And it wasn’t easy, especially for Lieutenant Jerry Woda, who was fl?ying Ship 2. Partly because of the unfamiliar controls but mostly because of a bad engine, which explained why crude staging had been positioned next to the ship when the legionnaires took possession of it. And that pissed the pilot off because both he and the other POWs had been through a lot and didn’t deserve to die. But deserving or not it soon became clear that they were going to die as a fi?ghter locked on to the ship’s tail and began to fi?re its energy cannons. “Okay,” Woda said, as blips of blue energy tore past the control compartment. “You wanna dance? Let’s dance.”
There was only one way the uneven contest could end. That’s what all three of the Ramanthian fi?ghter pilots believed as they took turns shooting at the severely underpowered shuttle. And they were correct, or mostly correct, as Woda put Ship 2 into an extremely tight turn. Suddenly two of the enemy pilots found themselves rushing straight at the unarmed shuttle at a combined speed of eight hundred miles per hour. There was time, but not very much, as Woda steered Ship 2 straight at one of his pursuers. “I’m sorry,” the pilot said over the intercom. “But at least we’re going to take one of the ugly bastards with us!”
There was no opportunity for the POWs and the legionnaires to react as both aircraft merged into a communal ball of fi?re. But they would have approved, especially as a second fi?ghter ran into the fi?ery debris and sucked a chunk of metal into its engine. The resulting explosion was visible from many miles away but didn’t mean much to the nymphs who witnessed it from below. Because all they felt was an abiding hunger—and the momentary roll of thunder was soon forgotten.
Everyone aboard Ship 1 had experienced weightlessness before, and welcomed it, because they knew that conventional aircraft couldn’t follow them into the vacuum of space. Not that they were safe given the fact that any warship larger than a patrol boat was sure to carry fi?ghters designed for combat outside planetary atmospheres. But how would such units be deployed? Santana wondered. Would they be ordered to attack the stolen shuttles? Or kept close in order to protect whatever ship they belonged to? Because the bugs had every reason to expect a Confederacy task force to drop hyper. The legionnaire’s thoughts were interrupted by the pilot’s voice.
“This is Lieutenant Tanaka,” she said somberly. “I’m sorry to announce the loss of Ship 2 and all those aboard. They took two fi?ghters with them, however—and allowed us to clear the atmosphere. Our ETA aboard the Imperator is fi?fteen minutes. There are no fi?ghters on the way as yet. . . . More when I have it.”
Farnsworth and fully half of the company’s surviving team members had been aboard the other shuttle, so the announcement hit Santana like a blow to the gut. But it was important to try and neutralize the emotional impact associated with the loss and get ready for what lay ahead. The legionnaire freed himself from the tie-downs and made his way out to the center of the cargo compartment. The running dialogue was intended to distract the mixed force of sailors and legionnaires from the loss of Ship 2 and focus their minds on the task ahead. “Okay,” Santana said. “If you don’t have a weapon, and you’re healthy enough to fi?ght, then draw one from Sergeant Ibo-Da. And remember . . . There are some very good reasons why boarding parties rarely use projectile weapons. Like the possibility that you might destroy the very thing that you’re trying to capture. So be careful with those slug throwers.
“Once we put down inside the landing bay, the T-2s will exit fi?rst,” Santana continued. “Sergeant Fox and Private Urulu will neutralize whatever kind of reception party the bugs have waiting for us. Commander Schell, if you would be so kind as to supply some qualifi?ed people to blow that space elevator, you can count on Sergeant Snyder and Private Ichiyama to get them there.”
“No problem,” the naval offi?cer said approvingly. “However, I suggest that the demolition team avoid fi?refi?ghts, and go straight to the space elevator.”
“Roger that,” Santana agreed. “Once the landing bay is secured, the rest of us will head for the control room. And it would be a good idea to keep our pilots out of the fi?ghting unless you’d like to walk home. Does anyone have questions?”
“Yes, sir,” Shootstraight put in. “How are we going to get off this tub without pressure suits?”
It was an obvious problem, or should have been, except that the legionnaire hadn’t thought of it. Fortunately, Schell was there to fi?eld the question. “Rather than blastproof doors, the Imperator’s launch bay is protected by a permeable force fi?eld. So the landing area will be pressurized. Unless they have the means to bring the ship’s overshields back online that is. . . . In which case we are in deep trouble.”
“Aren’t you glad you asked?” Bozakov inquired, as he slapped a fully loaded mag into his assault rifl?e. That produced some very welcome laughter, for which Santana was grateful, as the shuttle began to close with the ancient dreadnaught.
Confi?dent that preparations were under way, the cavalry offi?cer went back to check on Vanderveen. All of the naval personnel were better at zero-gee maneuvers than the soldier was, but by being careful never to release one knob-style pincer-hold before securing the next, Santana managed to pull himself back toward the stern without coming adrift.
Having received some pain tabs and antibiotics from the legionnaires, not to mention plenty of water to wash them down with, Vanderveen was feeling better by then. So when Santana arrived, he found the diplomat working side by side with a navy med tech to prepare for the likelihood of additional casualties. One of the RAVs had been taken aboard, and with some help from the diplomat, the supply-starved corpsman was in the process of looting it.
“Isn’t this the same woman I found nailed to a cross?” the cavalry offi?cer wanted to know.
“It is,” Vanderveen admitted. “But that was then—and this is now. One of the navy docs looked me over and says I’ll be fi?ne. . . . Assuming nobody shoots me.”
“I want you to stay on the shuttle until the fi?ghting is over,” Santana said sternly.
“Or what?” the diplomat wanted to know.
Santana recognized the same defi?ant look he had fi?rst seen on the planet LaNor. He smiled sweetly. “Or I’ll tell your mother and let her deal with you.”
Vanderveen laughed, the shuttle slowed, and Tanaka’s voice came over the intercom. “We’re sixty seconds out—
prepare for landing. And remember, there’s a good chance that the Imperator’s argrav generators are still running, so prepare for the sudden restoration of gravity.”
“Be careful,” Vanderveen said softly, as she looked up into Santana’s eyes. “We have some unfi?nished business to take care of.”
“Yes,” Santana agreed solemnly. “We certainly do.”
ABOARD THE RAMANTHIAN DREADNAUGHT IMPERATOR
As seen from the Imperator’s enormous fl?ight deck, the permeable force fi?eld looked like a blue whirlpool. It rotated from left to right and crackled as it spun. The movement could have a mesmerizing effect if viewed for too long. Which was why File Leader Sith Howar was careful to look away from time to time in spite of the fact that a shuttleload of alien escapees might arrive at any moment. The whole affair had been handled badly. That was Howar’s opinion. First, his superiors mistakenly assumed that the animals would attempt a rendezvous with a Confederacy relief force. Then, when the enemy ships failed to materialize, the higher-ups assumed the escapees would attempt to board one of the merchant vessels and positioned all of the available fi?ghters to block such an effort. Finally, when it became clear that the humans were headed for the Imperator, the eggless incompetents dumped the whole mess on him. “You will defend the space elevator to the very last trooper.” Those were his orders—and there was no mention of reinforcements.