Starship Tomahawk (The Hive Invasion Book 2) (11 page)

The relief fleet floated in space, a couple of hundred kilometers from Gate Three. Strictly speaking the ships were in orbit around the distant sun, but Carruthers would be a very old man before they made a full circumnavigation. For all practical purposes, the little fleet was motionless.

Carruthers could see the
Indefatigable
in front of him, along with several other ships. He was in a meeting room on the
Marlborough
, a freshly refitted troopship. The ship carried medical personnel, a handful of scientists, several Gate technicians, and a hundred marines from the newly reinstated Marine Corps. The big ship was less than half full. The extra space would be used to evacuate civilians from Naxos, if it was possible.

There were nine ships in total. The
Indefatigable
was one of six corvettes. Along with the
Marlborough
there was a supply and hospital ship and a Jumper, a ship designed to generate wormholes. A Jumper could travel fifty percent farther than a corvette with each jump, and the wormhole would last long enough for the entire fleet to go through. It would speed up the journey substantially.

Reflected in the window he could see eight other captains gathered around a table behind him. They had been discussing training options, trying to figure out what manoeuvres they could do without straying too far from the Gate. They wanted to be ready to dart through at a moment's notice if the Gate went live.

Now, though, the formal part of the meeting was over. It was a social gathering, and Carruthers, a captain for less than three weeks, was distinctly uncomfortable. The rest of them were experienced ship's commanders, and he didn't feel as if he belonged.

A chime sounded behind him, and Captain Jamison, commander of the Marlborough, said, "Robert. We were just talking about you. Nothing especially bad, I promise."

A voice spoke from the speaker in the holo-projector embedded in the table. "I've just been in an interesting meeting."

Something in the tone of his voice made Carruthers turn. The head and shoulders of a man in his fifties hovered above the table. Carruthers had met Robert Molson several times. The man had always been smiling. Even interstellar war hadn't dampened his innate cheerfulness.

Now, however, his face was bleak.

Carruthers walked over to join the others around the table. Molson was back at Spacecom headquarters. He commanded the
Hannibal
, a cruiser even older than the
Alexander
. The
Hannibal
was just finishing its refit. It would be the gem of the relief fleet.

"I no longer command the
Hannibal
." Molson's voice was flat, emotionless. "I'll still be onboard. I'll be the First Officer."

Jamison said, "What the hell? Who are they putting in command?"

"Her name is Erin Laycraft."

The captains looked at each other, mystified. Jamison said, "I don't recognize the name."

"She's a colonel in the EDF."

Carruthers felt his jaw drop.

"The EDF?" Jamison's voice rose with every letter. "Does she have any military experience?"

For just a moment a ghost of Molson's smile returned. "She's never actually been in space."

Carruthers could see his own shock mirrored in the faces around him. No one spoke.

Molson said carefully, "The new civilian government has decided that the fleet need supervision by an organization they can trust." He paused for a moment, then added, "I'm sure they're making the right decision."

That was so obviously a lie that shock started to give way to alarm on the faces of the captains. Finally Jamison said, "I'm … sure you're right." Only his voice was being transmitted, not his face, so he didn't hide an expression of disgust.

"I'm glad you agree," Molson said. "Each of you is going to have an EDF officer commanding your ship." He cleared his throat. "I just thought you should know."

After several seconds of strangled silence Jamison managed to say, "That's good news. Thanks for telling us."

Molson gave a single curt nod and broke the connection.

Carruthers watched as Jamison tilted his head and made several gestures in the air, accessing his implants. He was probably double-checking the connection was closed. Then he said, "Well, shit."

There was a babble of voices as all the captains tried to speak at once.

Carruthers stood silent, letting the torrent of words wash over him. They were outraged, and they were disturbed that Molson obviously believed the EDF was eavesdropping. Ultimately, though, their ire spent itself and their decades of experience in a military hierarchy began to reassert itself. All of them had sworn oaths. They respected the chain of command. However much they didn't like it, they knew what they had to do.

"Well, it stinks," Jamison said. "But I guess we'll just have to accept it."

"Like hell."

