“If we can take out Sierra One, the Hexosehr can patch us up easily enough,” the CO said.
“Yes, sir,” Bill said dubiously.
“And you have an issue with that, Commander?”
“I just don’t think it’s possible,” Weaver admitted. “If we still had the Caurorgorngoth, maybe. As it is…”
“Conn, Comm.”
“Go.”
“Incoming message from Fleet Master Lurca.”
“Put it on.”
“Boss Man Spectre,” the fleet master said. “Your ship is truly grapped up.”
“Thank you for that vote of confidence, Lurca,” Spectre replied. “We need to do some minor repairs on our battle system, but we will be back in the battle soon.”
“I am dispatching a fleet collier,” Lurca said. “I am transmitting its path. If your engines continue to work, move to intercept it. The collier has engineers onboard that may be of assistance.”
“We appreciate that, Fleet Master.”
“The engineers have been working on a shield generator capable of interfacing with your systems,” Lurca continued. “If it works, you will have some shielding against plasma.”
“I cannot begin to express my gratitude,” Spectre said. “Be aware, though, that our tacticians estimate only forty minutes until the battlewagon is in range of your fleet. If we have not taken it out by that time, this battle will be for nothing.”
“Our tacticians have the same estimate,” Lurca replied. “Which is why you must use your engine to intercept the collier.”
“On our way,” Spectre said. “Weaver?”
“Course transmitted to pilot,” the astrogator said.
“Pilot, engage.”
Matching course and speed with the collier was not difficult, even using the secondary engine controls. As soon as they were matched, a veritable army of Hexosehr swarmed across the intervening space, disdaining hatches and entering through the numerous holes in the ship.
“Senior Engineer Elirgoth,” the lead Hexosehr said as he swarmed into the conn. The ship had shut down engines to permit easier movement by the Hexosehr, the conversion to gravity being an issue on the outside of the ship.
“Commanding Officer Steven Blankemeier,” the CO said. “Spectre. This is my executive officer, who is in charge of repairs.”
“We see the most critical need being to install the shield generator,” Elirgoth replied through his translator. “The specifications for your ship have changed but we should be able to adjust. We will install it on the hull near your power generation system. That will be the shortest run. My peripheral teams have orders to meet with your damage control crews and assist. We will remain on-board the ship, if that is acceptable, during the battle. We have patching material coming across to seal critical areas. In addition we have hull plates we can install in patches to shield critical zones. Show us where to work and we can work very fast.”
“Follow me,” the XO said. “I’ll show you where to install the shield generator and talk to you about other critical needs.”
“See, what did I tell you?” the CO said as soon as they’d left.
“I still don’t see us taking out the battlewagon,” Weaver said.
“Oh, I’m going to take it out,” Spectre replied.
“Yes, sir. How if I might ask?”
“If it comes down to it we’re going to fly right in that damned mass-driver and blow the engines.”
“What is this stuff?”
Miller hadn’t been joking about bringing demo. If his suit had been in Berg’s condition, he would have taken out a couple more compartments with all the octocellulose he was carrying in his butt-pack.
But despite using the strongest conventional explosive in the military inventory, over four times the power of C-4, even with tamping the blast with the dead bodies of Dreen, he still hadn’t managed to scratch the secured door.
He had, however, managed to coat the entire hallway in a very nice shade of light violet from the blood of the Dreen ersatz sandbags.
“I don’t know, Chief,” Lyle replied. “But you’re about out of demo.”
“Jeff, I’m getting nothing, here,” Miller admitted. The door just mocked him. “I hope you’re running out of Dreen, because I don’t need any more bodies.”
“Alas, no,” the first sergeant replied. “And I do believe I just heard a roar from down the corridor.”
“In that case, I’ll keep some of my demo,” Miller said, shaking his head. “There’s actually a couple of other ways that rhino-tanks have been taken out. They’re just much lower probability. Like, damned near zero.”
“Engage.”
It had taken a bare thirty minutes for the shield generator to be installed, hard points placed over Conn, Engineering, Sickbay and Tactical, and the overheated nodes rebuilt or replaced by the Hexosehr engineers.
Some had swarmed back to the collier, but others remained, continuing to work even as the ship went back into battle.
The destroyer designated Sierra Fifteen swelled in the viewscreen, its face a mass of plasma bolts, lasers and blazing mass drivers. The improved Blade ignored the fire, pausing for a moment to adjust and then flashing out a chaos ball that ripped through the destroyer like tissue paper.
“Conn, Tactical. Sierra Fifteen no longer accelerating.”
On the main viewscreen the dots could be seen separating, and the battlescreen updated as the remaining two ships of the Dreen taskforce thundered past their damaged brethren.
“Conn, Tactical. Fighters moving out from BatRon One. Appear to be headed for the Hexosehr corvettes.”
“I hope they can deal with them,” Spectre said. “Tactical, get us lined up on Sierra One. It’s time to go for the heavy.”
“Where’d they go?” Miller asked, looking around the corner. The corridor beyond was piled with the bodies of Dreen dog-demons and thorn-throwers. But there were none moving. Well, a couple of dog-demons were trying to drag themselves forward, their bodies ripped by machine-gun and cannon fire. He popped the targets in the head but those were the only enemies in the corridor.
“I don’t know,” First Sergeant Powell replied. “One minute they were rushing us in a mass wave, the next they pulled back.”
From down the corridors there was a roar that shook the ship and a crunch as of a heavily armored tank running into a wall.
“Uh, oh,” Miller said.
“I guess they got out of the way for the heavy.”
A pair of horns appeared at the end of the passage and Miller fired at them, striking sparks from the refractory material.
“What are you doing?” Powell snapped.
“Behind us is a dead grapping end,” Miller replied, continuing to fire into the flank of the massive rhino-tank as it inched around the corner. It was having to slam its bulk into the bulkheads, bending the corners, to get around the turn. “If we let it get down to here, we’re grapped.”
The rhino finally got enough of its bulk into the corridor to turn its head towards the two fighters in the intersection and focused on them for a moment. Sparks began to fly between its horns and the SEAL and the Marine backed up.
“Incoming plasma!” First Sergeant Powell snapped as a ball of green fire flew down the corridor. The explosion blasted fire and smoke back down the passageway, but didn’t harm the Wyverns.
“You know,” Miller said in a thoughtful tone. “If we could figure out a way to get it shoot that hatch, and survive mind you…”