A Greater Interest: Samair in Argos: Book 4 (67 page)

              “Lieutenant, new contacts,” one of the others called out.  She was a young wolf, not quite at maturity, standing at the sensor console.  She wasn’t quite ready to enlist in the general’s division, but everyone, even children of his troops, pulled his or her weight.  Putting young ones in low priority position gave them much-needed experience before they would be able to move up into combat positions.

              “Show me,” Braelock ordered, his voice calm.

              Young Marissa pressed a control and the display window opened, showing two contacts moving toward TC2741’s operating area.  Per the text indicators, the power levels being given off by these ships were several degrees of magnitude higher than those of the various cargo vessels, including Braelock’s ship.  “High probability they’re warships,” he mused.  He pressed a control and squinted at the display as the fuzzy image of the ships enlarged.  The elder wolf let out a low rumble in his chest.

              “What is it?” the major asked, stepping over to look.

              Braelock pointed.  “Another one of those damned Seylonique corvettes.”

              Nezerek growled himself.  “Yes.  Wonder what they’re doing here.”

              “Same thing as the rest of them, most likely,” the lieutenant said absently, waving a hand at the bulkhead, indicating the other ships.  “But I’m more interested in this larger ship.”

              The major gazed more intently at the display.  He nodded.  “A destroyer profile.  That is more worrisome.”

              “More than that.  That’s a Republic ship.  I recognize the design.”

              Nezerek flicked his ears and looked from the display to the elder and back again.  “You’re sure?”

              Braelock nodded.  “Completely.  It’s reminiscent of destroyer designs they used during the war.  It’s unmistakable that hammerhead design that they use.”

              “Then this changes things.”  The major’s long tongue ran over his teeth, as though he tasted the tangy, coppery flavor of blood.  “Yes.  Order the two prizes to the hyper limit right now.”   Then the wolf frowned, his ears flattening to his head.  “Wait, wasn’t there a destroyer at Seylonique?”

              Braelock considered, then nodded.  “Yes, there was.”

              “Is that the same ship?”

              “They’re flying a different beacon.  This one is the same as the corvette: Seylonique Space Navy, which if memory serves was different than the one at the battle.”  Marissa helpfully sent over a file and Braelock grunted.  “The one the general fought, that one was flying a beacon for somethinig called ‘First Principles’.  But it was in Seylonique, so it’s possible that this might be the same ship, but we don’t know for sure.  But if it is a ship in the Seylonique Space Navy, how the hell did a bunch of little peasants get their grubby sausage fingers on a Republic ships.”  He looked over at the major.  “If I can ask, Major, what are you thinking?”