Eight pairs of eyes swivelled to look at Carruthers, and he gulped.
Oh, to hell with it. I've faced worse than this.
"Forget it," he said. "I'll destroy the
Indefatigable
before I'll turn it over to the EDF." The words shocked him as he spoke them, but he realized he meant it. Every word.

"Now, Jim," said Jamison.

"No," said Carruthers. A lot of half-formed thoughts were solidifying in his mind. He didn't think about politics much. The big picture was for people far above his station. He'd always served under officers he could trust. He'd left the tough decisions to them.

Not today.

"We can't do it," he said. "We can't hand over an entire fleet to a legion of morons and thugs."

Reynolds of the corvette
Epée
said, "Carruthers, the chain of command is-"

"The chain of command is broken," Carruthers said. "We have deadly weapons on those ships. We have nuclear missiles, for God's sake. You don't just give control of that sort of thing to …" He fell silent, searching for the right word.

The others started talking over one another, and at first he let them. Then he raised his hand. The other captains fell silent and he said, "You don't give a loaded gun to the schoolyard bully. Even if he demands it. And you don't give warships to fascists."

Jamison said, "That's not a decision we're allowed to make."

"Doing as we're told is making a decision," Carruthers snapped. "I've got a reporter hiding on my ship." He hadn't meant to admit it, not until they were through the Gate. "She's hiding from the EDF. Because she reported EDF brutality. They want to arrest her for it. For speaking the truth." He let that sink in. Freedom of the press was one of the most fundamental principles of the interplanetary republic. "A reporter, for God's sake."

They stared at him, then looked at one another. Nobody spoke.

"What will the EDF do with armed warships?" he said. "Suppose France declares they're giving sanctuary to journalists. Suppose Mexico announces the EDF is no longer welcome within its borders. Suppose the BBC starts broadcasting exposés of the EDF, and the British government refuses to let the EDF shut it down. What do you think will happen then?" He looked from one captain to another. "If someone is going to launch nuclear missiles at Earth's cities, it's not going to be from the
Indefatigable
."

"You're overreacting," said Reynolds. "They'd never do that. It's-"

"What?" said Carruthers. "Unthinkable? Ten minutes ago, you would have said putting a cruiser under the command of a civilian who's never been in space was unthinkable." He shook his head. "We're at war, the entire human race is at risk, and they're replacing our best captains with civilians whose only qualification is that they support the President. What do you call that, if not unthinkable?"

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Finally Jean Harrington, captain of the Jumper, said, "Did they really try to arrest a reporter?"

"Yes," Carruthers snapped. "Janice Ling, the lady who was on the
Alexander
."

That set off an angry muttering. Many of the captains had heard of Janice and how she had organized the civilian passengers into an auxiliary corps.

"I understand how you feel," Jamison said. "I think I even agree. But what can we do?" He shrugged. "I don't think I'm quite ready to destroy the
Marlborough
. They're going to need her in Naxos."

The others nodded, frowning. "He's right," Harrington said. "What can we do?"

"We can leave now," Carruthers said.

There was a shocked silence.

Jamison said, "The Gate's not online."

"We won't wait for the Gate. We'll jump. We can reach Naxos in a week."

They stared at him. He could see them analyzing the idea, weighing the consequences. Jamison said, "What happens when the Gate opens? The attack fleet is counting on us coming through."

"They'll get the
Hannibal
, and any other ships that are ready in time. And a week from now, they'll get our nine ships. By which time they might desperately need a bunch of warships that don't answer to the EDF."

More silence. Then someone said, "They'll hang us."

Carruthers gave them a gallows grin. "We're tackling the Hive in a system where they've had time to dig in. If we live long enough to hang, it'll be a bloody miracle."

They looked at one another, doubt plain on their faces.
I'm losing them,
Carruthers thought.
They won't go for it. Maybe it's for the best. Maybe we-

Eight people simultaneously tilted their heads, clearly reacting to a message from their implants. At the same instant, the data pad in Carruthers' pocket gave a low chime. He took out the pad and read the message it displayed.

Return immediately to Port Kodiak to take on essential personnel.

