reichardt remarked. ‘Can’t be easy taking orders from a major. He’s got his hero moment, let him take it.’
‘Officers getting themselves killed is one thing,’ she retorted. ‘Getting my troops killed is another. If he’s got a problem with taking my orders, he should have spent more time building his combat competency instead of his management style. He didn’t have to come along, I told him that.’
‘I bet you did. Can he do this?’ Nodding to the screen.
Vanessa exhaled hard. And gave a sharp shrug, mostly hidden within the armour. ‘Shit, I don’t know. Maybe. That’s Spec-Lieutenant Mutande up the three-arm?’
‘Yep. One of my best.’
‘Well, let’s make sure they keep talking.’ It was amazing how calm she felt, considering everything that had just happened. Colours were sharp, smells distinct, sounds crisp and immediate. The whole thing felt curiously out-of-body. Somehow, she was not particularly self-aware-not of her body, her various aches and pains, her fears or concerns. There was just the situation, broad, varied and fast-moving … and somehow, in an utterly impersonal manner, that situation included herself.
She saw something else upon a neighbouring screen, and frowned at it. ‘Corona’s still here. Any idea why?’
‘A lot of people weren’t on their ships when the GBS went down. I don’t think Takawashi was. I’ve no idea about your buddy Jane.’
‘It’s a damn wonder they didn’t leave days ago …’ as she linked to another specific channel. ‘Sandy? Captain Reichardt thinks maybe Takawashi wasn’t on Corona at zero-hour. If he’s stuck somewhere in the fighting, there might be a chance we can grab him. Maybe Jane too.’
‘For God’s sake don’t let anyone try and take Jane,’ came the familiar reply in her ear. ‘If she goes looking for him, she’s mine. ‘
On the tac-net, one particular dot on board Euphrates began moving, its constant companion staying close to its side.
‘That’s personal, I take it?’ Reichardt remarked to Vanessa.
‘Could say.’
‘Well I hope she makes it. I’m gonna need some people to write to me in my prison cell when this is over.’
Vanessa snorted. ‘I’ll send you a cake with a GI inside.’
‘Will she jump out naked and dance for me?’
‘Could be arranged.’
‘Well now, that’d be dandy.’
Sandy took off running down the dock from Berth Four, headed downspin toward Amazon’s abandoned Berth Two. Rhian followed close behind, leaving the stricken Euphrates’ main access guarded by an advance perimeter-defence squad of Mekong marines, plus a CDF AMAPS that had waddled into position behind a cargo flatbed, twin rotary cannon arms scanning the docks for any sign of trouble. Warning lights flashed, lighting the broad, metallic expanse with strobing red, and a klaxon echoed from the overhead. Smoke drifted lightly in some places, remnants from exchanges of fire, though it seemed nothing combustible had ignited upon the docks.
Sandy and Rhian ran past the bodies of fallen Amazon marines in front of Berth Two, hugging the outer wall and weaving amidst the available cover of the containers. Tac-net showed a promising picture, immediate strategic objectives achieved and perimeters established. Now it was the Fifth Fleet marines forced to regroup from their initial, scattered locations, and figure their next plan of attack. Now that Mekong marines had reached the engineering bays that had been reconfigured for use as mass detention cells, that was going to be a whole lot more difficult.
Reports indicated hundreds of very angry Nehru Station dockworkers moving quickly to help establish defensive barricades with welding and electrical jury-rigs. Some top-side women were setting themselves as human shields, linking arms across hallways and daring marines to shoot their way through. Dockworkers had infuriated Fifth Fleet marines enough lately that they might be tempted. But white collar, urbane Callayan femininity was something else entirely. A visual Sandy had accessed from a nearby Cal-T showed a line of elegant saris and other gowns, dark hair in crimps and braids, and a lot of flashing jewellery. She hadn’t recognised what they’d been chanting, but the name of Gandhi-ji had been mentioned, unsurprisingly … although the problem now seemed to be that they were threatening to blockade all combatants, be they Callayan, Third or Fifth Fleet. Well, fine, she thought as she ran in pounding, armoured steps along the deckplates-just so long as no one breached those lines.
The dock ahead seemed clear of soldiers or civilians as they passed Berth One and headed for Berth Thirty. Corona was at Berth Twentyfive, just beyond the lowest point of the ceiling horizon ahead.
