Apex (7 page)

 

Chapter 7

H
A
VING
RECEIVED
WORD
from the spaceport that the Felaxix corporate transport convoy was approaching, Jalia waited at the base of the
Resolute
's ventral boarding ramp for them to arrive while the Cres went back inside to bring out a pair of walkers to help load the cargo. The transports would probably have their own walkers or hoverlifters with them, but using both would expedite the transfer, and corporate types always liked expediency.

The first of the long transports lifted up out of a trench on the south side of the ship, which was on the opposite side of the boarding ramp. Jalia heard the slight sound alteration in her headtails and circled around to see the second of the flatbeds rise up and slide onto the tarmac. The operator tower was in the center of the rectangular beds, sitting high over the engine compartment. The lead transport approached head-­on, giving a vertical silhouette that reminded Jalia of the long-­necked dulchak pack animals on her homeworld.

The third transport rose up in sequence, followed by many more. They formed a long line with uniform intervals. Jalia noticed that some of the flatbeds already had some crates on them.

She frowned. That wasn't typical. Based on previous experience, the flatbeds came directly from the corporate warehouses. Sending partially loaded transports meant that more would have to be sent to accommodate the entire cargo . . . and that was
very
uncorporate-­like.

Behind Jalia, barely noticeable, the distant steps of the walkers coming from inside the cargo hold stopped.

The first of the transports swung around to the outside of the stacks of crates, putting them between the flatbeds and the ship with Jalia getting a bad feeling creeping up her spine. They'd left an intentional gap between the staggered clumps of crates for the transports to line up inside to make for easier loading, yet the drivers had chosen to go outside of that, making more distance for the loaders to travel.

Four of the flatbeds were now behind the crates, out of sight save for their high towers. The others should have held back until the first set was loaded, but instead they drove up through the gap between crates and parked there. Then the next set pulled up directly between the crates and the ship.

Jalia's hand dipped down to the holster on her left hip, brushing against it gently.

Suddenly there was a blur of commotion behind her, barely audible but for a mass of footsteps. Four of the Cres ran down the ramp and circled around it, with Ivara running up to Jalia and pulling her aside as dozens of armed mercs swarmed around the corners of the crate stacks.

“Kitja,” she spat as the Cres pulled her over to one of the
Resolute
's landing legs and took cover as the mercenaries opened fire with a hail of red and green lachar blasts.

“Stay down, Junta. We'll deal with this.”

Jalia noticed that Ivara had a chest plate on instead of the envirosuit. Her dark blue eyes scanned the area intently, then suddenly her heavy vest activated, seemingly on its own, and expanded across the rest of her body. Within two dek she was covered in a full suit of combat armor and dove out of cover, firing a small handheld lachar as she rolled headfirst onto the ground. She leapt out of the somersault and into a run, firing an extremely fast salvo of tiny gold lachar bursts.

Jalia pulled out her trusty pistol and ducked around to the opposite side of the landing leg, taking a quick peek. Two mercs were on the ground with another five firing at Ivara and many more behind them taking what cover they could or simply dropping to a knee.

Taking a quick breath, Jalia leaned out of cover and shot one of the yellow-­adorned Presca in the chest. Her orange shot made him stumble backwards, but failed to penetrate his armor. She got off another two quick shots that missed before ducking back behind the landing leg and circling around to the other side. She knelt down on her left knee, her shoulder pressed against the ship's leg, then stepped out on her right side and fired another two shots into the same Presca as he was getting back to his feet. One hit his arm, another clipped the hole in his chest armor and took him down for keeps.

Jalia pushed back with her right leg and fell backwards onto her tail behind cover.

“Ouch,” she moaned, then fell silent as she listened intently. There was so much gunfire that it was hard to hear, but . . .

A grenade explosion jarred her teeth together. It had come from the other side of the landing leg, and fairly close if she had to guess by the brief wave of concussion-­induced numbness washing over her body.