Reynolds said, "We can't all go. It's almost thirty minutes at top speed. We'll be off-station for an hour. What if the Gate opens?"

Jamison said, "I guess Hammett will just have to wait." He shook his head. "I guess this is what leadership will be like under the EDF." He looked at the other captains, his gaze going from face to face, pausing a moment to stare into each set of eyes. "I'm convinced," he said at last. "Carruthers is right. We need to go, and we need to go right now."

"We can't," said Reynolds. "It's treason."

"My vow was to defend the republic," Carruthers said. "I can best do that by flying to Naxos and fighting the Hive. So that's what I'm going to do."

Several captains nodded.

"I can't make you go," Jamison said. "I'm going, though." He turned to Harrington. "You're the only one whose cooperation we really need. Will you open us a wormhole?"

"I'm on it," she said, and headed for the exit. "See you on the other side, whoever decides to come."

"We're fresh out of time for debate," Jamison said. "Return to your ships. Then follow your orders, or follow me through the wormhole. I'll see some of you on the other side."

Carruthers nodded and hurried after Harrington. He heard footsteps behind him, the rest of the captains heading for the shuttle bay. He didn't bother looking back. He'd thrown the dice, and all he could do was follow through. What happened next was out of his hands.

As the
Indefatigable's
shuttle left the bay he glanced at the Gate, a speck of light off to his left through the shuttle's front window. "Hang in there, Richard," he murmured. "I'm coming." He glanced back in the direction of Earth, the
Hannibal
, and the growing power of the EDF. "You might not want to fix that Gate in too much of a hurry, though."

The next attack came from behind.

One moment Nicholson was staring up at the structure in the middle of the plaza, watching in frustration as the laser drill did nothing but stir up pretty sparks on the shield. The next moment the laser jerked sideways, slicing a couple of shade trees in half and burning into the side of a building on the far side of the park. Beckett screamed, and Nicholson turned, battle fury throwing a red haze over his vision.

There were six aliens, two of them mounted with some kind of hardware, a collection of tubes and blobby canisters strapped to their torsos with metal rods extending along their forward limbs. Nicholson understood instinctively that these were weapons, and he focused his fire on those two aliens. One alien blew apart in a spray of untidy chunks. The other took a bullet and jerked sideways, and the wall beside it glowed red, then smoldered.

The woman beside Nicholson died screaming, pierced and pulled apart by an alien that fell under a barrage of Nicholson's shots a moment later. The laser lay on the ground, Beckett curled in a ball beside it. Jackson was at the trigger now. The laser was too heavy to lift, so he twisted the weapon from side to side as he fired, laying a scorching line of fire through the air at ankle height. Aliens fell, the tips of their legs sliced away, then scrambled back on bleeding stumps, frantic to escape.

When Jackson let go of the trigger Enright darted in, burying the head of his axe in the torso of a retreating alien. Nicholson circled around the laser, careful not to move in front of the muzzle, and put a finishing shot into the wounded alien with the weapon rig. Then he said, "They know where we are."

Jackson nodded, then moved to Beckett. "Help me with him."

Together they hoisted Beckett to his feet. He had a bad burn all down his left side, and he moaned as they straightened him. He was able to shuffle along with the others supporting him, Enright bringing up the rear. They abandoned the laser on the sidewalk.

They crossed the street and moved into the plaza. It felt foolhardy to move into the heart of the alien occupation, but there were no actual aliens
in
the little park, and Nicholson nursed a faint hope of linking up with Stark and combining forces. He needed help with Beckett. He needed help getting away.

Beckett was moaning with every breath by the time they finished crossing the street. Nicholson headed for the nearest fountain, empty now, and the three of them clambered over the side. They laid the injured man down on the tiles inside, and the rest of them crouched down beside him. The fountain's knee-high stone walls made a comforting barrier around them, and they paused, catching their breath.

There were no more sounds of battle from the direction of Stark's team, no sounds at all except the pained rasp of four men breathing. Nicholson felt exhausted, spent, wrung out by stress and horror. He wanted to abandon the shattered remains of his team. He wanted to throw down his rifle and run for his life, but he didn't have the strength.

