Starship Tomahawk (The Hive Invasion Book 2) (19 page)

Well, this isn't working.
He brought the nose up, rising until the drag of atmosphere disappeared. He couldn't see the corvettes.
What the hell do I do now?

"… Craft, do you …"

Hardy frowned at the strange voice on the radio.
I really don't need the distraction right now.
He flew on, jerking and twisting, his nemesis never far away. Static hissed and crackled in his ear, and suddenly he heard a clear voice.

"Small craft pilot. Do you copy?"

"I copy," he said. "If it's me you're talking to."

"We can cover you. I need you to fly in over the Green Crater. Do you understand?"

"No," he said, exasperated, most of his attention on his frantic manoeuvers. "I don't know where the crater is, and I'm kind of busy."

"Turn left. About a hundred degrees."

The alien ship loomed to starboard, close enough that he felt the glow of the heat weapon on his shoulder. He shrugged to himself, jerked on the stick, and stomped a pedal. The fighter turned sharply to port and raced away, the Hive ship quickly catching up.

"Good. I need you to go another ten degrees left."
The voice was clearer now. It sounded like a young woman, tense and excited. He did his best to adjust his course, not an easy thing to do when survival required zigzagging back and forth.

"That's great. Now you just need to stay alive for about two more minutes. When I give the word, I'll need you to fly perfectly straight for about ten seconds. We're going to be shooting that ship from the surface."

Hardy sputtered in indignant disbelief.
What? Are you insane? If I stop evading he'll cook me in about three seconds. And what kind of weapon are you going to fire from the surface without hitting me?
He jerked the stick left and right, making the hind end of the fighter wag like an excited puppy. He felt a jar of impact as he bumped into the alien ship, and he took a quick glance over his shoulder.

He was just in time to see the Hive ship break away. It turned back and climbed, and he saw a white glow as its engines fired. The ship shrank quickly with increasing distance, and Hardy felt his whole body go limp with relief.

The fear returned a moment later. "Hold your fire," he said. "Mystery voice on the surface. Hold your fire, the alien's gone."

"Yes, I see that."
The woman on the radio sounded amused.
"I guess they're on to our little trick. Congratulations, pilot. You get to live."

He looked down at the surface and saw the crater, a circle of green so dark it was almost black. Lights glowed in the atmosphere above the crater, and his throat constricted as he realized he was seeing wreckage burning as it fell through the atmosphere. Was it the
Tomahawk
? The
Achilles
? Both of them?

Then a glint of metal higher up caught his eye. The two corvettes hung serenely above the planet, drifting in a low orbit almost directly above the crater. "Sweet Jesus," Hardy muttered. "I don't believe it."

"Thank you for sharing that thought,"
said a man's dry voice over the radio.
"If you wouldn't mind docking with the
Tomahawk
, you can resume your prayers in your quarters."

"Yes, Sir," said Hardy, feeling his cheeks grow warm. "I mean, aye aye, Sir." He turned toward the waiting corvettes, gently testing his controls one at a time. He'd lost a ventral thruster, but everything else seemed functional. He would be able to dock safely.

He sighed quietly and allowed himself to smile. The battle was over.

"Stay on him. Keep firing." It was a useless command – the crew was already doing exactly that – and Kaur made herself lean back in her seat. She felt utterly useless. She couldn't even see the battle. Why couldn't the bridge have a forward window?

She'd chosen the only obvious tactic, pursuing the massive alien ship and doing her best to shoot it to pieces as it pursued the
Tomahawk
. Now she had nothing more to contribute. Maneuvers were a direct conversation between the spotters and the helmsman. The gun crews would fire manually as long as they had a clear target and ammunition remained. All Kaur could do was watch, and fret.

The
Achilles
carried one nuclear missile, and she longed to fire it. At such close range, though, the
Tomahawk
and
Achilles
would both take lethal damage from heat and radiation, and likely from shrapnel as well. If she pulled back far enough to protect the
Achilles
, the aliens would be able to intercept the missile at a longer range. She wouldn't achieve anything.