‘Cap,’ Rhian remarked, ‘I don’t understand those women. Don’t they want the station back?’
‘Not by force they don’t.’ Sandy pulled in beside the raised platform beside the Berth Thirty docks, angling for a good fire position and wary of blindspots ahead behind the space-wall gantries. Heavy pipes wrapped around the massive brace reinforcements, anchoring one end of the docking grapples outside. Rhian raced past, headed for the next available cover-a wall-mounted hose that plunged through the decking. No warships here meant no conveniently arranged containers for cover.
‘That’s an ideology, huh.’ Sandy had been trying to explain ideologies to Rhian, on and off. Among other oddities.
‘Yes, it is.’ She hurdled the platform railing, dodged through the security desks and detectors there and jumped the other end, passing Rhian with her weapon ready for surprises. It was a League vessel they were approaching. Jane might not be the only GI they had to worry about. ‘Remember I told you about Gandhi? He’s big on Callay.’
‘History again.’
‘Culture, more like. It’s the same thing.’ She kept running until she hit the next major air hose against the wall, and braced.
‘You don’t agree with them?’ As Rhian started running.
‘Course not.’
‘So why tolerate them? We’re in charge here.’
‘Right now they’re helping as much as anything.’ As Rhian dashed past, headed for the Berth Twenty-nine platform. ‘And besides, where would civilisation be if people weren’t idealistic?’
‘Even if the ideals are stupid?’
‘Who decides what’s stupid?’ Rhian skidded into cover, and Sandy took off.
‘Democracy again, huh?’
‘Sure. A conflict of ideals. The stronger ideals win.’
‘So everything’s a conflict. Doesn’t that kind of prove your point?’
‘Now you’re getting it.’
Across on one of the other stations, the Fifth Fleet cruiser Stockholm had pulled free. Already two reaction-warheads had been launched, accelerating all the way. If Stockholm didn’t manoeuvre real soon, there wasn’t going to be a lot left. Pearl River and Kutch were coming back fast, a strike run if ever she’d seen one. The kind of approach that was to FTL space warfare what the high ground had once been to openground infantry warfare, before infotech and modern weaponry had rendered mere spatial considerations insignificant. Their new flagship out of action, their old flagship mostly destroyed, the Fifth Fleet were wavering, trapped between the conflicting demands of maintaining station occupation on the one hand, opposing the incoming Third Fleet assault on the other, and avoiding destruction by planet-based missile systems on the third. No military commanders, in Sandy’s experience, had three hands.
She raced in behind an abandoned flatbed laden with smaller dockside cans, peering about the wall-side end as Rhian came sprinting up behind …
‘Cover!’ she announced, fixing upon a sudden appearance from an inner wall hatchway another hundred metres up the curve, directly opposite Berth Twenty-five. Rhian saw immediately what she saw, and kept the flatbed between her approach and the object of Sandy’s attention-a squat, bald man in dark glasses and a suit, an automatic weapon in one hand. Not a GI, Sandy reckoned with a visual shift to IR, to judge from the body temperature. Clearly he was covering the approach to Berth Twenty-five. Just as clearly there would be a corresponding guard at the outer wall, covering the entry. A quick flash through cybernetic memory files found no visual match for the face.
‘If he’s League,’ Rhian said a moment later, having taken cover at the flatbed’s opposite end with a good visual on the target, ‘then I can’t find any match. And I updated all my files a week ago.’
‘How comprehensive are Embassy files?’ Sandy asked, keeping her rifle lowered to present the minimum profile. More proof that he wasn’t a GI-he hadn’t spotted them yet. Or didn’t appear to have.
‘I’d recognise the face if he were ISO.’ Rhian was still nominally ISO. At least until the paperwork came through, anyhow. ‘Or if he were a part of Cognizant’s security party-they were all listed. He’s not there.’
The man ducked back into the hatchway, located between an Indonesian restaurant and an entertainment parlour, windowfronts awash with garish neon. Probably he was waiting for someone. From his movements, Sandy reckoned they were overdue, or he was impatient to be gone, or both. She snap-stored the image, dialed a new connection, and achieved a time-delay on the link back to Tanusha, via satellite relay now that the other stations’ corns had been shut down by Fifth Fleet occupiers.