"There it goes again," Enright said, and pointed.

Nicholson turned in time to see another white flash burst from the top of the alien structure.
Oh, God, they're destroying my ship. It's my last hope of rescue and they're shooting it out of the sky. This is a disaster. I'm going to die here. Why doesn't somebody do something?

Because there's only one soldier anywhere close to that weapon, and it's me.

His terror didn't exactly fade, but it shifted into the background of his thoughts, like sitting in a room that was chilly but not quite cold enough to make you shiver. You could ignore it, if you concentrated. He checked the clip in his rifle, counted his remaining magazines, and took a deep breath. "Wait for your chance," he said, "and sneak out of here. You're on your own, I’m afraid." He looked at each of them in turn. "You fought well today. All you can do now is try to escape."

Beckett said, "Where are you going?"

"I'm going after that tower."

"The shield! If the laser couldn't touch it, what can you do with that little pop-gun?"

Nicholson shrugged. "I have to try."

Beckett lapsed into silence, his strength apparently exhausted. Jackson, face haggard, said, "Good luck."

Nicholson nodded, took a moment to psyche himself up, then hopped over the side of the fountain and started to run.

He reached the nearest power box, dropped to one knee beside it, and fired a burst at the side of the big structure.

Nothing.

He switched his aim to the power box and fired a burst into the box at point-blank range. He made three scorch marks in the casing. At least it wasn't shielded, but he'd done no actual harm. He examined the box, looking for a vulnerable spot. A blue blob near the top pulsed as he looked at it. He thought it might be made of glass. "Worth a shot," he muttered, and brought up the rifle.

He never had a chance to fire. A pair of aliens came around the tower, one from each side, skittering toward him on their too-thin legs. Sunlight glittered on the steel encasing their limbs. They moved with terrifying speed, and he held the trigger down, spraying shots at the one on the left. Sparks flew as it brought up its arms, still running at him. Then a lucky shot made it through and the creature fell sprawling.

Nicholson swung the rifle right. The second commando was almost on top of him. He fired one frantic burst, saw two limbs spasm, and then the magazine hit empty. He lunged to his feet, bringing the rifle up, and lashed out with the stock of the gun as the alien reached him.

A limb slammed into his chest, close enough to his earlier wound that he felt agony lash through him. The steel point tore a furrow in his body armor, and he screamed, hammering with the butt of his rifle. He couldn’t reach the thing's torso, so he bashed at the steel arms. The arm on the left wasn't working properly, twitching against the ground as the alien tried to raise it. The arm on the right worked fine, though, and the point came up to touch his chest again. The creature pressed, and Nicholson fell back, losing his grip on the rifle.

He grabbed the point at the end of the arm in both hands. It was like grabbing a cargo mover. The alien was incredibly strong, more than strong enough to impale him. He heaved on the limb, tried to push it away from his chest, tried to shove it sideways.

Nothing.

The limb pushed down, pressing him back until his shoulders were against the ground. Then the alien shifted, putting its whole body above him, and started to press down in earnest.

Nicholson looked past the limb to the creature's torso, a faceless lump of brown flesh. He couldn't even look into its eyes as it killed him. If it had eyes he couldn’t see them.

Something moved above the torso. Sunlight glittered for an instant on steel, and then Nicholson heard a wet thump. It made him think of a watermelon falling on concrete, and the effect on the alien was instantaneous. The creature thrashed, the arm on Nicholson's chest scraping sideways across his armor, tearing a shallow gash in his right bicep, and then burying itself in the grass beside him.

He squirmed sideways, wriggling between a couple of steel legs, then reached back and snagged his rifle. He wormed his way out from under the creature, grunting as a flailing leg battered him, then stumbled to his feet. He changed magazines with trembling fingers, lifted the rifle, and put three careful rounds into that ugly brown body. Then he stood and stared at the creature until it stopped moving.

The handle of an axe protruded from the back of the alien's torso. The axe head was invisible, completely buried in alien flesh. Enright gave Nicholson a weak grin and said, "I don't think I want my axe back."