Metal clanged somewhere aft of the bridge, and she jerked her head up. "What the hell was that?" She regretted the words as soon as she said them. No one on the bridge would know, not with internal scans fried. She'd shown the crew her nerves and achieved nothing.

A metallic grinding sound reached her ears, and at first she thought it was a repair crew responding to whatever had just happened. The sound didn't match any tool she could think of, though.
I should send someone to investigate.
She ran quickly through a crew roster in her head. Who could she send, that she could reach quickly by telephone?

No one. And there was only one person on the bridge not doing anything useful.

"Samson, you have the conn. I'll be right back." She rose, relieved to have an outlet for her nervous energy, and left the bridge.

In the corridor just aft of the bridge the grinding sound was much louder. She moved toward the noise, rocking slightly as the ship changed direction. Alien troops had boarded the
Alexander
before the Battle for Earth. If there were Hive soldiers on the
Achilles
, things were going to get messy. By the sound of it, though, this was a smaller-scale attack.
They hit us with something little. Something that could dart in fast and reach the hull without getting crisped by a laser.
If it was small enough the laser crews might not even see it.

She rounded a corner and stopped short. A metallic shape jutted down from the ceiling, a smooth curve half the size of a vac suit helmet. The ceiling panel was torn and tattered around the strange object, as if it had burrowed into the ceiling. It must have come in the other way, though, striking the top hull and digging in from above. The ship's automatic force fields would be holding in atmosphere, but God herself only knew what other damage the thing was doing.

With a shrill squeal the alien metal ball moved several centimeters to one side. The ceiling panel curled down, and several bits of plastic tumbled to the deck. Kaur saw a crescent of starry sky behind the little intruder where it had come through the hull.

That's enough standing here gaping.
She thought briefly of running for the weapons locker, then reached for the thigh pocket on her vac suit. She had deviated far from the five articles of faith required of a Khalsa Sikh, cutting her hair and eschewing a turban to meet the requirements of Navy service. She wore the Kirpan and Kara, though, and she'd remembered to move the small dagger to a pocket on her suit.

She drew out her kirpan now. The corvette had low ceilings, and she had no trouble reaching the alien ball. She stabbed upward. The kirpan had a steel blade as long as the palm of her hand, and she kept it as sharp as a scalpel. The point hit the metal ball and skidded sideways, though, doing no damage.

"Fine," she grunted. "We'll do it the hard way." She unsealed her right glove, dropped it to the deck, and slipped the kara from her wrist. The silver bracelet was far more than personal decoration. She gripped it, holding the metal circle in her fist like a knuckle duster. She punched upward, slamming the bracelet against the metal shell of the intruder.

Again and again she struck. After five blows that jarred her shoulder and rattled her teeth a crack appeared in the case of the alien ball. Kaur pressed the tip of her kirpan against the crack, then hammered the end of the handle with the heel of her other hand. It hurt, but she ignored the pain, hitting the knife repeatedly until suddenly the blade slid a finger's width into the case. The next blow drove the blade deeper. A final blow drove the blade in hilt-deep, and light flashed bright inside the case.

Kaur blinked, seeing a blue-white line on her eyelids, then stepped back as the ball dropped to the deck plates in front of her. It was more like a turtle than a ball, she saw. The upper surface was flat, with half a dozen metal limbs that ended in saws and probes and tapered drills. It lay on the deck, unmoving.

She saw only darkness in the exposed hole in the ceiling. She would have to get a technical team to examine the damage in detail, but it would keep until after the battle.

Several seconds had passed since the last sharp course adjustment, and she bent her legs unconsciously, preparing for the next twist. When nothing happened she maintained her crouch for a moment, then straightened up, alarmed.

The
Achilles
was flying straight.

Shoving the bracelet back onto her wrist, she left his knife in the alien machine as she snatched up her glove and hurried back to the bridge. A quick glance told her nothing too serious was wrong. The atmosphere on the bridge was one of excited relief. She said, "Status?"

"We're good, Sir," Samson said. "We've had a reprieve." He made a gesture to the helmsman and the corvette swung gently sideways.

At first all Kaur saw was the
Tomahawk
. The other corvette looked rough, with dark lines of shadow where hull plates had warped and pulled loose at the edges. She was motionless relative to the
Achilles
, drifting along above Ariadne, which filled the sky behind her.