              “I’m going to prep the troops.  I’m thinking I’ve had enough of easy, fat prizes.  And after the losses we took at Seylonique, the general will need another warship to add to his order of battle.”  He grinned.  “And I haven’t a clue how it is that they got a Republic ship.  I think I’ll load up, head over and ask.”

~~~~~~*~~~~~~

             
Equinox
’s commanding officer, Captain Voxtun, was watching the group of nine freighters around the gas giant.  All of them seemed to be gawping at the massive alien ship deep in the gas giant’s atmosphere.  It was impressive, Voxtun had to admit, but he couldn’t imagine why hard-working freighter captains would willingly burn credits by parking here in a high orbit just to stare at a big ship for days at a time.  All but one of them had been here since
Equinox’s
arrival and they hadn’t really moved much since.  It was as if all these people had nothing better to do but sit there and just watch the storms in the atmosphere and a big whopper of a ship just sucking in atmo and its little tug-like ships grabbing rocks out of the planetary rings.

             
Two of the ships turned away from the planet and began their ponderous acceleration on a vector that would take them out of the system.  One of them was an Ulla-tran flagged vessel, the other was broadcasting an independent beacon ID, identifying itself as the
Gray Feathers
.  Voxtun had paid them little mind, only to mentally grump:
About damned time.  Somebody’s finally decide it’s past time to get some work done
. 

              The rest of the ships were staying put; none were doing anything of interest, though it looked as though a third ship was moving.  This one, though, was on a vector for the refueling platform more than likely preparing to depart the system.

              Voxtun swept his gaze over the bridge, watching his officers, all of whom were studiously watching their displays. 
Equinox
had moved out from the habitable world on his order with the damaged
Kingston
following along like an injured and scarred puppy.  Damage control teams, about twenty people, from the
Equinox
had transferred over to the
Kingston
to assist with repairs; they were attempting to rebuild one of the hyperdrive nacelles.  It would be a quick (relatively) and dirty fix, allowing the ship to jump to hyperspace.  It would be a long trip home; as with these repairs (which were hardly yard certified) the ship would only be able to make it to Red level four of the FTL rainbow.  Extra supplies were transferred over from the destroyer, so it would be an almost three month trip, but the crew of the corvette would make it.  Neither ship had any of the industrial replicators like they had back home, so there would not be any more emergency repairs. 
They’ll be fine
.

             
No more than they deserve
, he thought viciously,
getting their ship shot out from under them by a damned pirate cutter of all things.
  Kreighton’s incompetence had earned him that slow trip home.  It was only his family connections that had gotten him this rescue, in Voxtun’s opinion.  In fact, he’d have been perfectly content to salvage the ship, rescue the crew and leave that imbecile marooned on a deserted island on Bimawae.

             
He’d been seething about this mission ever since the orders had been cut.  It was the injustice of it all, really.  While he’d like to think any Navy ship would be deployed to search for and rescue another was a given, a council member’s child necessitated pulling one of the Navy’s precious destroyers off the line.  Pulling some councilor’s little bastard out of the muck he’d landed himself into took higher priority than protecting the system as a whole. 
That’s the way of things
,
of course
.

              “I’ll be in my stateroom,” he announced suddenly.  “All of this business is making me tired.  Bring us to a position a thousand kilometers from that nearest cargo ship and hold position.  You have the bridge, XO.”  He rose and exited the bridge without waiting for a response.

              “This is a Republic ship!” Nezerek bellowed to the armed and armored troopers.  They were on Shuttle Eta, with Gamma training slightly.  They all carried assault weapons, plasma grenades and their blades for close quarter fighting.  Despite the lupusans’ natural claws and fangs, General Typhon required his soldiers to carry at least one bladed weapon in addition to their guns.  Not that any of them complained.

              They were armored in a motley assortment of protective suits.  About a third were wearing standard skinsuits, red in color and rated to protect against vacuum exposure but not against gunfire or other combat trauma.  About half of the shuttle complement (twenty-one to be exact) was wearing polyweave nanofiber combat skinsuits, which offered moderate protection against bullets, needlers and blades, with slight protection against grenades and other explosives.  And four of the jolly bastards (two on each shuttle) were equipped with powered battle armor.

              The Federation Army CA800 combat battle chasis, version 3 was essentially a tank piloted comfortably by a single lupusan operator.  It was two meters in height, roughly humanoid shaped, barrel-chested with four powered legs, with six thrusters on the torso which gave it the ability to make huge jumps.  It was pressurized, so the thrusters could also be used for attitude control for flight in space.  It was heavily armored and powered by a micro He3 reactor, which was good, since it didn’t require any specialized fuel to keep it going; it could run on the same stuff that starships and advanced fighters did.

