“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.