Charles Gannon - Raising Caine

Brenlor’s reply was sardonic. “Activating — and enjoy the spectacle. Idrem, enter the ship’s secure code into the manual access keypad.”

* * *

Ayana Tagawa frowned. For a military boarding party, the dozen figures at the threshold of bay door F-12 seemed to be taking their time, most of them hanging patiently on their lead-strings.

Too patiently , she suddenly realized.

Tagawa leaned forward to inspect the nine non-team-leaders closely. What she saw was not consistent with techniques for conserving life support: rather, it was a complete lack of motion.

Which instantly changed her perception of what she was seeing. This was no longer an oddly casual boarding attempt by twelve personnel, nine of whom were remaining admirably motionless. It was a ruse, in which only three persons were showing any signs of activity, urgent or otherwise. Which meant—

Ayana leaned forward to peer around Kozakowski, who was still staring out the windows like an utter idiot — and, in the portside bow monitor, she saw four figures gliding to a halt near the outer hatch of airlock C-2. Each wore a heavier, bulkier spacesuit, the torso covered by armored plates. And their weapons—“Captain Velho, the primary boarding attempt is taking place now at airlock Charlie-Two. I repeat, primary boarding attempt is under way at Charlie-Two, not Foxtrot-Twelve.” She stared into Kozakowski’s almost-surprised eyes. “You weren’t watching the monitors?”

“The monitors?” He sounded puzzled. “I wanted to make sure they didn’t come near us here on the bridge.”

“You—?” Can Kozakowski really be that stupid, that —? Ayana leaned away from the man before she was conscious of doing so: no, he can’t be that stupid. No one can. I should shoot him now — but I have no proof.

In her earbud, Ayana heard Jorge shouting for several fire-teams to double back to Charlie Two. But Ayana knew those reinforcements were already too late: one of the four boarders was entering a code into the external control panel. And there wasn’t enough time to crash the computer or override the systems.

Not anymore.

* * *

Brenlor’s voice was harsh. “Idrem, what is delaying you?”

If you had a genuine interest in anything other than weaponcraft, you might know. “Brenlor, simultaneously opening both the outer and inner hatches of an airlock is a difficult override to achieve, even if one has the codes. There are built-in safety constraints that preclude—”

“Just be swift in your task, Idrem.”

“I shall.” And I shall not title you Srin or any of the other obeisances you especially want from me , since you know I am your superior in every way but one: I lack the Blood of the First Line of the First Family. Although, given the failures of that Line’s Extirpated Hegemons, I suspect their geneline had already been corrupted —

The airlock’s external panel began flashing red, along with all the lights ringing the outer hatch. “Brenlor, we are ready.”

“Assault positions,” Brenlor ordered over the tactical channel. “Vranut, you enter. I shall cover, then follow. Idrem, you and Jesel secure the inner hatch behind us.”

Vranut was already in position when Idrem warned, “The hatch will open very quickly. I am invoking an emergency protocol for rapidly expelling contaminants or extinguishing a fire.”

“I am ready,” Vranut replied, setting his needler to low power and maximum rate of fire.

“On three. One, two—”

On “three,” Idrem hit the entry tab; the outer hatch flung itself aside. Vranut was halfway in the doorway, started, and with catlike speed and grace, rolled himself back out — just in time to avoid a flailing human as he tumbled out into space. The Aboriginal was wearing a light duty suit, trailing a snapped lanyard. The garment was already beginning to balloon. Unrated for full vacuum, the occupant would not live long enough to deplete the small life-support unit strapped across his shoulders.

Vranut peeked back into the airlock cautiously, then entered low and fast against the diminishing outrush of atmosphere and detritus. Sparks and chips marked where defensive fire began seeking him.

Brenlor extended his weapon around the rim of the outer airlock hatch. “I see them,” he muttered, playing his coil gun about slightly so that it transferred the whole interior picture to his HUD. “Transmitting.”

The view from his weapon’s scope was now on each of the four boarders’ HUDs. Idrem studied the tactical situation: three defenders just recovering from the outdraft of the explosive decompression, half concealed in doorways on the entry corridor. Further on, at a tee intersection, there was what appeared to be a barricade behind which several indistinct figures lurked.

“We’ve surprised them,” Brenlor shouted. “Vranut, prepare to advance. We will fire high-power bursts to clear the near doorways. You are to take cover in the furthest one you can reach.”

“And Vranut,” added Idrem, “I will follow up with a grenade down the hall.” He stare-selected a spot just behind and beneath the barricade, letting his eye remain fixed until a crosshair appeared at the desired point. “Wait until it discharges. It should interrupt their fire for several seconds.” Or perhaps permanently.

Brenlor grunted something that sounded like consent, then yelled. “All fire!”

Without exposing any part of themselves other than their weapons, Brenlor and the ’sul named Jesel set their needlers on maximum propulsive power and began firing four-round bursts. In the HUD, Idrem could see the four-point-two-millimeter projectiles go through defenders and the doorjambs behind which they hid.

Idrem did not wait for the bodies to begin their slow slump to the deck. He leaned his grenade launcher around the corner, depressed the trigger that showed the thirty-eight-millimeter self-seeking rocket grenade the aim point he had stare-selected, and then squeezed the firing trigger. The grenade sped towards its target, self-correcting for any post-firing motion of the launch tube with micro thrusters while the grenade launcher itself selectively counter-vented the propulsive gases to eliminate muzzle jump and recoil.

The grenade exploded — noiselessly in the air-evacuated corridor — sending obstacles and bodies spinning away from its point of detonation.

Vranut did not wait for Brenlor’s “Advance!” Consistent with training and reflexes ingrained since he first sprouted facial hair, the Evolved maintained a low posture as he glide-sprinted forward, making it to the furthest doorway along the corridor. He turned to wave the other three boarders inside with one hand, keeping his weapon pointed back toward the ruined barricade with the other. His weapon’s scope evidently showed him a defender rising up from the blast, wielding an archaic assault rifle. Without turning, Vranut used the HUD to aim at the figure behind him, squeezed off a low-power five-round burst. Three of the rounds were stopped by the tangled remains of the barricade; the other two made pinhole puncture marks in the defender’s chest. The four-point-two-millimeter flechettes’ biosensitive nanites instantly registered contact with living tissue. The stabilizing fins snapped backward and perpendicular to the axis of the penetrator core, inducing wild cavitation before they emerged, corkscrewing, from just beneath the Aboriginal’s scapula. In contrast to the modest entry trauma, the exit wounds were marked by broad gouts of blood.

“Corridor cleared,” Vranut reported as the others took shelter in the doorways.

Except Idrem, who remained at the control panel alongside the interior airlock hatch. He entered the codes for full override authority, triggered both doors to close — and then the illuminated keypad grew dark. The roaring cyclone of the automated repressurization system died down to an anemic wheeze, and amber hazard lights began glowing along the junctures of the deck and the bulkheads.