‘Intel,’ she said, ‘I need an ID on this man.’ And sent the image with little more than a thought.
‘Hold on, Snowcat,’ came the reply, after several seconds’ delay. ‘It’s not on the available database, l e t me check … ‘
‘Sandy,’ came Ari’s voice over the top, unsurprisingly, ‘that guy’s FIA. I don’t have a name, just trust me, he’s FIA, I got a separate list that’s not on the main database. You’re opposite Berth Twenty-five?’
‘Yeah. Looks like Takawashi’s been talking to Federal Intelligence. That would explain why Corona’s still here.’
‘Goddamn Fifth Fleet occupation’s become a haven for FIA remnants,’ Ari replied after a two-second delay. ‘Should have guessed … look, this is good shit. Can you get some of these guys alive? If we prove the Fifth was in bed with the same FIA guys who’ve been fucking us the last few years, we’ll be clear.’
‘Jane’s my priority, An,’ Sandy replied with mild reprimand. ‘We can’t let her escape.’
‘I thought the priority was to retake the station?’ Rhian remarked doubtfully. Which was the first time in memory Rhian had ever questioned her operational tactics. One of these days she’d have to start keeping a diary, to keep track of all these momentous developments.
‘Yeah, well I’m reprioritising.’
‘Sandy, get this,’ came Vanessa’s urgent voice, ‘a captured Fifth Fleet marine says Takawashi and several aides were intercepted and detained up on level four in your sector for acting suspiciously. They were put in detention with about forty other civilians in one of the rooms there. We were just reviewing security tape from around Berth Twenty-five, we see Jane and several others leaving Corona just a few minutes ago. I think they went to go get him … corn’s been shielded in your sector, it might have taken them this long to figure out where he was. ‘
‘I don’t want Jane rampaging anywhere near some group of civilians,’ Sandy replied. Tac-net flashed before her vision, a fleeting rush of station schematics, then highlighting the level four lounge in a residential district. ‘If she gets into a firefight with guards there it could be a bloodbath … Rhi, one pair advance, let’s go.’
She levelled her weapon about the end of the flatbed. Waited several seconds, and then when the FIA man did not appear at his hatchway, set off running. Rhian covered that target, her own rifle tracking left toward Berth Twenty-five … another man in a suit was crouched there beside hatchway railings, rifle moving as he spotted them. Sandy shot him in the arm. Another two peered around container rims, and she shot them too, an arm and a leg, without breaking stride. Halfway toward the hatchway, the FIA man appeared ahead with weapon in hand, and Rhian clipped his skull with a rifle round that sparked off the doorframe as he thudded limply backward.
Rhian led in, Sandy covering the docks … tac-net showed her Rhian’s view of an empty hallway beyond, and she backed her own way in. From there it was a fast, two-person-shooter manoeuvre along the hall, through several hatchways, then into a broader, more decorative administrative area with carpet on the floor and occasional paintings on the walls. They passed offices with doors flung open, tables and chairs overturned within, coffee and half-eaten meals spilled upon the floor. Then up a stairwell, tac-net giving no reading whatsoever on possible enemy activity here, having no eyes nor ears to access, save their own.
Up four floors, then out into another hall. A display upon the wall gave directions … it was an exclusive business zone, it seemed, as they passed an open office with transparent dividers and a broad display screen alive with the latest Tanushan news and business stories at loud volume despite the utter lack of audience. A junction then, and what looked like an elevator lobby, with an abandoned service desk and holographic display screens offering a choice of entertainment section, gymnasium or meeting rooms. Graffiti upon the wall opposite spoiled the tranquil order-‘Fuck the Fifth,’ in hasty, black letters.
An explosion, and shooting in reverberating rapid bursts nearby, Sandy and Rhian flattened themselves against available walls. Screams and yells, muffled and of indistinct range, from somewhere ahead. Then a rush of movement, civilians bursting around a corner, suit jackets flying, sprinting to get clear. A woman, feet bare, still clutching her heels as she ran … one saw the two armoured figures ahead and might have panicked, except that Sandy yelled at them to come, waving a free arm and pointing them onwards to empty hallways she knew were safer.
