Manxome Foe

25

“Conn, Tactical. Dreen fighters at one million kilometers.”

Spectre frowned at the screen and snarled internally. Their lasers were popguns, not even capable of scratching the Dreen fighters. Torps were fired…

“Roger, Tactical,” the CO said. “Range to torps?”

“Four thousand kilometers, Conn.”

The Dreen fighters had engaged at over six hundred million kilometers before. Chither, there had to be something…

“What’s the orientation of the approaching fighters?” the CO asked, rubbing his chin. “Are they relatively above us or what?”

“Off the starboard side, Conn, at mark neg one.”

“COB?”

“Sir?”

“I want you to figure out how to rotate this ship so that those fighters are, relatively, above us,” the CO said. “Use anything you can. Get that chaos generator pointed at them.”

“Roger, sir,” the COB said, pulling himself out of the compartment and forward.

“Engineering is aft, COB,” the CO pointed out.

“Torpedo room is forward, sir.”

“Right, get both of the motors mounted relative up,” the COB said.

The hardest and longest part had been getting the torps into place. There was a hatch directly to the magazine for loading the torps. Unfortunately, it was not an airlock. He’d ended up getting permission to jettison the ready torps and use those. Now it was just a matter of getting them lined up and controlled.

“Rotators are in place, COB,” the LPO of the torpedo room said.

“Conn, COB,” the COB said. “We can rotate. End to end control is still working. No yaw, yet. And it ain’t really fine control.”

“That’s great, COB,” the CO said. “Gimme a short thrust rotating the port relative up. Just a touch.”

“Gimme a touch of burst on starboard,” COB said.

The torpedoman used a manual controller to fire the torp for just a moment.

“Right, when I tell you I’ll need about the same in the opposite direction,” the CO said. “On my mark. Three… two… one… Mark.”

“Fire port,” the COB said.

“Too much, COB.”

“Bit to starboard…”

“Christ, I wish this was electronic control,” the CO muttered, then keyed the communicator. “That’s got it pretty close. We’ll need to fine tune that in a bit. Can you get the bow up, relatively?”

“There’s going to be some rotation,” the COB answered.

“That’s fine. Just a touch.”

“I think that’s got it,” Spectre said after ten minutes. “Tactical, range to target?”

“Seven hundred thousand kilometers,” the TACO replied.

“Sir, you’re aware that they have more range than we do,” Weaver said quietly.

“Yes, I am, Commander,” Spectre replied. “Thank you for your input.”

Weaver knew he’d been slapped down and better than to comment.

“Here’s the deal,” the CO said after a moment. “Yes, the plasma guns took out the torps. But we’re tougher than torps. We’re going to keep firing that chaos generator as long as it lasts and as long as we last. And if we can even get them to scatter a bit and hold off engagement, it gives Miss Moon more time to work. I was going to wait to engage them until they were in range. Now I’m going to start firing before they are in their basket. They’ll either choose to scatter or not, but they will by God know we may be dead in space but we’re not done fighting!”

“Conn, Tactical, Dreen fighters approaching six hundred million kilometers. We have energy spike, Conn. Incoming.”

“Open fire, continuous, on the chaos ball generator,” the CO replied. “COB, get ready to maneuver…”

“What was that?” Miriam asked as an alarm claxon started going off and the ship shuddered.

“Nothing to worry about, ma’am,” Red said. He was busy assembling the pieces of the controller, using some of the smallest waldoes on his arm.

“Ship’s under attack,” Sub Dude replied, setting down a length of pipe. “CO’s firing back. It’s a battle, ma’am, but we’ve been through them before.”

“Don’t worry, I’m still calm,” Miriam said, picking up the pieces of the jury-rigged neutrino generator and slotting it into the tube. “Red, how are you doing?”

“Just done, ma’am,” Red said.

“Get me a number seven pipe clamp,” Miriam said, calmly, as the ship shuddered again. “And hand me the controller…”

“Damage in engineering compartment, personnel quarters and auxiliary personnel quarters,” the XO said. “No casualties, nobody in those areas. But we lost the gearing, entirely.”

