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“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.