They rushed past, Sandy and Rhian unplastering themselves from the walls and gliding forward in a balanced, weapon-braced rush. Another two civilians rushed past, barely seeming to notice them. Another, colliding off the corner and falling in his haste, then scrambling back to his feet and continuing. Sandy braced her back to the corner of the T-junction, Rhian to the opposite side, each peering out to clear each other’s blind-spot, each seeing instantly what the other saw. Tac-net showed the way toward the shooting, and so Sandy spun about the corner and dashed, Rhian close behind. Several more fast manoeuvres around corners, a smoke alarm blaring now, corridors turning a wash of red, emergency light.
Then a big, important double-door, shattered off its hinges, decorative wood splintered and blackened across the hallway, still smouldering. Several civilians stood coughing and bewildered in the thick smoke, hands pressing cloths over mouths, one crouching to throw up. Sandy and Rhian pushed through the wrecked doors and found pandemonium-a broad, circular table arrangement within a large room, holographic display suspended from the central ceiling, filled with smoke and sprawled, coughing people … at least twenty, Sandy reckoned at first glance.
‘Need a medical team here ASAP,’ she remarked to tac-net, knowing someone was monitoring her visual and location, and would figure the rest themselves. She and Rhian fanned out in opposite directions around the room … against one wall a woman in Muslim headdress had cleared a space and was treating several wounded, tying rags of clothing about bloodied parts, giving directions to frightened helpers. She looked up as Sandy approached, recognition of the CDF insignia dawning past the initial fear at the armoured, visored monster stepping through the smoke.
‘I need medical help here fast,’ the woman said sharply, ‘this one here has a punctured lung and maybe a kidney, and this one …’
‘It’s coming,’ Sandy assured her. Unclipped and handed off her emergency medical kit from the front of her armour webbing. Turned and caught as Rhian tossed her own across the room, without needing to be told. ‘Maybe five minutes, just hold on.’
Rhian had already reached the rear doorway, this one apparently kicked open rather than blasted. Sandy hurried to join her, and together they moved into the hallway beyond.
‘Docks are covered,’ came Bjornssen’s voice in her ear, and sure enough, tac-net showed his squad now occupying her and Rhian’s previous position. No one was going to be running straight across to Berth Twenty-five, then. Even Jane couldn’t outdraw a Cal-T with rifle already levelled and finger on the trigger. The carnage in the meeting room hadn’t been as bad as it could have been, Sandy found time to reflect as she and Rhian continued moving through hallways, angling for the nearest stairwell. Maybe Jane was learning moderation. Or maybe she’d simply been concerned about hitting Takawashi, and any of his FIA friends in attendance. Concerned? Why would Jane be concerned? A suspicious, gnawing sensation tugged at the back of her mind. The feeling that there was something significant going on here that she was missing.
More shooting then-more muffled than before, apparently from several levels down. She accelerated, risking the next couple of corners before smashing open the stairwell door and skidding down at speed, peering through the narrow gap within the central well to scan below … still nothing registered on tac-net, clearly it wasn’t any friendlies being engaged. Shooting seemed loudest on level two, and she kicked the steel door off its hinges, peering a telescopic eyepiece around the corner … and got it shot off. So she knew she was in the right place, anyhow.
‘Jane!’ she yelled, pumping the suit mike up several notches for greater amplification. ‘It’s me! Time to give up!’
A grenade thumped, and she ducked back, crouching to a ball as the explosion tore the outer doorframe, showering her armour with fragments.
‘Maybe next time with less sarcasm?’ Rhian suggested mildly, still three steps up the stairway with that effortless calculation of an AP grenade’s effective radius that all close combat vets acquired in time. Sandy mentally set a delay fuse on her next two grenades, then fired both at where tac-net displayed a bare length of wall, one high, one low. Each ricocheted and exploded in turn, without exposing her gun muzzle to Jane’s fire … amplified hearing made out footsteps and the clatter of an evasive roll, and Sandy spun about the corner, Rhian immediately at her back, covering the opposite direction within the cramped doorway.
‘Go,’ said Sandy, and ran, Rhian running more backwards than sideways, trusting Sandy to deal with Jane. A reply cracked off the corridor wall ahead, then exploded over their heads as both Sandy and Rhian hit the floor. Sandy’s rifle never wavered even in falling, and fired at the first sign of Jane’s movement, clipping the rifle barrel. The gun muzzle vanished, then rapid footsteps retreated down that corridor. ‘One pair,’ Sandy observed, as they rushed back to their feet in unison. ‘They’re splitting up. I’ve got Jane, you get Takawashi. Don’t hurt him.’