“Good thing we don’t need it,” Spectre said as the ship shuddered from another plasma hit. “Tactical, they in range, yet?”

“They’ve scattered, Conn. Three groups designated Bandit One through Three. And, no, still one hundred thousand kilometers out.”

“Right, let’s get to targeting Bandit One,” the CO said. “COB, prepare to rotate the ship.”

“Damage to mess deck and the rear torpedo room,” the XO said.

“They always get hammered,” Spectre replied. “Just tell me my quarters are surviving this time.”

“So far no hits—” There was an enormous crash overhead and the compartment evacuated air.

“I was about to say no hits forward,” the XO continued over his suit communicator. “Belay that report.”

“COB, why haven’t you shot these guys down, yet?” the CO asked.

“Working on it, sir,” the COB replied.

“I want some smoked Dreen fighters!”

“Hits in main engineering spaces,” the XO said. “No damage. Two casualties. Evacuated.”

Marines normally had very little to do on-board ship. The exception was in the midst of a battle, when every hand was needed.

“Get that plating up,” Captain Zanella snarled. “We need to get this compartment sealed!”

The blast of plasma had penetrated two decks and cut through the bulkhead of the mess deck at a slight angle. Since the mess deck was the back-up infirmary, getting it airworthy was high on the list of “good things” to do.

“Got it in place, sir,” Gunny Mitchell said. “Benner: weld.”

“Time, time, time,” Captain Zanella muttered on the command freq. “I hope like hell that—”

The plasma blast initially followed the original but angled slightly differently it missed the repaired bulkhead.

It did not, however, miss a high pressure steam pipe that erupted in gaseous water. Parts of the steel pipe exploded outwards, filling the compartment with shrapnel.

“Fuck me,” Captain Zanella said quietly, staggering backwards with a six-inch piece of sharp metal protruding from his shoulder. He could feel his arm going numb and a cloud of reddish gas was dissipating in front of his face. From the feel of the splinter, it wasn’t in deep. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to die. His suit was spewing air and blood.

“This is going to hurt, sir,” Lance Corporal Butler said, grabbing the splinter.

“If you pull that out, I’m going to decompress in about a second,” the CO said, laying his hand over his RTO’s.

“Got that covered, too, sir,” Kermit said, holding up a roll of space tape. “A one and a two…” He pulled the splinter at two.

“Arrrgh!” the CO snapped. “I thought you were counting to three!”

“I know, sir,” Kermit said. He took the roll of space tape and laid a section across the hole in the CO’s suit. He pressed down firmly on the hole and it sealed in an instant.

“That stuff’s amazing,” the CO said. The gush of gases and his blood had been cut off like a faucet. “And I thought I told Top to round up all personal rolls.”

“I just happened to see this one lying around,” Kermit said. “I was planning on turning it in any day now, sir.”

“You’re forgiven,” Zanella replied. “But I’m still bleeding.”

“Good thing you’re in the infirmary, then, sir,” one of the corpsmen said, staggering in with a casualty slung over one shoulder. “Be with you in a second.”

“It must be aligned precisely,” Tchar said.

The jury-rigged projector had been strapped back into the damaged mount with about a million miles of duct tape. But it still had to be aligned.

“What are you using?” Miriam asked. The mount had been refitted with a manual adjustment that looked to be not its original use.

“Parts from a tool kit I bought on-line,” Tchar replied. He was looking through what looked like a spotting scope at a dot of light on the face of the ball. “The light is from a laser pointer keychain that came free with it. That should have it. Engineer, engage power and check the readings…”

“Whoot!” Spectre caroled as one of the Dreen fighters succumbed to a chaos ball. “Take that, you organic menaces!”

“Conn, Engineering. We think we’re prepared to warp.”

“Then hit the power and go,” Spectre said as light flared from forward. “Hit the juice and get us out of here. Anywhere’s better than this patch of space!”

