“Do something! Grant!” she croaked.
Groaning with the effort, Grant sluggishly pulled himself up, grabbed the Savak around the neck, stuck his pistol in the commando’s ear and pulled the trigger. Blood sprayed everywhere, covering Grant’s face and chest. He flopped back down on the deck, gasping for air. The Savak collapsed sideways, eyes bulging from the hydrostatic effect of the bullet. Cookie stared at the body, feeling a shock of recognition as she realized he looked identical to the five Bobs she had killed on the London just minutes earlier. Bugger me, how many times do I have to kill you? She heard a noise and looked up.
Grant Skiffington was sitting up against one wall, arms hugging himself. His teeth chattered. His eyes blinked furiously. Cookie crawled to him and put her arms around him. “You are a complete and utter fuck-up, Skiffington, but you did good. Real good.”
Grant tried to laugh, but it came out more like a sob. “I–I don’t know what-”
“Takes some gettin’ used to. No shame in it.” She wearily leaned her head against the bulkhead. For the first time, she thought she truly understood the blood tears tattooed on Sergeant Capezzera’s face.
• • • • •
Thirty minutes later, Grant could see the London receding in the distance. “Look,” he said, pointing. “They turned on the navigation lights. They’re blinking.”
Cookie joined him, leaning over his shoulder to see the video display. “There’s another ship over there with blinking lights.” She adjusted the camera. “But that one over there doesn’t have its nav lights on.”
“Then that’s the one we head to,” Grant said. “According to the sensors, it’s the Yorkshire. Hmmm…a Third Fleet ship. What the hell is it doing over here?” He adjusted the course and goosed the thrusters.
“What’s that?” Cookie asked, and pointed to a shadow sitting several miles from the Yorkshire. “See, something just drifted in front of that star.”
• • • • •
Captain Yossi Gur was unhappy. No, he was pissed off. The Yorkshire was a sitting duck, all alone four hundred miles in front of the confused remnants of the vaunted Second Fleet. Ships were milling around accomplishing nothing much at all. Since their orders from the London, they’d received no other instructions. There was some sparse radio chatter on the net, but mostly nothing. Two other Third Fleet ships, the destroyer Rutland and the cruiser(E) Kent were moving slowly up to take position with him, thank God. For all he could see, they were all that was left of the two Battle Groups of the Third Fleet assigned to this fiasco. Three ships out of forty. He grimaced inwardly, remembering the shock and total confusion after the Sussex blew up. Suddenly ships were being hit all around them, but they couldn’t find anyone to shoot back at. At a total loss for what to do, he had taken the Yorkshire vertical for one thousand miles, which seemed to take it out of the enemy’s kill zone. A few others had escaped as well, but most had become separated, so he had plotted a course to the London, arriving just in time to be ordered to take the van.
His XO, Benny Peled sat down beside him. “Rutland and Kent are both calling in, wanting to know what’s going on.”
“Don’t we all,” Gur replied sourly.
“Captain!” the Com Officer called. “Someone is hailing us through a com laser. Says it is an escape pod off the London. He’s demanding to talk to you, sir.”
Captain Gur frowned. An escape pod? He glanced at the holo display. It showed the London perfectly intact, just four hundred miles away. He gestured irritably to the Com Officer. “Put it on.”
“This is Captain Gur of the H.M.S. Yorkshire,” he said. “State your identity.”
“This is Lieutenant Skiffington, personal aide to Admiral Skiffington of the London,” the voice came back. “I am in an escape pod abut thirty miles from you. I need you to bring me aboard as quickly as you can.”
Gur looked at the Sensors Officer, who shook his head. “No beacon, skipper. Give us a minute and we’ll have him on radar.”
Gur frowned again. “Skiffington, turn on your distress beacon so that we can find you.”
“Negative, Yorkshire, we disabled the beacon because the London is in enemy hands and we don’t want them to know where we are.”
Beside him, Benny Peled gasped in shock. Gur leaned forward. “Lieutenant, what-”
“Yorkshire, there’s no time for this! Get a tractor beam on us and bring us in! Yorkshire, it is imperative that you do not make any more radio communications at all. And arm as many of your crew as you can. You are about to be boarded by a large group of Tilleke commandos.” There was a pause. “And Yorkshire, I know who killed the Sussex. Skiffington out.”
Captain Gur blinked twice, then shook his head in wonderment. “Get him on board, Benny,” he told his XO. “This kid is either our bloody savior, or he is barking dog mad and I’ll have him shot.”
Chapter 30
The H.M.S. Yorkshire
In Tilleke Space
The escape pod hatch opened with a hiss of over-pressurized air escaping. Cookie and Grant stepped out, blinking in the harsh lights of the Yorkshire’s landing bay. A slender, refined looking man stood there, flanked by four Marines. The Marines were armed with fleshchette pistols, all in hand, though pointing down at the deck.
“I’m Commander Peled, the XO,” the tall man said. “Please come with me, the Captain is anxious to speak to you.”
One of the Marines, a sergeant, stepped forward and spoke to Cookie. “Safe that weapon, soldier, and give it to me. No arms allowed on the bridge.”
“Bugger me! I’m not going anywhere without my weapon,” she bristled. “We had to fight our way off the London. Don’t you guys get it; they’re boarding our ships with commandos!”
“All I know,” the sergeant snapped, “Is that we’ve got an AWOL Marine and some junior officer who ought to be at their posts on the London, but instead ran away in an escape pod. Now put your weapon down or-”
“Belay that, Sergeant!” Grant ordered coldly. He turned to Cookie. “Corporal Sanchez, give me your weapon and go fetch our guest.”
Cookie hesitated, then thrust the rifle into his hands, glared coldly at the sergeant, then turned on her heel and disappeared back into the escape pod. Commander Peled watched impassively, but the Marine sergeant glanced warily at the pod’s hatchway. “I don’t like this, sir. What if she’s getting a weapon in there?” But as he spoke, Cookie returned, walking backwards and dragging the body of the dead Savak commando, which left a long blood smear behind it. She dumped the body at the feet of Commander Peled.
“This is a member of the Tilleke Emperor’s Guard, a creche-born Savak,” Grant said coolly. “We think there are a hundred more like him right now on the London. The London is in enemy hands, Commander. We don’t have time to waste playing silly buggers because there are at least two Tilleke ships out there right now about to put more of these bastards on the Yorkshire.”
Peled studied him for a long moment, taking in the bloodied clothing and the too bright eyes, then glanced down and saw the head wound on the Savak’s body. He looked at Cookie, grimly holding her Bullpup.
“Sergeant Zamir,” he said calmly. “Open the arms locker and distribute arms to as many people as you can. Perhaps the Corporal here will be good enough to assist you in planning a defense against any commando attack. I daresay she has valuable expertise to share. And you,” he said, turning to Grant, “will please accompany me to the bridge.” He smiled. “You may keep your weapon.”