Blue Star Marine Boxed Set Page 6

  “Speed it up, Doc. We are going in.”

  Sergeant Dorik stepped over the edge of the open hatch, and with a tiny thrust from his suit pushed himself down into the dark.

  Once inside, he reoriented himself so the inner hatch that lay opposite the outer hatch was no longer at his feet but now facing him. With Doc clambering inside and sealing the outer hatch behind him, Dorik gave the instruction for the Marines to crack the inner hatch and jack it open manually.

  “Stand aside. Keep out of the way of the opening. If there’s any residual pressure in there, anything loose is going to get blown in here like a round from a hail cannon.”

  Dorik dragged Cronin toward him and took cover on the other side of the hatch. As the hatch was opened a crack, Dorik braced himself for the sudden inrush of air from the pressurized interior.

  Nothing. The ship was a vacuum.

  The Marines looked back and forth, one to the other. Sergeant Dorik called them to order.

  “Okay, Marines. The ship is breached somewhere. I don’t expect you to find anyone alive in here. Full sweep of the lower decks. Let’s make it quick.”

  The Marines moved ahead of Sergeant Dorik, the flashlights on their helmets lighting up the dark corridor. Ice crystals hung in the thin, cold air and sparkled in the beams. Deck plates were frosty, and the Marines left footprints like they were walking through dewy grass. With their rifles aimed and their scanners sweeping the corridors around them, the squad advanced.

  Cronin followed the squad and found the instrument panel in the wall of the corridor. He tried to access the ship systems, but everything was offline.

  “The ship is dead as a black hole,” Cronin said.

  “But I’m detecting something here.” Sergeant Dorik pointed at his holo-stage. An energy signal was coming from several decks above. It was faint, but it was there.

  “Let’s start our search there,” Cronin said.

  First Squad reported back that the sweep of the lower deck was complete. No survivors, no live power systems. The ship was empty and dead.

  Sergeant Dorik organized the squad into a search party, sending one team to the drive section to attempt to bring power back online.

  “The rest of you with me. We are going with Doc to investigate this power signature.”

  Sergeant Dorik moved up to take point and walked along one dark corridor after a next, his pulse rifle aimed, the flashlight on top of the weapon illuminating the dark, frosty hallway.

  “This ship has been out of action for some time,” Dorik said.

  “It must’ve been a leak in the environmental systems. All this moisture that’s frozen must have filled the ship before she froze.”

  A message on Dorik’s helmet communicator from the team at the drive section reported their attempt to bring power back online was destined to fail. The entire drive section was burnt out, as if a plasma fireball had burned there.

  Climbing one last set of stairs brought Dorik, Doc, and the team out onto the deck where the faint power signature was—a large area separated from its surroundings by transparent composite panels. The insignia on the clear panels denoted a medical bay.

  “The signal is coming from in there,” Dorik said, pointing toward the med-bay. “Stay behind me, Doc.”

  Dorik move forward and pushed his way into the med-bay, checking for any movement or any threat. The entire bay was empty.

  “Has anyone found any bodies anywhere aboard?” Dorik asked over his squad channel.

  Replies came back negative.

  “The energy signal is coming from there.” Cronin stepped toward a sealed chamber at one side of the medical bay. “It’s an emergency medical pod.”

  Doc holstered his pulse pistol and examined the pod. It was three meters long and stood a meter and a half off the floor. A long, gray, domed top was covered in fine crystal frost. Cronin wiped the frost away and found the instrument panel embedded in the composite. A standby light was blinking. Cronin powered up the panel and investigated the pod.

  “There is someone inside. It seems they are in a medically-induced coma.” Cronin checked the data on the display.

  “What’s wrong with them, Doc?” Dorik asked as he leaned over Cronin’s shoulder.

  “Nothing much. Looks like a simple case of appendicitis. Poor guy’s appendix was about to burst. I guess no one on board had the expertise to fix him up so they just put him in the pod and knocked him out, presumably until they could make it to a med facility.”

  “Can you fix him? Can you wake him?”