“We’re blasted to hell, sir,” the XO said. “That last hit took out sonar and penetrated into officer’s quarters.”

“My quarters?” the CO asked.

“Our quarters survived, sir,” the XO said. “Commander Weaver’s did not, however.”

“Grapp,” Weaver muttered.

“About time yours got trashed,” Spectre said. “But we can drive and fight.”

“With just about every compartment evacuated, sir,” the XO pointed out. “About the only compartments still airworthy are the machine shop, the sickbay and the visitor’s quarters. Marine berth is open as is crew berthing.”

“That’s what patches are for, XO, after the battle,” Spectre replied as the COB walked into the conn. “Good job, COB.”

“Yes, sir,” the COB said. “Sitting out on a hull under plasma fire wasn’t all that bad. Reminded me of that time we were cruising off Somalia and got attacked by pirates…”

“Ship Master, the Sharp Sword is moving again,” Favarduro said.

“Bless the Gods,” Kond said. “I thought them lost. Message them and ask for assistance. We are sore pressed.”

“The Caurorgorngoth is trying to interpose itself between the Dreen fleet and the Hexosehr refugee fleet,” the TACO said. “They were out of position, though, so they’re trying to cut the chord while still engaging the Dreen task force. However, the Dreen have redeployed a squadron, designated CruRon One, composed of both its cruisers and two destroyers, which is enveloping the Caurorgorngoth and her sole remaining consort. In addition, a third squadron, DesRon One, is moving ahead of the battlewagon to attack the refugee fleet. It is composed of three destroyers. The Hexosehr have only two corvettes to oppose them. They have redeployed in between the refugee fleet and the Dreen but the correlation of forces is adverse. Most of the fighters have redeployed in close formation around Sierra One. They appear to be in a slow replenishment cycle. Unknown when they will be back in action.”

“So we can try to aid the Caurorgorngoth or we can try to aid the refugee fleet,” the CO said. “We can target cruisers better, they’re a bigger target, but the refugee fleet is the priority. Move to intercept that destroyer squadron, XO. The Caurorgorngoth is going to have to take care of herself.”

“Staff Sergeant?” Berg shouted as Hinchcliffe’s armor slumped back.

Smith was down. Still alive but injured and with his armor breached it was only a matter of time before he died. Nicholson had finally stopped responding. His vitals were low and it was clear he was bleeding out.

“I guess I get to use up ammo again,” Priester said, standing up from cover and blasting at the door. “Get the grapp out of here you mothergrappers!” the sergeant shouted, charging at the door.

“Priest, God damnit!” Berg snarled as the sergeant covered his fire. There were fewer of the Dreen. He could feel it, sense it. The press at the door was less. The corridor had to be emptying out.

A dog-demon caught at the swearing sergeant’s leg, pulling it out from under the armor and slamming Priester to the ground. Berg stood up, in turn, switching to full auto and hammering the pile on the sergeant in a vain attempt to keep the Dreen from breaching the downed Marine’s armor.

Then his machine gun clocked out. The last round spat downrange and he released the bite-trigger, his hands automatically dropping to his sides.

It was why he was called Two-Gun; the two massive pistols he carried were made from cut-down .50 caliber sniper rifles and he had the ability to fire with either hand, sometimes simultaneously, and hit what he was shooting at. For most people, two-gun mojo was a poseur technique, fancy to watch but impossible to use in combat.

Not for Two-Gun Berg. Both massive pistols started hammering out .50 caliber BMG rounds nearly as fast as a machine gun, the blazing pistols sounding like one continuous stream of fire as the armored Marine strode towards the door, clearing the monsters off of his fellow squad leader’s back and clearing the compartment.

Of course, they only had seven rounds apiece. The left-hand pistol dropped to its holster, the claw of the suit coming up with a magazine the size of a book and slamming it into place. There was barely a pause as the reloaded pistol blazed out again, the left hand unthinkingly readying another magazine. And still the Marine sergeant strode on, right up to the hatch of the compartment, firing into the corridor beyond, blasting fist-sized holes all the way through the hated monsters that had been harrying them for so long.