It took a moment for her to spot the alien ship, or most of it. A massive chunk of wreckage trailed fire as it plunged deeper and ever deeper into the atmosphere of Ariadne.

"A handful of little ships escaped," Samson said. "The colonists got most of them, though."

Kaur blinked. "The colonists?"

"Yes, Sir. They fired some kind of surface weapon. I think it's that tower Lieutenant Nicholson was trying to destroy." Samson beamed. "Lucky for us he didn't make a very good job of it."

Kaur shook her head. "They hit the alien ship from the surface?"

"Twice," said Samson. "The first shot crippled it. Burned a hole right through. It took a minute for the other ships to break away. But a great big chunk finally separated, and it started to rise. That's when they fired the second time." He flashed a wide smile. "Hit it dead center. It was brilliant."

"Really," said Kaur. "Outstanding." She walked over to her chair and sat. "I guess we better go down there and ask them how they did it."

Hammett trudged down the ramp from the
Tomahawk
and onto the tarmac of the Harlequin spaceport, limp with the exhaustion that often came in the aftermath of battle. He hadn't done anything physically demanding, but he felt as if he'd been through a triathlon. There was still much to do – the ship had to be diagnosed and repaired – but first there was time enough to rest.

Not, apparently, in the opinion of the EDF. Colonel O'Hare came stalking across the tarmac toward him, bristling with indignation. Major Swanson trailed along behind him, looking almost comically sad. O'Hare started haranguing Hammett before he was properly in earshot, spewing a furious diatribe that reached Hammett's ears as an indistinct, angry mumble.

"… No right … authority … court-martial!" The colonel fell silent, saving his breath for the chore of stomping his way across the landing field. He stopped at last in front of Hammett, tomato-faced, all but vibrating with indignation. "Well?" he said at last. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

I should be worried about this. He's my commanding officer. He wields a frightening amount of power. I should take him seriously. I should at least try. Oh, to hell with it.
Hammett shrugged. "I don't think I understand the question, Colonel."

O'Hare's eyes narrowed. He started to speak, then paused, considering his words. "You undermined my authority. You were …" He hesitated, searching for the word he wanted. "Insubordinate."

Of course I'm insubordinate, you ridiculous man.
Hammett lifted his eyebrows. "Insubordinate, Colonel? What do you mean?"

"You flew into combat without your commanding officer, and you ordered Kaur to take off without me."

Hammett lifted his hands. "I was unable to persuade the Hive ships to wait, Colonel."

O'Hare's face scrunched up into an angry snarl. He was shorter than Hammett – the top of his head just reached the bridge of Hammett's nose – and he rose onto his toes as he leaned forward, lifting a thick forefinger to jab at Hammett's chest. "It stops here, Hammett." The jabbing finger didn't quite touch the front of Hammett's vac suit. "You're not launching again without Major Swanson on board. Not under any circumstances. Is that clear?"

Hammett kept his voice mild. "It's clear, Colonel."

"I don't want Kaur launching either. Don't give her any orders to the contrary."

"All right, Colonel."

O'Hare stared at him, then grunted and turned toward the
Achilles
, which was just touching down.

Swanson started to follow, then hesitated. He gave Hammett a sheepish, apologetic look, took another step after O'Hare, then stopped. Finally he looked at Hammett and said, "Er, do you know when you're launching again, Captain?"

"When you tell me to, I guess," Hammett said sourly. Swanson gave him a look of such distress that he relented. "I have no plans to launch again until the aliens return, Major. The ship took some damage up there. I have to repair that first. Then I guess I'll wait to see what you and Colonel O'Hare want to do."

Swanson said, "Was anyone hurt?" He looked genuinely concerned, too.

It was an obvious question, the least you could expect from any sort of decent human being in the aftermath of combat, but Hammett found himself strangely touched. It was more than he'd get from O'Hare. "No," he said. "No one was hurt this time. Thanks for asking."

"Well, that's a relief. Goodness, Captain, you look exhausted! Don't let me keep you. Just keep me posted as best you can." He tilted his head for a moment. "You've lost your implants, right? You can usually find me in the terminal building. If I'm not there, I'm probably around the spaceport."