  Cronin nodded. “Yes, and yes. This is an old Union pod. We trained on these. It’s an older unit but looks like it’s stood the test of time. Give me a moment.”

  Dorik stepped back and leaned against the small shelving unit, letting Cronin work. Doc found the opening hatch and slid his hands inside the pod through the sealed access port. Inside, Doc found the small multitool. He activated the electron blade scalpel and cut into the unconscious man’s flesh. With another multitool, he began the appendectomy.

  Within a short while, the medical pod was suturing the wound. Cronin removed his hands from the access area.

  “Give the patient a local anesthetic on the wound and bring him around.”

  Dorik moved over for a closer look while Cronin revived the comatose man.

  At first, the sleeping man’s eyes flickered. The eyelids twitched and then opened full and wide. His face was alert and wild.

  And then the wailing.

  The man screamed and began to thrash around inside the chamber.

  “Calm down, you’re okay. You have been in a coma. Do you remember what happened to you?”

  “They are still here! They are still here! They took everyone! They were in my head!” The man screamed and clamped the sides of his head with his hands. He scratched at his temples and then pressed his hands into his eyes. “They were in my head.”

  “Who? Who was in your head?” Sergeant Dorik leaned over the pod, looking at the crazed man inside. He tapped his pulse rifle muzzle lightly on the clear composite. “Speak up, man.”

  “They knocked out the power. Then they got inside everyone’s head. They were pulling me to them. We have to get out of here. They are going to kill us all!”

  “Who? Tell me who?!” Dorik said again.

  The man inside the pod looked up at Dorik and Cronin. His lip quivered, eyes darting furtively back and forth. A sweat broke out on his pale skin.

  “Skarak.” The man looked up at the two Blue Star Marines looking down at him. “They call themselves the Skarak.”

  7

  Boyd could feel Poledri’s eyes burning into the back of his head. The cruel stares from the crew throughout the ship made him feel uneasy. He stuck his chin out and brazenly trudged on. If he was to be a convincing Faction crewmember, he wouldn’t let a little thing like murder bother him.

  The rendezvous point was in the outer system, between the orbits of the massive gas giant Extremis and the equally massive ringed giant Supra.

  The Odium Fist reduced speed as it neared the region of empty space. The sensors detected the small collection of craft at the rendezvous point.

  “Several craft up ahead,” Noland called out. “It’s the Faction ships.”

  “We don’t know that,” Boyd replied. “Recommend we activate defensive systems and stand by for action.”

  “Nervous, aren’t we?” Poledri said. He walked over to the sensor console and checked Noland’s readings.

  “Not nervous, cautious. It’s how I stay alive. Just because there are ships where we expect them doesn’t mean they’re the ones we expect.”

  “Take us in closer,” Poledri said. He walked over to Boyd’s seat. “It is the Faction.”

  Boyd could see from his display that no such positive identification had been made. In the Union, fleet ships approached with caution, mass beam powered up and deflection shielding ready. If there was any doubt, the high-energy laser would be brought online with combat
drone launch tubes standing by for action.

  The Faction did things differently. It was too trusting.

  But Boyd didn’t want to anger Poledri further at this point. He was on a fine line already, having just killed one of the longest-serving flight deck crew. Although Raye and Poledri had always appeared professional, Boyd suspected they were friends, old trusted associates. It was hard enough for Boyd to win Poledri’s trust. It seemed impossible now.

  “Moving in, dead slow. We should have an image for the holo-display any moment.” Boyd looked at the flickering holo-stage, a stolen piece of Union kit that had seen better days.

  The image of the ships became more pronounced as more sensor data was revealed, but it was still unclear if the ships were Union or Faction. Boyd guessed they were Faction, because any good Union ship would have identified the Odium Fist as a Faction ship by now and would have moved aggressively against it. Capture, arrest, and then scuttle the vessel, unless the ship refused to yield, in which case a Union ship would attack and destroy.

  Many Faction ships had been atomized and then reduced to plasma by Union patrols.

  “It is the Plague Crimson,” Poledri said, returning to his command chair.

  Boyd looked closely at the image. The image was still too indistinct, but then the ident code was received. The Plague Crimson was waiting.