Rhian dashed off down that cross-corridor, Sandy heading for the next, and Jane’s route of departure. Flattened herself to that corner as she arrived, watching Rhian’s position dart down the adjoining cor ridor, and wondering if it were a ploy to get Rhian isolated and deal with her separately … except that she’d gone the wrong way, away from the docks, where Rhian had gone toward them, down Takawashi’s most obvious route. Trying to lure Sandy away. Which still meant she had to think Takawashi’s protection had a chance against Rhian. The bodies of several Fifth Fleet marines were sprawled upon the decking-the evident source of the earlier shooting.
‘Watch for traps, Rhi,’ she remarked as she risked the rifle muzzle around the corner. Armscomp saw nothing, and she moved around in full. ‘Just get between him and the docks and don’t let him past.’
‘I have it,’ Rhian replied. There was a tone of mild reprimand in her voice. Meaning that she knew exactly what was going on, and Sandy should know better than to think she didn’t. Deep in those regions of the brain that were repressed under combat-reflex it didn’t stop her from worrying.
Rather than following Jane down that corridor, Sandy ran on along her present one. Follow-the-leader through tight spaces was tiresome. If Jane wanted to play escape and evasion, she’d let her. It only became an interesting contest when neither player knew exactly where the other was. She snapped a tac-net sensor into a doorframe as she went. It never hurt to have more coverage.
Upon the broader tac-net display, Stockholm vanished in a blinding, pyrotechnic display. Either the captain hadn’t been able to implement defensive manoeuvres properly, or he’d seriously underestimated Callayan technology. The missiles’ reaction-drive manoeuvring/propulsion system not only pinpointed targets less than two-metres diameter, she’d been informed by an eager starship-component-manufacturer-turnedweapons-maker, it actually anticipated the target’s evasive patterns according to a new, multispectrumed quantum integrated logic system (QILS, in military parlance), perfect for the kind of over-the-lighthorizon warfare found in high-velocity space combat. Fleet could say what it liked about Callay on other matters, Sandy had often reckoned, but when it came to raw technology, Callayans ruled. Two years for an untested, cutting-edge, antiwarship, planet-launched missile system? No problem-from blueprint to final, secret testing within eighteen months, in fact. Fleet’s main Earth contractors couldn’t have done it within three years. That Callay could evidently hadn’t occurred to them. But as always, big companies lagged small ones in only knowing what they did do, not what they could.
She moved fast, down a narrower corridor, then paused to listen before doubling back through a side room, out the far door, and along another passage. Too much thinking did not help. She knew the layout. Jane did too. Each knew the other’s capabilities. Manoeuvring was instinctive, like breathing. Too much thought only brought self-doubt. She moved on automatic, letting the lines and angles of the tac-net schematic wash over her. Feeling for the rhythm, for the inspiration of motion, knowing only that Jane was trying to draw her away from Takawashi, and allow him to escape. Why that should be so, she did not have time to fathom …
Movement as she rounded a corner, leaping as she fired, return fire thundering past, an explosion of sparks and metallic impacts against the wall behind. Sandy flattened herself to the corner, aware that Jane had ducked back in time to avoid most of her own burst … difficult to maintain accurate fire and dodge behind a corner simultaneously, lest the weapon hit the wall. Further along, decorative wall panelling tore further under its own weight, ripped by Jane’s fire and now hanging across the corridor, exposing cold steel and cabling beneath.
‘Takawashi’s bodyguards are no match for my friend,’ Sandy called, double-checking her rifle’s mag-charge, naturally cautious of a static-jam. Switched it to her left hand, and undid the strap on her pistol, attached across the chest of her armour webbing. ‘If you’re trying to protect him, you’re not doing a real good job out here.’
‘You’ve no legal reason to pursue him,’ came the reply from around the corner. Calm, as always. Doubtless rechecking her own equipment. Sandy pulled a grenade from another pouch, and set the timer with a flick of the soft-tip of her armoured thumb. ‘He’s a League citizen. He hasn’t broken your laws.’
‘You have.’ Jane was quoting law to her? If she’d had the time, and her helmet visor wasn’t commanding so much of her attention, she might have shaken her head in disbelief.
