Five minutes later Sergeant Capezzera was busy handing out weapons, grenades and armor when six men stepped into the room. He just had time to notice that the color of their uniform was wrong before they opened fire.
On the bridge of the London, Admiral Skiffington was in a rage. Power had been lost to half his missile platforms and two of the heavy lasers. Calls to the Engineering Deck were unanswered.
“Lieutenant!” he barked at Grant. “Take the two Marines and go to Engineering. I want a status report.”
“Yes, sir!” He jumped from his chair and headed to the door, gesturing to the two Marine sentries.
“But, sir,” one of them protested in a whisper. “If we go with you, the bridge will be unguarded.”
Grant jerked a thumb at his father. “Tell him that.”
The Marine muttered something indecorous under his breath and brought his rifle to port arms. “Lead the way, Lieutenant.”
The lifts weren’t working. They climbed down ten levels using the maintenance ladders, then began trotting aft to Engineering, which was located in the first section forward of the ship’s anti-matter engines. The passageway did not go in a straight line, but turned left or right every hundred feet or so, then turned aft again. Twice they had to manually open crash doors.
Halfway to Engineering, they found the first bodies; five sailors sprawled on the deck in spreading pools of blood. The two Marines stopped dead. “Bugger me!” one of them snarled, terrified and pissed off all at the same time. Grant tried to report what they had found, but got no response on the com. He urgently, desperately wished he had a gun. They moved forward more slowly after that, the Marines with their weapons at their shoulders, ready to fire.
The first Marine died a few minutes later. In the distance they heard screams and shooting. The Marine private in front, Lussier or Loubier, Grant couldn’t remember which, turned to him and whispered: “We’re getting close, Lieutenant.” Then he rounded the corner and suddenly jerked back, arms out flung, weapon flying and crashed to the floor. Grant was dimly aware of popping sounds and the sharp ping! of something ricocheting off the bulkhead. The soldier behind him screamed “Jerome!” and rushed forward to his fallen comrade, only to collapse in a hail of shots.
Grant Skiffington, son and personal aide to the most famous admiral in Victorian history, turned and ran.
Cookie slammed another magazine into her Bull Pup. “Sweet Gods of Our Mothers, what a cluster fuck,” she muttered. The two remaining Marines of her mini-squad crouched beside her. The other two had died in a short, nasty fight when they bumped into a group of five Savak. She knew they were Savak, because she had stripped the ballistic helmets off of one of them and saw the surgical scars on his forehead. All the Savak were rumored to have them, remnants of surgery done to every Savak baby for some perverse reason known only to the Tilleke Emperor.
As odd as seeing Savak storm troopers on board a Victorian war ship, though, was the fact that the five men they had killed looked enough alike to be brothers, right down to the cleft in their chins. Weird, and not a little disturbing. Quintuplets? She wasn’t sure she cared, as long as they were dead. Mentally, she dubbed them “Bob.”
“Corporal,” hissed Cogan. “More coming!”
Cookie didn’t hesitate. She pulled the pin on one of her grenades, listened as the footsteps grew closer, then flipped the grenade around the corner and ducked back. There was a satisfying ‘crump!’ followed by even more satisfying screams. She rounded the corner, shooting the first two Savak she saw. Three others were on the ground. One was on his knees, his helmet faceplate blown off, and blood streaming from his face. No weapon.
Cogan raised his Bull Pup, but Cookie held up a hand to restrain him. “Hold it, Cogan,” she said. “Maybe he can tell us how many others are on board.” The Savak soldier staggered to his feet, raising his hands above his head.
“Cuff him and frisk him,” she ordered Cogan, who stepped forward, reaching with one hand to grab the prisoner’s wrist. The Savak took a half step back, slid his hands to the back of his neck and hunched his shoulders.
“Cogan!” Cookie screamed. Cogan was already jerking back, but too slow, too slow. The Savak brought his arms up and around in a flat slashing motion — Oh, Mothers, was that a sword? — and Cogan’s head seemed to leap from his body, blood spraying in rhythmic spurts. Then the Savak was bellowing and lunching forward — it was a sword, she could see it clearly now — and Cookie was screaming and shooting and the Savak jerked and lunged and she shot again and he jerked a second time and collapsed with a meaty ‘thump!’ at her feet. His sword clattered to the deck.
Cookie skittered back until she was up against the bulkhead. Her chest was heaving and her teeth were chattering, which she dimly thought was odd. Then the other private, Mickey Millard, was shaking her and shouting, “Corporal? Corporal! Are you okay?”
And with that, abruptly, she was. Her teeth stopped chattering and the corridor leapt into focus. Millard was looking at her anxiously. She tried to smile. “I’m okay, Mickey.” She took a deep breath and stepped forward. Little shaky, but not too bad. “Get Cogan’s ammo and grenades, we’re gonna need them.”
“Bugger me! He killed him with a sword! A fucking sword!” Now that his Corporal seemed okay, Millard began to come apart at the seams.
Cookie stopped down next to Cogan’s body, stripped the extra ammo clips off his harness and patted his pockets for grenades. The lights suddenly flickered off, leaving the corridor dimly lit by bluish emergency lamps. In the distance, she saw someone run past a corridor entrance, then the sound of shooting. She stood up. God, she was thirsty. “Come on, Mickey, we’ve got to get to Engineering.”
Aret1 stood at the hatchway leading to the London’s bridge. Two Brets stood on either side of him. They had fought their way past several small groups of Victorian Marines to get here, taking casualties along the way. Now all he had were eight of his Arets, nine Brets and two of the slow Crets. The fact that the hatchway wasn’t guarded made him uneasy. Was it a trap? Would a platoon of Victorian Marines be waiting on the other side? He turned to face the others.
“When we go in, split up left and right,” he signaled, using he hand signs they had all learned as children. “Kill them all!” He drew a breath. “Glory to the Emperor!” he shouted, then pushed open the hatchway.
“Westchester, respond! I am ordering you to move four hundred miles forward and take up a screening position. Acknowledge!” Admiral Skiffington watched the hologram for a moment. Westchester did not move. “Dammit, what are they doing?” he roared.
“No reply, Admiral,” the Communications Officer said. “Nothing from Westchester, Sea Witch or Balmorel. The Yorkshire is responding and moving into position now.”
Admiral Skiffington watched the battle unfold on his hologram. The two Battle Groups on his right flank, Alpha and Bravo, were gone. Annihilated. One after another, the ship colors had turned from blue to blinking orange. His left flank, the Battle Groups he had commandeered from Third Fleet, were badly chewed up and scattered. His remaining two Battle Groups seemed still intact, but more and more they weren’t responding to his commands. One by one they were falling out of formation and just hanging in space. The computer still displayed them as combat ready…but they weren’t.
He didn’t understand.
The hatchway swung open and armed men spilled into the room. Everyone on the bridge stopped what they were doing and stared. Someone stifled a scream. Admiral Skiffington stared. A spark of anger flared within him and grew. These men. He stood and pointed at them. “Get off my bridge!” he thundered.