  “Put us alongside her, Boyd,” Poledri said.

  Boyd did as he was told. He studied the ship. It had a long boom on the leading section that was unusual. Boyd couldn’t work out what it was—some laser emitter maybe, or a surveillance extension.

  Then Boyd saw the banner hanging from the end. The Plague Crimson was flying a flag, though it was bleached by the solar wind streaming off the Scorpio star and whatever design had once been there had been burned away.

  Boyd positioned the Fist alongside the Crimson.

  “Good,” Poledri said, stepping down. “Come with me , Boyd.”

  He walked behind Poledri, his eyes fixed on the loose-fitting pulse pistol holster bouncing on Poledri’s hip.

  Boyd was unarmed.

  He followed Poledri to the docking hatch. The soft dock corridor was being connected automatically, with dull thuds of each clamp locking into place. Then the hatch slid aside.

  Boyd felt as if the walk down the corridor might be his last. He stepped into the hallway of the Plague Crimson and was met with a group of Faction fighters and a large, bearded man wearing a red scarf flung over one shoulder.

  “Bizi,” Poledri said and held out a hand.

  “Ledz.” Captain Bizanni of the Plague Crimson adjusted his scarf and then took Poledri’s hand firmly. He looked Boyd in the eye. “Is this him?”

  “That’s him,” Poledri said.

  With a wave of his hand, the Crimson’s fighters took Boyd by the arms and began dragging him along the corridor.

  Boyd called out and tried to pull himself free. He succeeded in getting one arm free and took a swing at the second fighter, knocking him off his feet. Boyd looked for an escape. He saw Poledri and Bizanni at the end of the corridor, looking at him and laughing. Faction fighters were moving in on both sides. Boyd attacked, delivering a kick to one’s knee. The kick brought a crack of bone and screams of pain.

  Poledri’s loud laugh echoed along the corridor.

  “Take him,” Bizanni shouted.

  Faction fighters moved in. Boyd delivered one punch after another until a rifle butt in the gut stopped him. He gasped for breath, bent double, and was taken by his arms and legs, carried along the corridor before being thrown into an empty room.

  A set of manacles were put on Boyd’s wrists and he was hoisted up onto his feet, hanging, barely standing on tiptoes.

  Bizanni stepped up to Boyd.

  “Why did you kill Raye?”

  “He drew his pistol on me. It was him or me. They were all acting strange. They attacked each other. I don’t know how I got away.”

  Boyd felt the punch hit his abdomen. He toughed it out. The Faction were brutal, but as long as they didn’t suspect him of being a Union operative, he was probably safe.

  “Why didn’t you start acting strange?”

  “I don’t know,” Boyd lied. “I could feel it, but I resisted!”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know! It was strange. I heard their name: Skarak.”

  “Who is Skarak?” Bizanni delivered another punch. Another blow to the gut.

  “I don’t know who they are! I didn’t want to kill him. It was self-defense!”

  Boyd watched through an already-swelling eye as Poledri and Bizanni stepped outside to confer.

  “We could kill him. An accident?” Bizanni said.

  Poledri looked over at Boyd and shook his head.

  “He’s a good pilot, and a good fighter too. I don’t like him, but he’s good. I’ll keep him, and I’ll kill him myself if I have to.”

  Bizanni nodded.

  “But I am still shorthanded on the Fist. Have you got a weapons operator you don’t need?”

  “I have an engineer. She can handle your guns. I’ll send her over. What about him?”

  “He killed Raye. He should at least get a proper kicking,” Poledri said. “Just don’t break any bones. I need him fit to fly.”

  Bizanni nodded and turned, grinning at Boyd.

  “You heard Captain Poledri,” Bizanni said to his fighters. “No broken bones.”

  The blows rained down hard, one after another delivering a heavy blow in reprisal for the death of Raye. Finally, after several dozen punches and a lot of bruises, Poledri stepped up.

  “Just be grateful I’m not a vindictive man,” Poledri said.

  “Yes, Captain,” Boyd said, blood running down the side of his mouth.