It took Berg a moment to realize that there were no more targets, in part because there was a stream of fire coming from the left-hand side of the hatch. Streams of tracers and cannon rounds had blasted the remaining Dreen away from the door and back down the corridor to the right.

Berg didn’t care, though. He automatically reloaded, then leaned out the door, extending both pistols down the corridor and continuing to engage the Dreen until the passageway was clear of anything but mangled alien bodies and runnels of purple blood.

“And that, boys and girls, is why we call him Two-Gun,” Corporal Lyle said, raising the barrel of his smoking machine gun. “Nice to see you, Berg.”

“You, too, Lurch. What took you so long: Stop to examine an alien mechanism?”

“We are not hitting chither,” Spectre snarled, watching the replay.

The nausea, which seemed to have passed with the extended stop to do repairs, was back in spades. It only made it worse that everyone was now in suits. And various systems, so far none critical, were breaking down. The boat was not really designed to be evacuated on an extended basis. There were a lot of systems on it that were not rated for vacuum.

And there was the problem that the suits had a strictly limited amount of air. Unlike the Wyverns, they did not have capacious air systems or recyclers. There were hook-up points at all the manned stations, but personnel who had to move around were constantly having to replace bottles.

And they weren’t hitting the destroyers. The targets were an order of magnitude smaller than the capital ships and it had taken up to a hundred shots to get a real hit on the bigger ships. So far, the Blade had done nothing but miss on the smaller ones.

“Weaver, you said something about integrating everything and staying open longer to get more accurate,” the CO said.

“It will also make us more vulnerable,” the astrogator pointed out. “And it will take at least a half an hour to implement.”

“Get to work,” the CO said. “XO, move to a chill position while Commander Weaver prepares the change. I’ll take the chance of getting hit for a chance to get one. What the hell. We’re already so grapped up, they could put one through us crossways and not take out anything important.”

“We picked up a pretty important secret from the Hexosehr,” First Sergeant Powell said. “Task Forces like this are controlled by a sentient. The sentients reside on the capital ships, like this one. Take out the sentient, the rest of the Dreen don’t know what to do on a strategic level. The Blade took out the other capital ship. It’s heading for home. If we find the sentient on this one…”

After doing what they could for the wounded Marines, Top had gathered the survivors and his reinforcement platoon in the corridor for a quick op order.

“The rest of the Dreen do what, Top?” Sergeant Priester asked. His armor was heavily scored and a dog-demon had destroyed the right leg of the suit so he wasn’t going anywhere. But with the spare ammo that the reinforcements had lugged into the ship, he was back to full load and ready to use it. “Leave? Quit fighting?”

“The Hexosehr say that they go find a sentient to tell them what to do,” Top replied. “Now, there’s that other capital ship, but it’s leaving the system. At the very least it’s going to buy us time. So that’s our mission. Find the sentient.”

“Top, we’ve been roaming all over this ship for the last couple of hours,” Priester pointed out. “We haven’t seen anything but nurseries and security. We’ve got no clue where—”

“Maybe we do,” Berg said, suddenly. He walked over to the compartment and pressed the closing switch. “Look at the symbols on the door.” They were impossible-to-decipher orange, glowing cuneiform.

“I don’t read alien, Berg,” Priester said.

“Neither do I,” Berg said, striding down the corridor to the end they’d entered from. “But the exact same symbol is here,” he continued, pointing to a symbol about a third of the way from the bottom. “And…” he continued musingly. “That’s interesting…”

“What you got?” the first sergeant asked, walking over and looking at the two symbols. “They’re exactly the same, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but look at the top one,” Berg said, pointing to the purple. “I’d thought the symbols matched. And the ones that match the door, do. But the top one… The aft symbol is straight rectangular script. The forward one is angled… I think it’s angled forward. The bottom is pointed that way. Gimme a second.”

He trotted back down the corridor and almost got lost for a second. But at a cross-corridor he bent down and looked at the orange symbol. Script on the forward corner was pointed forward.