‘Fine,’ came Jane’s reply. The sound was coming from the open doorway of a room, before an adjoining corridor. Jane would dare not duck around that corner. But tac-net schematics showed a spot on the walls of that room where a structural doorway had been deemed unneeded, and walled over with the same panelling that was hanging loose across from Sandy’s position. Jane’s schematics were doubtless as thorough. ‘Try and take me. But leave Renaldo alone.’
Renaldo? ‘That sounds suspiciously like concern for a fellow sentient being,’ Sandy remarked. ‘What did he promise you?’
‘More than you can.’
‘Considering I’m offering you a choice between violent death or imprisonment, that’s not saying much. The man’s a megalomaniac. So sure, maybe he’s perfect for you.’
‘I’m a GI,’ Jane retorted. For the first time, Sandy thought she could detect the faintest trace of emotion in her voice. ‘I seek my creator.’
‘So go to church.’
‘Be serious,’ came the mildly scornful retort. ‘Religion is for the lost. I know who I am.’
‘You’d be the only one.’ Sandy stepped far enough forward from the wall to clip the rifle to her back armour. ‘Creating us doesn’t make him worthy of whatever it is you think you’re looking for.’
‘I seek only my own kind. I’d thought perhaps that meant you. Clearly I was mistaken. Renaldo knows me. He respects what I am. Together, we find a commonality of purpose. He treats me as I deserve.’
‘Hey, bitch-I know you. And I know exactly what you deserve.’ Hands now free of the rifle, she took the pistol in her left hand, the grenade in her right.
‘Your analysis lacks precision,’ Jane replied. ‘You have become ragged and uneven. A flawed tool. It shall be your downfall.’
‘Tell it to someone who cares.’
‘I’ll tell it …’ and broke off as Sandy flipped the grenade about the corner, on a low trajectory, then went high and left-handed with the pistol. Jane shot the grenade in midflight, but was simply not quick enough to target the simultaneously emerging pistol as wellSandy fired an explosive volley, tearing the rifle from Jane’s hands, then charged, holstering the pistol and ripping the rifle from her back in milliseconds, discharging two grenades through the open doorway through which Jane had vanished.
They detonated with a crash, followed by a volley of fire as Jane softened the weak wall panelling, then a crash as she dove through into the adjoining corridor … Sandy pulled up short as a second volley whistled through where her head would have been had she stuck it around the corridor corner. She ricocheted a grenade off the wall instead … it tore wall panelling rather than bouncing cleanly, so she risked a peek with her rifle muzzle only to snap it back as Jane put a bullet through the grenade launcher, then several more. Then nothing, light footsteps springing up an adjoining corridor, and Sandy dashed in armoured pursuit.
The array of grenade debris told her that Jane must have taken fragments, probably from all blasts … she switched hands approaching the next corner, and shoved the rifle butt out instead of the muzzle. Two shots hit it, the burst cut short prematurely as she heard the pistol go empty, and stepped around the corner into calm, plain sight, with a swing of the rifle to underarm-level like a cricket batsman stepping up to the crease. Jane was already running, but fast as she was, she was two metres and forty-five hundredths of a second short of the next corner, and wearing no armour.
Sandy fired low, shots striking thighs and calves. Jane hit the decking and rolled hard for cover. Sandy ran after, hearing more shots ahead as Rhian engaged Takawashi’s group just short of the docks. Targets appeared on tac-net, only to vanish, panicked yells and Rhian shouting at them to stop or else. She gave the next corner a wide berth, seeing blood on the deck plates … and realising that somehow, she’d fired low. She couldn’t remember making that conscious decision at all. A single burst between the shoulderblades would have solved everything. But now, the corridor was empty, and the engineering door was forced open. Damn it.
She ducked within, eyes and rifle muzzle darting within the dark metallic space. Two closed hatches along the right wall, and a larger one through a reinforced bulkhead straight in front. Sandy kicked through it with a resounding wham! that proved nothing was hiding on the door’s far side. Beyond, a dark, narrow space of low overhead pipes, and the reverberating hum of aircon and station systems. Sandy moved forward at a low crouch, tracking multiple places where a body could hide up ahead, and eyeing the occasional blood spots on the decking that she knew could be deceptive …
A grenade flashed to her side, blinding, and Jane was on her barely before the shockwave had finished smashing her into the wall, tearing the rifle from her grasp and sending her flying headfirst into a pipe brace, the visor imploding to shattered white. Her countermove swept arm and leg simultaneously, predicting Jane’s counterbrace and switching to a simple, right-fisted punch that sent her crashing backward. Sandy’s next blow went straight through the pipe as Jane whipped away and rolling, steam erupting as Sandy ripped the pistol from her webbing.