  Poledri punched Boyd hard in the gut.

  “Now it’s all forgotten, okay?” Poledri said.

  “Yes, Captain,” Boyd replied.

  Poledri slapped him lightly on the side of the face and then called a Crimson crewman to unfasten the manacles.

  Boyd dropped to the deck and immediately climbed up as steadily as he could to his feet. He felt a twinge in his side and feared it was a broken rib. He moved carefully.

  “Get back to the Fist,” Poledri said. “Go.”

  Staggering along the corridors of the Fist toward his cabin, Boyd felt the anger toward Poledri rising in him. But this was the Faction way. Boyd knew he was lucky to be alive. He fell into his room and dropped to his bunk. He lay back and tapped away on his wrist-mounted holo-stage, quickly hacking into the Plague Crimson’s surveillance systems.

  He found Poledri and Bizanni, the pair chatting away like old friends.

  “Another Faction ship has gone down in the sphere.”

  “It must be the Union.”

  “No. They always gloat about their kills. Broadcast the battles. Make sure everyone can see them smashing the Faction. This is different.”

  “A breakaway in the Faction. Kitzov has his enemies.”

  “Had, you mean. He’s dealt with most of them.”

  Boyd heard a noise outside his cabin and deactivated the hack.

  Noland burst in.

  “They gave you a good kicking.” He peered closely at Boyd’s face and chuckled. “You didn’t think you’d get away without a punishment for killing Raye, did you?” Noland grinned. “Don’t take it personally.”

  Boyd spat a bloody globule onto the deck.

  “Never crossed my mind.”

  “We need you on the flight deck. Can you walk?” Noland offered Boyd a hand. “We’re relocating. Meeting other Faction ships. Something big is going on. They say Kitzov will be there.”

  Boyd felt suddenly uplifted. It might be just a ship’s rumor, but Boyd could feel, like he felt the pain in his ribs, that he was getting close to Kitzov.

  “Yeah, I can walk. I’ve got a broken rib, not a leg.”

  “Pull a med-pack from the store and slap it on. We need you at the flight console. The capt
ain wants to get moving.”

  Boyd staggered onto the flight deck and dropped into the pilot seat. He noticed someone new standing at the weapons console, the place that Raye had previously made his own.

  Poledri walked onto the flight deck.

  “The Crimson will send us the coordinates.” He walked over and dropped a med-pack onto the console in front of Boyd, another stolen piece of Union kit. “Get to your stations and get us to the rendezvous.”

  “What happened to you, Pilot?” the new crew member called out.

  Boyd turned and looked at the young woman standing behind the weapons console facing him. She had short, dark hair and fire in her brown eyes. A half-smile was on her lips as she looked down at Boyd.

  “I walked into a door,” Boyd said, looking back to his console.

  “Hope you fly better than walk. I didn’t join this crew just so the pilot can kill me on my first trip.”

  “I can fly well enough. You sure you know how to fire a hail cannon?”

  “Coordinates coming in. I’ll patch them through to the flight console.” Poledri climbed into his command chair. “Get that med-pack on, Boyd. I don’t want you grumbling the whole flight.”

  Boyd turned the ship to its new heading and engaged the drive at maneuvering speed. He sat back in his chair and tore open the med-pack. The pack’s system light showed that it was fully charged and ready for diagnostic mode. Boyd stood and pulled his shirt over his head. The pain in his ribs caused him to flinch briefly, but he pushed through the pain and pulled his shirt clean off. Looking down at his abdomen, he could see the deep blue and purple bruises where the Crimson fighters had concentrated their punches. He wondered, if they did this to him for killing one Faction ship flight deck gunner, what would they do to him if they found out he was trying to kill the Faction Leader?

  Boyd held the med-pack over the wound. Fine tendrils spread out from the base of the pack and latched onto him. The tendrils slipped under the skin and burrowed into his flesh before pulling tight, positioned over his aching ribs. He winced and bent sideways, twisting away from the pain as the pack positioned itself and then he let out a sigh of relief as painkillers were administered and the pack began to aid in the tissue and bone reconstruction.