Jalia rolled onto her knee and up to her feet, then carefully looked back around the other side of the ship's leg. Two mercs were dead and . . . in pieces. There was a black smear on the ground not far from where her downed Presca lay. She glanced up over her shoulder and saw some small debris tears in the landing leg.

“Quit blowing up my ship!” she yelled, taking a potshot at another merc farther away.

M
ARREN
HAD
COME
down the ramp in the face of over a dozen mercs, with more coming around the edge of the crates. The Cres had sensed them coming, for there were far too many minds for empty trucks. Already activating his battle armor, he ran out of the ship and took aim at the horde just after telepathically sending an impulse into the lot that someone had appeared on the tarmac to their left out of nowhere.

As they reacted to the phantom fighter, Marren unleashed a quick semi-­auto burst into the group. The first three-­round lachar spurt caught a merc in the head, the second hit another in the leg, the third dead center in the first one's chest, and the fourth landed on another's neck. By then Marren was halfway to them, sending another mental misdirection to the group.

Some took the bait, others didn't, having seen him and the threat he posed. The golden-­armored Cres pulled a small knobby sphere from his hip and sidearmed it towards the group as several lachar blasts hit his extremities. His armor's shields held firm and he changed direction in a flash, dashing toward the nearest truck for cover.

The grenade exploded in the midst of the merc horde, killing and/or scattering the lot of them. Marren appeared over top of the truck briefly, firing six more three-­round bursts, then disappeared behind a stack of crates.

More mercs emerged from their hiding places on the trucks, some of which barely made it out of their crates before they were shot down. The Cres moved with such speed and superior reflexes that they were hard to track, even in the open, with many of the mercs' shots missing wide or over their heads. The armored soldiers showed considerably more flexibility and agility than any other known race, and they were using it to dodge most of the mercs' fire . . . or so it seemed. Half of their missed shots were due to slight telepathic nudges, with the rest due to their impressive mobility.

Back in the long line of transports more merc crates were being opened, safely clear from the firefight. The Great Death Head had deployed a full company of infantry, 120 strong. The Cres could sense their numbers and made a point of making them believe they faced a significant force themselves. Phantom images were continually being driven into their minds, appearing and disappearing behind cover to bolster the illusion.

Meanwhile, as Marren, Ivara, and Lornas engaged the enemy on the ground, Ella had climbed up on top of the crate stacks and was leaping the four-­meter gaps between them in rhythm. She had yet to fire a shot, and with all the commotion around them had been able to keep those with lines of sight on her from taking notice.

When she approached one of the unloading trucks she chucked a pair of grenades into two of the opening crates, taking out eight mercs with each. She leapt down onto the flatbed and policed the bodies, shooting two survivors and glancing up at the driver at the top of the tower. His mind was clouded in fear and she could sense that he was a noncombatant. Satisfied that he was unarmed, she jumped across crate tops and onto the next flatbed, firing at the soldiers already coming out.

From the mercs' point of view there were six Cres on the ground firing at them, making her the seventh. Most chose the ones on the ground to shoot at, decreasing the number of shots coming her way. Those that did shoot at her she killed first, quickly leaping across the gap and onto their flatbed. She stepped over the edge of one crate and dropped down between three of the mercs, kicking one off the transport before any of them could react.

The other two she grabbed quickly, one by the throat, the other by the arm. Using her considerable strength, she pinned the one to the flatbed's deck by the throat and rotated her body until it was on top of his, pulling the arm and body of the other one across her and adding a strong kick to the motion. That chucked him off as well, tossing the merc up in a high rainbow-­like arc through the air and out over the drop-­off to the ground below.

Ella grabbed the pinned man's own weapon and shot him in the head twice to make sure she got through his helmet, then leapt up off him and shot the one she'd just thrown off as she cart-­wheeled through the air, landing on the ground a moment before his torso did. Another shot to the head ensured that he was down as well.