“They are directions,” Berg said, trotting back. “The side that’s pointed is the direction of the compartment.”

“This one is pointed down the corridor,” the first sergeant said, pointing to a yellow one.

“That’s probably the shortest route to whatever yellow means,” Berg said, excitedly. “Look, there’s another orange one. I’d guess that that was an environmental compartment. Orange is environmental.”

“Six Orange,” the first sergeant said. “Four blue. One purple, one green and one red. A bunch of that light violet or whatever.”

“Okay, Top, let’s just assume for a second that they think like humans,” Berg said. “And the reason I think they do is that a lot of this stuff has been laid out the way that humans would lay it out. Six orange. I’d say that this is the most forward environmental section, starboard side. All the rest point back except one that points inward. That leads to—”

“Forward, port environmental section,” Top said. “Environmental Two or whatever. So the script probably just says E-2 or something like that.”

“Right,” Berg said. “Now, what’s the most important compartment on the ship?”

“Bridge,” Top said, looking at the script. “Conn. Whatever. All the multiples have two symbols, some of them matching even though they’re different colors. One, two, three, whatever. The singles have three symbols, there’s a match… in a second symbol, here and here. No problem, their version of an E. Top one is a single.”

“These are directions to the conn,” Berg said. “Maybe the command zone, Conn, CIC, whatever.”

“This, Two-Gun, is a wild-ass guess,” the first sergeant said, straightening his armor from its crouch.

“Yes, it is, First Sergeant,” Berg replied. “But it’s a place to start.”

“Right,” Top replied. “We need to reconfigure. Priestman, you’re with Sergeant Norman. His weapons control system is out so you’re both good to secure a position but that’s about it. You two are to secure this compartment and act as our fall-back position. We’re going to leave the extra ammo loads here, so it’s important. Set up the extra guns for support fire and try to keep Smith alive. Lyle and Seeley, you’re with Two-Gun, designated Alpha Team. Lyle, grab a cannon and cross-load ammo. Norman, you’re Bravo. Chief Miller, if you would be so kind as to take rear-guard with Gunny Neely, I’d be much obliged.”

“I think I can remember how to be a shooter,” the SEAL said. “What does this bite thingy do again?”

“As soon as Lyle is kitted out we’re moving.”

“Fighters at one-one-four alpha nineteen,” Favarduro said. “Automated defenses engaging—” The Caurorgorngoth shuddered and shuddered again. “Dreen heavy plasma fire. Shields at fourteen percent.”

“We have retreated far enough,” Kond said. “We are being picked apart by sag. Pilot, maximum acceleration towards the enemy. Favarduro, concentrate chaos engine and secondary batteries on the lead cruisers. Go for the heavies.”

“I’ve got the new algorithm debugged,” Weaver said, walking into the conn. “I’d like to test it at least once.”

“Agreed,” the CO said grimly.

“What’s wrong?”

“The Caurorgorngoth is getting hammered,” the XO replied. “And their consort was taken out by a force of fighters. They were trying to engage from range but they’re now accelerating towards the task force. It looks like a suicide run.”

“Or they figure that if they get in close enough, there’s no way they can miss,” Weaver said.

“It’s both,” Spectre said. “They’re sacrificing themselves to take out the cruisers. Maybe the destroyers as well. But they’re not going to survive it. Which leaves the rest up to us. Commander Weaver, even if they succeed in taking down that entire task force, there are going to be seven destroyers left in this system, any one of which can destroy the entire Hexosehr fleet. And a battlewagon with a super-cannon. Your fix had better work.”

“Oh, it will work, sir,” Bill said. “Whether we can survive it working is another question.”

“Dreen cruiser at six dreg,” Favarduro said as the Caurorgorngoth rocked under the hammer of the combined task-force’s plasma fire.

“Fire,” Kond pinged. He had held his fire, coming in the whole run as if the chaos engine was out of commission. And the enemy had fallen for it, closing in on each other to get in on the kill.