Jane came up and grabbed it faster than even a high-des GI had a right to, considering the state of her legs … Sandy simply let her have it, releasing the pistol and punching her in the face with that hand instead. A straight’s head would have smashed like a melon. Jane’s snapped back, in that fractional, time-frozen moment, eyes wide in desperate, rapid-time processing as her brain tried to catch up with events. Disbelief, Sandy saw. Shock. Sandy’s kick smashed her into the wall, an armoured elbow smash bounced her artificial skull off the pipes, and her overhead hammer-blow drove her straight into the deck … where she grabbed Sandy’s legs and pulled her feet from under her.
Sandy twisted and kicked on the way down, but only succeeded in imparting greater velocity upon Jane’s new dash for a side exit. Sandy stayed long enough to retrieve her pistol, then scrambled after. Down the cramped side passage was a metal ladder descending through a manhole … she heard the movement below, grabbed a hold and slid down one handed, the other hand aiming the pistol as she hit the deck below. Fired a shot that clipped Jane’s arm as she fled stumbling through yet another side door. Sandy ducked rolling through that one, darting a look both ways past the blur of her shattered visor. Jane was headed dockward in a flashing, strobing wash of red emergency light-jacket flying, legs straining to control the limp as synth-alloy myomer calves and thighs screamed in protest, contracted to steeldensity and impact-shocked, and now struggling to loosen for running. Sandy took aim between the shoulder blades, as Jane approached the final corner, and let her have a full ten rounds in a half second.
Jane’s head snapped back, hair flying as her body was thrown forward, back muscles erupting to super-hard density under compression, contorting her entire posture. She hit the ground and rolled into the corridor mouth, a straining hand held desperately toward the sign and arrow on the wall, pointing toward Berth Twenty-five. Sandy advanced at a walk that felt no faster than slow motion in knee-deep mud. Jane did not look back, her desperate, wide-eyed stare focused instead up the hallway, toward the docks. Body rigid, arms outstretched, fighting the agonising tension of bullet-strike on unprotected muscle. Arms and legs tried to lock out, fingers straining like claws, teeth bared in an animal snarl.
Then, she began to get up. Like some broken puppet, attempting to rise on its own once the strings had been cut … an awkward, stag gering motion of stiff legs and precarious balance. Sandy’s finger hovered over the trigger. Somehow, she did not fire.
Jane staggered off, limping forward like a wounded automaton, eyes fixed only upon her goal. Further up the hallway, Sandy heard commotion, and Rhian’s voice shouting for someone to keep still. A cry of anguish, surely Takawashi’s. Then Sandy rounded the corner herself, Jane staggering frantically ahead, making no inconsiderable pace despite the horror of her injuries. Desperation, Sandy realised. Beyond, she saw Takawashi, a gaunt, ghostly figure in a silvery robe. Arms outstretched to Jane, advancing toward her. Rhian behind, several bodyguards crouching nearby with hands wisely on heads, several others sprawled in bloody ruin having failed to do likewise. Rhian was yelling at Takawashi to stop. Takawashi did not seem to hear, eyes only for Jane. Somehow, Sandy could not seem to hear the words.
‘JANE!’ she yelled. The pistol was not assault-rifle calibre, to which Jane owed her briefly continuing life. But another burst, in the same spot as the last, would surely, finally penetrate. ‘You surrender now! I don’t need another excuse!’
Jane did not stop. Takawashi surely had a weapon under those robes. And besides, the moment had been a long time coming. Sandy fired. Jane lurched, and crashed forward like a falling statue. Takawashi cried out in anguish, trying to run on aged, slippered feet, but managing no more than a rapid, agonised shuffle.