Letting the other one go for the moment, Ella ran off a different direction, creating as much chaos and confusion as possible and adding more telepathic misdirection to the battle as she moved through, up, and over the trucks and crates almost randomly.

I
NSIDE
THE
SHIP
Orrona waited, guarding their cargo. She wanted to be in the fight, but knew this must take priority. She monitored the minds of her fellow Cres, keeping aware of what was going on as well as taking note of the positions of the enemy. None had yet boarded the ramp. If and when any did, then she would act. Until then she needed to stay with their crate.

She was so intent on the ramp as the enemy's only means of entrance that she missed the presence of another mind much closer . . . until it shot her in the back.

Orrona bounced forward into the crate, ricocheting off it and landing on her butt.

The Death Head scout put two more shots into her chest before she could fire back . . . at nothing.

Instinctively she moved to the side, the pain of the superheated armor melting into her chest making her eyes water. Her shields were down, and she didn't know where the shots had come from. In the brief respite that followed she reached out mentally trying to identify the shooter, only to realize he was coming around to her right, directly behind her.

Their crate was to her left, and she was sprawled on the floor, so she laid back, bringing her weapon up over her chest and pointing back over her head. She aimed for the mental presence and fired.

A dark shadow suddenly lit up in a cascade of neon colors as the scout's camouflage armor attempted to match the luminal intensity of the lachar blast . . . something it was never designed to do. Orrona pumped several more shots into the now obvious attacker, dropping him to the ground with several columns of smoke rising from his charred flesh.

Orrona pulled herself to her feet, feeling the burning sensation in her chest ease up, but an intense pain persisted. Her armor was cooling down, but she was still burnt underneath. Hefting her rifle, she mentally scanned the ship looking for more intruders. Confident that there were no more, she limped forward and headed to the boarding ramp. If any more were to get aboard they would have to go directly past her, and a camosuit wasn't going to fool her a second time.

J
ALIA
HELD
HER
own behind the landing leg, knowing full well all the enemy had to do to take her down was rush her laterally. Fortunately there was enough chaos that they didn't pay much attention to her. She made use of that advantage, taking potshots at mercs preoccupied with the Cres. Whether she hit them or distracted them, she was aiding the golden-­armored wonders, which was all that mattered.

One on one, she might have been able to take one of the mercs. Maybe even two on a good day, but she wasn't outfitted for combat, nor was she trained for it. She was a scrapper for sure, and a decent shot with her sidearm, but on this impromptu warfront she was out of her league and she knew it, which made her more than happy to be able to keep her head down while helping out a bit here and there.

As the weaponsfire died down, Jalia kept to her position. She didn't want to walk out from cover, but from the sound of things the battle was coming to a close. Who won she wasn't quite sure, but she hadn't seen any of the Cres actually go down.

What seemed to be an annoyingly long time later, Ivara's voice entered her mind again.

It's over. We need to leave immediately.

“You think?” Jalia whispered sarcastically, then belatedly realized that Ivara had probably ‘heard' her think that as she jogged back to the boarding ramp. Orrona came down the ramp pulling the body of a merc and dumped it over the side. She yipped a bit with the effort and Jalia noticed a large charred section of her chest armor, which was now retracted into vest mode.

“I'll live,” the Cres said, anticipating her question.

Jalia nodded and left her at the ramp as she headed into the ship and up to the bridge. She was starting to get used to the Cres reading her mind, and it certainly saved time.

When she hit the bridge and saw it was clear, Jalia slipped her pistol back in its holster and slid into the pilot's chair. She ran through a quick engine start-­up, powered up the shields, and remotely retracted the boarding ramp after making sure all five of her passengers were aboard.

Meanwhile, the Cres did a sweep of the ship to look for additional intruders. Their mental inventory came up negative, and their visual sweep detected nothing out of the ordinary. When finished, Ivara joined Jalia on the bridge and sat down at one of the secondary stations.