The sonar image was clear. The chaos ball flashed out, less than six treek from time of firing to impact. The center Blin cruiser caught the ball direct on her snout, the powerful ball of pure chaos plunging into her heart. The sound image was muted as she disintegrated in fire.

“Retarget, second cruiser,” Kond said. “Bring them all to the slaughter.”

“Shields at two percent,” Favarduro said as the ship adjusted course to bring the gun online. “Damage to aft quarter, fighters are close enough to overcome our shields. There are less than nine left, however. Damage in forward quadrants. Plasma nine, six and one off-line. Their mass drivers have reached range to engage us.”

“Fine,” Kond said. “If we’re that close, then we cannot miss.”

“I want a full broadside of twenty-four of these things,” Spectre said. Weaver had found another convenient piece of space detritus and tried out the new targeting system. Unlike the first test, the chaos ball had impacted on first try. It also was slow enough to follow the action. That, frankly, scared the hell out of the CO. Dreen systems were like lightning to engage. They were going to get hit, and this “mini” chaos ball hadn’t done that much damage to the capital ships. He just had to hope that the destroyers were an easier kill.

“Agreed,” Bill replied. “But what we have is one.”

“Right,” the CO said. “XO, all the fires put out from the last time?”

“Vacuum has a habit of doing that, sir,” the XO replied acerbically.

“I was speaking metaphorically,” the CO said.

“Then they won’t be out until we spend another six months in the body and fender shop, sir,” the XO replied. “But we’re spaceworthy. Hell, we’re mostly space at this point.”

“Better than being filled with water,” the CO said. “Pilot, match course and speed on target Sierra Sixteen. And may God defend the right.”

“Okay, we’re getting near something,” Berg said quietly.

“Why?” Lyle asked.

“There’s more fungus,” the sergeant replied. “I could wish for a map of this place.”

But the best thing they had were the symbols on the walls. They seemed to be following a path, inward, forward and in one case up three levels. They were getting near the center of the ship, if Berg’s spatial awareness was working, and a bit forward of center. That didn’t mean it was for sure the bridge. Russian subs had the bridge at the rear. CIC was near the center of a ship. But it was a target for sure. The increasing fungus said that.

So did the group of dog-demons that keened their battle cry and charged as he turned the corner.

“Dreen,” Berg shouted, backpedaling into the corridor they had been going down.

“Alpha, prone,” Top shouted. “Here they come.”

With the mass of fungus coating the floor, the dog-demons didn’t have as much trouble making the turn. And Berg found himself face to face with them at less than three meters. Which just meant he had to kill them very fast.

As Berg and Seeley blasted the Great Dane sized monsters with their machine guns, Lyle rolled backwards, then came up on a knee to the side, holding his fire. As one group turned the corner and charged en masse he put an exploding round into the center demon, killing it and knocking down its fellows for his teammates to finish off.

“And we got ’em at the rear,” Miller said calmly.

Berg could hear the sound of the fire from behind him and it was comforting. He’d been in enough gun fights to learn to read it, to the point where he could almost distinguish people’s personalities from it. The late Drago had been profligate with fire, either in single shot or auto, blasting away with a glee that could almost be felt. Lurch, clearly, was a sniper at heart. Wait for that right shot and take it. Seeley always banged away slowly, split-second moments of hesitation indicating indecision. Not a lot of it, but it was there. And often followed by somewhat wild fire as he engaged his chosen target because it had closed more than he liked.

What Berg was hearing from the rearguard was the sound of a senior Marine Force Reconnaissance gunnery sergeant and a SEAL old enough to be his father. Single shots, no pause except for an incredibly brief interval to change targets. No hesitation, nothing wild. It was the most professional fire he’d ever heard in his life. Even Top wasn’t that good.

The attack cleared in moments, leaving the ground a welter of dead dog-demons.

“Let’s move,” Top said. “They’re going to be moving in on this position.”

“Yo, Two-Gun,” Miller said over a private channel as Berg, somewhat more cautiously, turned the next corner.

“Yes, Chief Warrant Officer?”