He reached Jane’s side as Sandy approached, pistol ready for any sudden movements. Slowly, and with great, shuddering effort, he managed to turn Jane onto her side. There was blood in her mouth, Sandy saw, and she breathed with difficulty. The eyes were stunned, seeking only Takawashi, who knelt at her head and clawed helplessly at her shoulder. One brown, skeletal hand found hers, and clasped. Even in Jane’s state, she could have crushed it. Drops of blood stained the shimmering white kimono. Her bloody lips struggled to move.
‘I … I’m sorry,’ she breathed to him. ‘I failed you.’ Sandy unclipped the helmet faceplate with one hand. The breather came away, then the shattered eyepieces lifted. Cold air filled her lungs, tinged with acrid smoke.
‘No!’ Takawashi had tears in his eyes. A gnarled hand stroked at Jane’s cold, pale face. He smiled through the moisture. ‘You were magnificent! You nearly matched your sister, despite all her advantage of years. There is no shame, my dear. No shame at all.’ A thumb and forefinger pulled Jane’s eyelids apart, peering at her irises. ‘You have exceeded my wildest expectations.’
‘She’s better than me,’ Jane murmured. Takawashi felt for the back of her torn, bloody jacket, fingers seeking the location of the holes. ‘You told me. I didn’t want to believe it. But she is.’
‘Now, now, what did I tell you? We all learn our greatest lessons from our failures, not our successes. Your problem is that you have been too perfect! You never failed, and so you never learned.’
Further down the hall, Rhian had approached. Watching curiously, her expression invisible behind the helmet’s visored mask. The three suited guards crouched against the wall might have been hopeful, with her back turned … except that somehow, Rhian’s left hand kept the rifle levelled dead-straight, even behind her.
None dared move.
‘I would have liked to have seen Ryssa,’ Jane managed to breath. ‘I’ve never … belonged. It would have been … nice to belong. With you.’
‘Come come, my girl,’ Takawashi retorted, a new, firm purpose restoring itself over his emotions. ‘I won’t have defeatism, do you hear me? Come on, we’re going to get up. Up, do you hear? You’re not finished yet, I command you to rise!’
He struggled to his feet, grasping helplessly at her arm. Jane tried. Sandy stood, and stared, watching her try. Feeling … numb. It was hope. Plain, desperate hope. And it was the last thing she’d wanted to see. Takawashi waved desperately to his cowering guards, as Jane tried to get a knee beneath her, and then a foot. The guards exchanged nervous, sweating glances.
‘Come on, come on you fools!’ Takawashi snarled, straining breathlessly. ‘They’re honourable soldiers! They won’t hurt you!’
‘Cap?’ Rhian questioned by uplink as the guards slowly rose, keeping their hands in plain sight. Sandy didn’t reply, watching Jane’s attempts, dumbly. The guards edged cautiously past Rhian, her rifle tracking them all the while, then ran to Takawashi’s side. Together, they lifted Jane. When half-upright, they linked hands beneath her for a seat, and lifted. ‘Cap?’ Rhian repeated, audibly this time.
Takawashi turned to face Sandy. The guards carrying Jane waited, casting anxious glances back at her, now. Her eyes met Takawashi’s, his gaze brimming with emotion. Noting her blank expression, and the lowered pistol, with tearful expectation. And he smiled at her, thankfully. As if this, in all the universe, was the greatest gift she could possibly grant him. She knew, past the numbness, that she didn’t like it. It opposed everything she believed in, all that she stood for and admired. But, for the first time, she understood completely. God help her.
Takawashi put a hand upon one guard’s shoulder, and they moved off, holding Jane suspended between them. Takawashi shuffled along behind, hovering like an anxious father, as if to be sure she did not fall. They passed Rhian, who stood, and watched the unlikely grouping in disbelief. Then she turned, and walked toward Sandy. Popped her own faceplate, to display the curious frown upon her face.
‘Cap? You okay?’
‘I’m okay.’ As she watched the little group retreating up the hallway, toward Berth Twenty-five, and Corona, and a long trip home.
‘Didn’t we, like, want to ask them some questions, at least?’
‘Takawashi wouldn’t talk,’ Sandy murmured. ‘He’s a League VIP, he’d just sit tight until we had to let him go.’
‘And Jane?’ With great expectation. ‘She looked like she might survive.’ As if the prospect were notably disappointing.
Sandy shrugged. And let out a long, tired sigh. ‘Jane’s going home, Rhi. She’s going home.’