              It was outfitted with an arsenal of weaponry, meant for battlefield pacification.  It had an 8mm tribarreled needle Gatling cannon on its right arm and a plasma grenade launcher on its right.  On its right shoulder was a pair of armor-piercing rocket launchers that were turret mounted with 360 degree turn radius.  On the left shoulder was a turret mounted needle cannon, but this one fired millimeter thick projectiles, as opposed to the larger spikes the tribarrel cannon fired. 

              The CA800 was well-suited to planetary ground combat, capable of a running speed of 60 kilometers per hour with its ability to leap making it good at urban combat, but even with all those edges, it was not particularly suited for ship boarding operations.  That being said, Typhon was not going to turn down any kind of advantage and no one out here in the Argos Cluster had any kind of technological terror to rival the 800s.  So, they were deployed in boarding actions and raids; to the delight of their pilots.

              “Now a large portion of you weren’t alive in the time of the war and so have no real concept of our enemy.”  There were growls and roars and barks of anger from the ones who
were
old enough to remember accompanied by snarls by the younger ones who had grown up on the stories.  “The Republic is full of creatures, and they’re evil, but then… so are we!” he shouted the last word and chuckles and more barks followed his words.  “We’re going after a destroyer which has thus far had a very easy time in life.  I’m sure they’ve never dreamed of facing such a group of depraved monsters like us!”  Roars of triumph.  “But our job is to capture this ship, you dogs.  I want any resistance pacified but this is a
prize ship
!  Don’t damage her too much.  That means plasma grenades, not frags.  I want to take this ship,” Nezerek repeated, sweeping the shuttle’s bay, “not rip it apart.  And I want prisoners.  We need enough crew to run the ship and fly it and us back home.”  He paused, looking over his wolves, all of whom stared back at him.  “We dock in under two minutes.  Get your suits sealed up.  And
get me that ship!”
  The cacoughony was deafening, ringing off the bulkheads.

              Shuttles Eta and Gamma slid through space on ballistic trajectories toward their target.  Their hull plating was set to maximum sensor absorption mode, making the shuttles like holes in space, their own low power signatures masked by the carbon nanofiber coating on the hull armor.  These final seconds on approach were always tense.  The shuttle pilots and their crews had to assume that due to the lack of activity or fire from the target vessel to this point that they were still undetected.  Of course, there was also the possibility that they
had
been detected and the destroyer’s gunners were holding, drawing in the shuttles for perfect, close in shots.  Those last minutes were nerve-shredding for those on the shuttles, wondering whether the enemy gunners were clueless about their approach, or were they refining their targeting, waiting for that one exact moment to tear the shuttles apart.

              As the assault shuttles glided into range everyone tensed.  “Clench time!” one of the armored 800 pilots yelled and the troop compartment was set to barking.  An eternity passed, everyone waiting, expecting for fiery death to engulf them all… but it never came.  The shuttle pilots sidled their crafts to the flanks of the hammerheaded destroyer.

              “Linking with the airlocks now, initiating door interface hack,” the pilot called over the internal comms.  “The airlocks are just wide enough to accommodate you tubs of blubber.  It’ll be a tight fit in the corridors, but you should make it,” the male said cheerfully.  “You’ll have to go single file; you know the drill.  Watch the grav plates and the overheads for traps.”

              “Remember, secure this ship!” Nezerek bellowed.

              One after another, two of the armored power suits lumbered forward, their heavy feet clumping on the deck.  The armor itself massed several tons, with a ton more fully loaded; a weight that the suit could not handle under combat stresses without help.  To that end a small anti-grav generator had been added, which could create a small low level field “bubble” which extended just around the suit.  The field lowered the suit’s mass so to the outside universe the CA800 was down to just 18 percent of its actual mass.  It wasn’t exactly light on its feet but it was far more nimble and maneuverable now.  The shuttle pilot wasn’t exaggerating, though, the corridors of the ship were narrow and low enough that if the 800s got moving too quickly, the shoulder turret cannons and launchers would scrape along the overhead.

              Crewmen in blue uniforms came down the corridor toward the airlock when they’d heard it cycling followed by the clumping of suited feet on the deckplates.  At seeing the powered armor and bristling weapons, one of the human males shouted a warning and tried to run.  A three-round burst from the lead 800’s shoulder mounted needler cut him down.  A follow up burst speared the other two, dropping them to the deck.  Reaching the slightly wider junction, the first pilot halted, doing a scan of the corridors.  The foot soldiers, who had swarmed around the second 800, rushed up and then past the first.  The attackers split into four groups, two moving forward, two moving aft, each group supported by one of the powered armor units.