“It was nice to hear you behind us. Nice fire technique. Very smooth.”

“Thank you, Chief Warrant Officer,” Berg said. “Don’t take this wrong, but I was thinking the same thing about you and the gunny.”

“Well, that’s a right compliment coming from the holder of the Navy Cross.”

“Chief, you’ve got the Medal.”

“Okay, point.”

“Conn, incoming message from the Caurorgorngoth.”

“Put it on screen,” the CO said. Tactical had been keeping him apprised and it wasn’t looking good.

The view was the usual surrealist painting that the conversion from sonar gave but this time worse. Among other things, it was cutting in and out. And some of the distortion, Spectre realized, was smoke. It was moving oddly, indicating, he thought, that the ship was under microgravity and probably vacuum. The space suit Kond was wearing made that last pretty obvious.

“Chaos… down,” Kond said. “All… two… guns… We… our… enemies to our body… Save my people.”

“I will, Kond,” Spectre replied. “Go with God.”

“Go…”

“Signal terminated,” Communications reported.

“Conn, Tactical.”

“Caurorgorngoth?”

“It’s gone, Conn,” the TACO replied. “It rammed one of the damaged destroyers. One of the remainder is showing spectral readings of major environmental loss and emissions are way down. The other looks… pretty solid.”

“Roger, Tactical,” Spectre said. “Pilot, we in position to engage this task force?”

“Roger, sir,” the pilot said.

“Then let’s see if this works any better,” the CO said. “Spectre has control.”

He glanced at the viewscreen, back to showing their opponents as a speckle in the distance with the center destroyer karated, and hit the engage button.

The approach was just as fast as ever, too fast for the mind to adjust to, but instead of immediately flashing out of the cauldron of fire, the ship hesitated, retargeted and fired.

The destroyers, however, were not idle. Their systems had been prepared for the attack and hammered at the incoming ship with their own fire. As she adjusted, the Vorpal Blade rocked under the hammer of plasma and mass driver fire, the hull resounding with the hammer of the enemy guns.

But one shot was all it took. The central destroyer was holed all the way through. For a brief moment Spectre swore he could see stars on the far side, then they were back in warp and gone.

“Conn, Tactical…”

On the viewscreen the central destroyer seemed to expand in white fire.

“We see it, Tactical,” Spectre replied. “Damage control?”

“Still getting reports,” the XO said tightly. “I’ve ordered the jettisoning of all the remaining torpedoes. One of the mass driver rounds went right through the number three rammer. Two dead in torpedo room. Two damage control parties killed. Sick bay is filling up. Short answer, we got hammered.”

“Eng,” the CO said. “Is the engine still running?”

“It’s all holding together, Conn,” the Eng replied. “Be aware that if we take enough shaking, it could misalign this lash-up and we’ll either be in the Andromeda Galaxy before we know it or dead or sitting out of warp and unable to engage.”

“That’s a chance we’ll have to take,” Spectre replied. “Pilot, adjust course to match Sierra Eight. Prepare to engage.”

“Okay, we’ve got to be near something important,” Berg shouted. It was another rush of dog-demons and thorn-throwers. But worse, in an open area up ahead he was pretty sure he’d gotten a glimpse of a rhino-tank.

The rhino-tanks were one of the two most dreaded weapons the Dreen had used in their brief war with humans. About the size and general build of a rhinoceros, they were as heavily armored as a main battle tank and fired a plasma blast from between their horns that could take one out.

Of course, a blast like that inside of a ship was probably the last thing the commander wished. But it just might be that they were close enough to the conn that the “sentient” would make that decision.

“Did I just see what I think I saw?” Seeley asked. The two Marines were crouched on opposite corners, pouring fire down the corridor the purple markers directed them to. Lyle, per usual, was back a bit covering their leakers.

“If you think you saw a rhino, I think I saw the same thing.”

“Two-Gun, Chief. There’s only two ways for an infantryman to take down a rhino.”

“Go, Chief.”