"Very well, Major." Hammett started to move past him.

"Captain?"

Hammett stopped.

"I know it's unlikely, but if I can be of any help, you must let me know." He nodded in the direction of O'Hare, who was loudly berating Kaur in the distance. "We're not all tyrants and bullies."

"Thank you, Major." Hammett was surprised to discover he meant it.

"Carry on, Captain."

Hammett went on to the terminal building, a handful of bridge crew trailing along behind him. The building had been hastily repaired, with a vast sheet of polymer so thin it was translucent stretched tight over the hole in the roof and then sprayed with hardener. The edges of the sheet stretched halfway down the walls on two sides, partially covering the windows, and stakes and guy wires jutted from flower beds.

Inside, some of the rubble had been cleared away. Some of it had simply been shoved into one corner. A handful of offices were undamaged and had been taken over by the EDF, then abandoned when most of the EDF had returned to Earth. Now O'Hare and Swanson had an office each, and another office served as a meeting room.

More important to Hammett, the terminal had a locker room that was largely intact. He stripped off his vac suit, washed his face, and wished he'd had the foresight to bring a clean uniform. He plodded out to the main arrivals hall, which had become something of an informal lounge.

Empty vending machines lined one wall. To replace them, colonists had filled baskets with fruit and lined them up on a couple of tables. Hammett grabbed himself an apple and a pear and sank into a padded seat under the sagging polymer roof. The only light was whatever sunlight made it through the roof covering. He told himself it wasn't gloomy. It was more like sitting under a shady tree back on Earth. At any rate, there was no one shooting at him and no one yelling at him. He could relax, at least for a short time.

"Hello, Captain." Hayat Sanjari sat down beside him. She'd scrounged up a plate and a knife from somewhere, and she started peeling a mango. Juice pooled on the plate. "You know, it's amazing the variety of produce they can grow here." She gestured from the mango to the apple in Hammett's hand. "I don't think these grow in the same climate zone, back home."

"I'm a sailor," he said, "not a farmer. I wouldn't know."

Sanjari, busy scraping mango flesh from a strip of peel with her teeth, didn't answer.

They spent a minute eating. He finished the apple, added the core to the growing pile of mango peel on her plate, and accepted a slice of mango from her. "Oh, this is good."

She nodded. "I'm starting to really like this planet." She took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. "I've been talking to Geibelhaus. He did a quick triage of the damage. He says there's three categories: Things we can ignore, things we have to fix and can fix here, and things we'll have to put up with because they need full space dock facilities." She paused. "Do you mind me talking shop, Sir?"

"No, it's fine. Go on."

"Well, he says we're technically spaceworthy, but there are some twisted hull plates that make us vulnerable. It would be prudent to deal with those. That's anywhere from a day's work to a week, depending on local facilities. It'll help if they'll contribute some labor, too. Oh, it wouldn't hurt to ask them to manufacture us some ballistic rounds. We went through quite a bit of ammunition. If they had the capacity to manufacture explosive rounds, those would be most welcome as well. They aren't essential, though."

Hammett nodded.

"Aside from that, a lot of wiring that ran close to the hull needs to be replaced. That's about it. Geibelhaus says the bones of the ship are intact. She'll look pretty ugly until we can get new hull plates. But she's in good shape."

"That's good," he said, and added the core of his pear to her plate.

Sanjari glanced around, then lowered her voice. "Have you heard about the
Theseus
, Sir?"

Hammett lowered his own voice as well. "What's the
Theseus
?"

"It seems the colonists have a ship of their own. And they're rigging her for war."

He blinked, startled. "They're doing what, now?"

She grinned. "That scientist lady? The one they call the mad scientist?"

"Goldfarb," he said. "Rumor has it she's the one who saved our bacon today, with the alien gun."

"That's the one," Sanjari agreed. "Her specialty is apparently heat shielding. She's got this cargo ship called the
Theseus
, and she's covering it in some kind of heat-proof hull plates." When he gave her a skeptical look she shrugged. "That's what the rumor mill says. And when has the rumor mill ever been wrong?"