"I do," said Nicholson. "I've got an idea." He walked around the alien and shoved his rifle into Enright's hands. "Hold this."

He had to brace a foot against the creature's body and wiggle the axe handle back and forth several times before he was able to pull it free. The axe head was covered in purplish blood, thick and ropy. Nicholson gave the axe a shake in a hopeless attempt to clean it, then walked back to the power box. He stood in front of the cable that led to the tower, lifted the axe high, and brought it slashing down.

There was a spark so bright it left a white smear across his vision. The axe handle jerked once against his hands. He smelled ozone and burned flesh, and he looked himself over for fresh burns. The smell was coming from the axe head, though. The alien blood was gone, replaced by black flakes that broke away as he pulled the axe free.

"It's happening again," Enright said, and pointed upward.

Nicholson didn't bother looking. He just jumped over the damaged cable and ran for the next power box.

This time he closed his eyes in the last instant before the axe struck. The spark was plainly visible through his eyelids, and smaller sparks kept jumping in the cut after he pulled the axe free. He gave it another chop, just in case.

"I think that did the trick," Enright said, and Nicholson glanced up. Instead of a white flash, streams of sparks were erupting from the gun barrel at the top of the tower.

"Let's make sure," he said, and continued around the tower.

Enright said, "Do you hear that?"

Nicholson paused. He heard clicking noises, lots of them, distant but coming closer. "Aw, hell." He glanced at Enright. "Get out of here. I'm going to keep cutting." He ran to the next cable, planted his feet, and swung.

As he pulled the axe free he saw the first of the aliens swarming across a side street and entering the park. There had to be at least a dozen, and he felt a cold chill wash across his skin.
Well, no one lives forever. This will be a pretty good death.

A different clicking sound made him turn. Enright stood beside him, rifle at his shoulder, helplessly pulling the trigger.

"It's locked to my handprint," Nicholson said. "Here." He traded weapons with Enright. "Now run."

Enright didn't answer, just hefted the axe and waited.

Nicholson lifted the rifle and took aim at the lead alien.

The alien was running on all six limbs. As Nicholson raised the rifle it brought up its front two limbs protectively. He touched the trigger and the arms came apart, the tips falling away to bounce on the grass. A moment later the alien's body broke into chunks, sliced in half horizontally. Three more aliens flew to pieces before the rest of them saw the danger. They stopped, and one more alien fell, front limbs severed.

A moment later full-blown panic took the survivors. They fled, scrambling over each other in their haste. Nicholson watched them go, his finger still on the trigger. He hadn't fired a shot.

Enright cackled, slapped Nicholson on the shoulder, and pointed.

The industrial laser lay on the wall of the fountain where Nicholson had left Jackson and Bennett. Jackson sat on the ground behind the laser, hands on the controls. He gave them a jaunty wave.

Nicholson waved back, then trotted quickly around the tower, putting a few shots into each of the remaining cables. Then he walked to the fountain.

"If you two can help Beckett," Jackson said, "I'm going to bring the laser. It's handy."

"It is," Nicholson said, and slung his rifle across his back. "Let's go."

For those of you who are still listening, thank you for your stubborn persistence, and I promise not to play any more electro-funk for at least a couple of days. Maybe longer. This is Sharon Crowfoot, bringing you some of the worst music ever recorded, to help you realize that the deprivations of invasion aren't really all that bad.

I have it on good authority that the city of Harlequin has been liberated. I repeat, Spacecom troops have landed and recaptured the city. If any aliens remain they're running for the hills, so those of you who are hiding in the hills had better keep your eyes open.

It remains to be seen if we'll need someone to liberate us from all these soldiers, but that's a conversation for another day.

You might not want to rush back to the city quite yet. Just keep tuning in, and I'll tell you when the lights are on and the toilets are flushing properly. In the meantime, enjoy a nice vacation in the countryside.

Now, to celebrate this triumph of human achievement, I'm going to play one of the most glorious achievements in the history of the human race. It's Beethoven's Fifth, as performed by the Mars Symphony Orchestra. Sit back and enjoy, and let's never speak of that unfortunate electro-funk incident again.