“They fire, then they roar,” the chief said. “When they do, they tilt their head back and open their mouth. The inside of their mouth is not armored. The other way, which I disrecommend, is to stick a grenade up their mouth.”

“Gotcha, Chief,” Berg said, trying not to giggle. “I’m just trying to get down this corridor.”

“Well, we ain’t going back, I can tell you that,” the warrant replied. “Thick as ticks on a coonhound back here.”

“Chief,” the first sergeant said. “You’ve been hanging out with Commander Weaver too much. Lyle, you need to move forward and hose that corridor when I order. Berg, I see a compartment hatch on Seeley’s side in your cameras. You see it?”

“I see it, Top.”

“Seeley, you’ve got one on Berg’s side.”

“Got it, Top.”

“By fire and maneuver, move down that corridor. On command, Lyle will move to Berg’s position and fire past him. Two-Gun, you will move to that hatch, open it and enter, then resume firing. Corporal Seeley, check fire as Two-Gun crosses. Seelman, you will then repeat. Lurch will need to check fire as you cross. When you have established a base of fire, the remainder of the team will move forward and repeat. Lurch, on my command… Move!”

“Top, I’ve got an open area and a rhino-tank,” Berg reported, panting. Crossing the corridor was one of the more hairy things he’d ever done in his life. Fire was pouring in both directions from thorn-thrower and the two Marines in support. Seeley had checked fire just a bit too long and a dog-demon had made it down the port-side of the corridor and nearly gotten him. Especially since he had to pause to get the hatch open.

Unlike most of the other small compartments of the ship, this one was overrun with fungus. And it wasn’t the green kind. It was the full purple Dreen-spread fungus. If he got that on his suit he was grapped. Fortunately, it was mostly against the back wall.

“The rhino is not firing,” Berg reported. “But I can see it clearly and I have to assume the reverse. Count of others is high. In excess of thirty thorn-throwers. Purpose of open area is unclear but it’s packed up.”

“I’ve got all that,” Top replied. “Seeley, cross.”

“Grapp me, grapp me…” Seeley muttered, darting out of the cover of the corner.

The Marine made it across the corridor and to the hatch controls. But while he was wiping at the fungus covering it, a dog-demon Berg had been sure was dead opened up its beak, clamped down on the Marine’s armored leg and scrabbled forward with its forelegs.

The pressure overbalanced the Marine and he fell backwards right in the middle of the corridor. The Dreen let go of the leg and scrabbled up onto him, ripping at his armor.

“Get it off!” Seeley screamed, trying to roll over using the power of the suit. But strong as the arms were, normally capable of rolling a suit and a full load of ammo, the demon had it pinned.

Berg could see the fight on the ground out of one of his side-cameras. Keeping his head tracked on the fight down the corridor he drew his right pistol and fired out of the corner of his eye.

The round cracked through the side of the demon’s head, splattering it all over the bulkhead.

“Thanks, man,” Seeley said, rolling over and getting to his feet.

But as he turned back to the controls, a thorn-thrower managed to survive just long enough to put five rounds through the side of his armor.

“Top, Seelman is down,” Berg related emotionlessly. “Termination signal.”

“Got that,” the first sergeant responded, just as emotionlessly. Seeley was one of the very few Marine survivors of the first mission of the Vorpal Blade. He wasn’t going to be making another cruise. “Two-Gun, you’ve got to get that rhino to fire.”

“What?” Berg nearly shouted. “Say again, First Sergeant?”

“When they fire, they roar,” the first sergeant replied. “You can see them charge up. Hell, you can tell when they’re about to fire. Shoot it. It won’t kill it but it will piss it off. When it gets ready to fire, duck into that compartment. The walls will reduce the blast. Then Lurch and I will finish it off.”

“First Sergeant, point of order,” Berg replied. “This compartment is filled with Dreen-spread fungus. That series of actions is suicide.”

“Sergeant Bergstresser,” the first sergeant replied, “it was not a request.”

“Aye, aye, First Sergeant,” Berg said, firing a long burst into the rhino-tank. “Semper Grapping Fi.”