That made him laugh out loud.

"Anyway, word is they're trying to figure out how to put guns on her."

"I see," said Hammett. "Just one question."

"What's that, Sir?"

"Why are we practically whispering?"

She glanced around the room one more time before replying. "The colonists aren't too keen on telling the EDF they've got a warship. Well, kind of a warship. When it's done." She shrugged. "They've heard some of the stories from Earth. They're scared the EDF will order the
Theseus
to Earth or Deirdre or something. They'll build it and the EDF will take it away, and they'll be helpless when the Hive comes back."

Hammett was silent for a moment. At last he said, "I wish I could say it was a ridiculous concern."

Sanjari nodded ruefully. She looked straight ahead, then stiffened and said, "Let's talk about something else."

Hammett followed the direction of her gaze. In the terminal's front windows he could see a black and red reflection moving toward his seat. He sighed, thought about standing and hurrying away, and decided it would be unseemly.

"Hammett." It was O'Hare, sounding as charming as usual. "My office. Now." He stomped off.

Sanjari muttered something Hammett couldn’t understand. When he looked at her she flushed and said, "That was in Telugu, Sir. Please don't ask me to translate."

"I think I got the gist of it." He stood. "Thank you for the mango, Specialist."

Kaur and Swanson were already waiting when he entered the office. O'Hare stood behind a wide, scuffed desk. "Sit," he barked, and lowered himself into a squeaking chair. "The Gate is destroyed. You can both forget about going back to Earth any time soon. You won't have the opportunity to shirk your duty."

Hammett and Kaur exchanged glances.

O'Hare said, "I want to know the status of both corvettes."

"The
Tomahawk
can't be flown," Hammett lied promptly. "She's got a bunch of heat-buckled hull plates. They've got to be removed, straightened, and put back on. It'll take at least a week."

"An enemy weapon penetrated our hull," Kaur said. "I want to take apart the upper hull and see what damage it did. I want to make sure there are no remnants of the weapon, either."

"How long will that take?"

Kaur spread her hands. "It's hard to say, Sir. At least three days. We have to completely dismantle a section of hull. Everything's connected to everything else in that area. It's going to be a big job."

"Nonsense." O'Hare pursed his lips. "You returned from the battle and landed the ship without any problems."

"Yes, but-"

"You're making excuses!" O'Hare slapped the desktop for emphasis. "I won't stand for it! I spoke to your man Schwartz. He tells me that, as far as he knows, there's a hole in the hull plate and no other significant damage. He says you can weld a patch over the hole and the ship will be ready to fly."

"There was an alien machine burrowing into the ship," Kaur said doggedly. "I don't even know what it was trying to accomplish. It would be grossly irresponsible to launch the ship again until we know for sure what it did."

"You destroyed the alien machine," O'Hare said. "Don't deny it."

Kaur stared at him, silent.

"Aside from the hole in the hull, what's the status of the
Achilles
?"

"The
Achilles
is shipshape, Sir," Kaur said. "That means she's good to fly."

"I know what it means," O'Hare snapped. "I don't want to hear any more nonsense about three days of repairs, is that clear?"

Kaur stared at him for a long, silent moment. At last she said, "We're loading ammunition right now. Aside from that, if we could have a few hours' notice before we depart on any long trips, it will allow us to stock up on fresh produce."

"Here's your notice," O'Hare said. "The
Achilles
will be leaving for Deirdre tomorrow morning at oh-eight-hundred." His eyes slid to one side, checking the time on his implants. "That's Greenwich Mean Time. It's seventeen fifteen now, by the way, since both of you have managed to damage your implants." He made it sound like negligence on their parts. "Nothing will delay our departure. Nothing but my absence." He gave Kaur an ugly look. "You won't be leaving without me again. Is that clear?"

Kaur nodded. "It's clear, Sir. But I need more time to investigate-"

"You launch tomorrow, Commander. Understood?" When neither officer spoke he said, "Good. Now go take care of your ships. You're dismissed."

They left the office, and Kaur led the way to a quiet corner of the arrivals lounge. She turned on Hammett and said, "All right, Captain. What gives?"