Three Against the Stars (11 page)

“…condition of your ground and space vehicles…out-dated…”

Back on Rhajnara, it was a hot day choking under a blazing sun beating down upon the planet. The oxygen-rich atmosphere was heavy with humidity. Storm clouds moved in, casting long shadows but doing little to alleviate the heat.

A taxi pulled up and stopped outside Colonel Dakota’s quarters. Lord Taluro Chanori stood with the colonel and Major Helm as Cooper Preston emerged from the cab, weighed down by his luggage. The cab turned around and quietly drove off.

“Welcome to Camp Corregidor, Mister Preston,” Colonel Dakota said, holding out her hand. “How was the trip from Earth?”

Preston fumbled with his luggage and shook hands with Dakota and Major Helm. “Just fine, Colonel. Thanks,” he said. “Major Helm, your family is well and sends their love.”

“Thank you, Mister Preston,” he said. “I appreciate that.”

“Mister Preston, I’d like you to meet Lord Taluro Chanori, the Rhajni Minister of Defense and second in command to Lord Chancellor Ginjua,” Dakota said.

Chanori and Preston exchanged bows.

“An honor to meet you, Lord Chanori,” Preston said. “May you live a thousand years.”

“And may you live long enough to attend my funeral,” Chanori replied.

Preston looked around, watching the ground crews servicing space-worn Comanche AEVs, battered tanks and halftracks, and other ground vehicles. His mouth hung open in astonishment. This was his first visit to an outworld Marine base.

“Forgive me, Colonel Dakota,” he said. “But I’m surprised by the . . . condition of your ground and space vehicles. This is more out-dated than I’d been led to believe.”

“Then perhaps you can help us win better funding and more appropriations,” said Helm. “We need new gear—from vehicles and weaponry, to communications and uniforms.”

“Still no word on a starship strictly for the Corps?” Preston asked.

“No, Mister Preston. What you see is all Company E gets—two squadrons of Comanche assault craft, a few rusty transports, and of course, the
Iwo Jima
,” Dakota told him.

Chanori’s ear bent forward with curiosity. “You were not aware that the Marine Corps have no intergalactic vessels of their own, Mister Preston?”

“Well, sir. I’m a civilian journalist. I’ve heard all the talk and gossip. But sometimes even we journalists don’t get the entire scoop.”

“The United Space Marines must rely on the good graces of the Imperial Fleet for transport from galaxy to galaxy,” Major Helm explained.

“I guess some things never change,” Preston said. He struggled with his luggage. Chanori took the briefcase from him. “Thank you, my lord.”

“So you came here to write a story, Cooper Preston?” Chanori asked him.

“Yes, Lord Chanori,” Preston replied. “I’m also here to marry my fiancée.”

Chapter Eleven

To Acheron and Back

T
he two blazing suns of the Kamali star system hammered the desert planet of Acheron without mercy. The mining camp was a ghost town populated by dust-devils and tumbletherns. Hot winds howled in the silence and swept the deserted streets. Not even the small, indigenous lifeforms that would normally be scurrying about for cover were hanging around.

From a cave high in the hills overlooking the camp, Kriff and Tikrow watched the Comanche AEV touch down on the airstrip. Vash and Snark had already returned to the
Dark Star
aboard one of the Lavarian shuttles; the other shuttle was hidden at the bottom of a canyon beyond the mountains. With Kriff and the Warclaw were two Khandra panthermen armed with zapguns and curved, serrated daggers.

One pantherman held his weapon against the side of Tikrow’s head. The Warclaw was on his knees, paws tied behind his back.

Kriff watched the Marines disembark and set out on their mission. He licked his chops at the thought of the many things that would soon happen.

“The polarite has been loaded, Kriff—we should have been on our way to the Cholo Sector by now,” Tikrow said. “Our warriors will never let you get away with this.”

“The warriors chosen for this mission are loyal to
me
—not you, Warclaw,” Kriff said. “They obey
my
orders, not yours.”

“Why are you doing this?” Tikrow demanded.

“You’ve become a threat to me and to everything I hope to accomplish,” Kriff replied.

“But why do you deliberately provoke a war when we aren’t yet ready?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Do you realize what you’ve done, you fool? You’ve ruined everything!” 

“Not for me, I haven’t,” Kriff said arrogantly. He stuffed a rag in the Warclaw’s mouth, and then he and his henchcats headed toward the camp’s airstrip, dragging Tikrow behind them.

Two young Marines guarded the Comanche AEV, which stood parked next to the camp’s abandoned freighters and other transports. While Kriff and Tikrow stayed back and watched, the panthermen crept up on the gunship and slit the throats of the Marines. Then one of the warriors attached a small device to the hull of the AEV.

“Have a nice flight, Tikrow.” Kriff’s upper lip curled to reveal his sharp teeth. “Put him inside the ship,” he told the panthermen.

Tikrow’s eyes went wide with fear and disbelief. He shook his head and struggled in vain as the Khandra warriors dragged him inside the Comanche.

When his warriors returned, Kriff nodded to them. “Let’s go,” he said.

444

Akira frowned as she, O’Hara, Cortez and the other Marines cautiously made their way down the main street of the seemingly lifeless mining community. She could feel it in the hot air . . . a wisp of something wrong, very wrong.

Captain Branch ordered Pretty Boy and Fatty to take point. The rest of the lasernecks were split into two units so they could patrol both sides of the wide street. Makki and two other corpsmen brought up the rear with Corporals Baim and DeVito.

Akira fell back to join them. “You okay?” she asked Makki.

“This one very much likes the heat of this planet,” he replied.

As soon as the Marines approached the main complex, they noticed that the doors were standing wide open. The faint hum of electronic instruments echoed from inside the building.

Pretty Boy suddenly pointed and shook his head. “Merciful Heaven!”

“Corpsman!” Ransford called out.

Hundreds of bodies had been laid out in a circle in the middle of the street, not far from the complex. Akira and the other Marines rushed forward. The corpsmen followed.

O’Hara gritted his teeth and made the Sign of the Cross. “By all that’s holy!”

“It looks like they were put on display just for us,” Levine said.

The Marines stared in horror. Tough as they were, Monster gagged and Blondie turned away. Baim closed her eyes and lowered her head. DeVito mumbled a curse.

Akira studied an old Rhajni male buried to his waist in the center of the circle of bodies. His fur had been burned away, his flesh scorched black.

“This one was singled out for special consideration,” she said.

“But why?” Baim wanted to know.

Makki and the other corpsmen examined the bodies. “They are all dead!” he said.

“Si,”
Cortez said. “All we can do is to give these poor souls a proper burial.”

“Levine!” Captain Branch shouted.

“Yes, Captain?” the lieutenant replied, his Questron transmitter slung over a shoulder.

“Signal Comanche Two. Tell them I want their butts down here as of yesterday!”

While Levine powered up his subspace communicator, Branch ordered the troops to fan out and form a defensive perimeter.

“Red Dog One to Bulldog Two,” Levine spoke into the radio. “Come in, Bulldog Two.”

Kneeling beside the body of an elderly Rhajni woman, Makki bowed his head and began to shake. Tears dripped from his eyes and matted the fur on his face.

“Makki, what’s wrong?” Akira asked. “What’s the matter?”

“No! No!” he wailed. “This one was told she had died in death camp!”

Akira grabbed Makki and hauled him to his feet. “Who is this woman?”

Makki looked at her, weeping almost uncontrollably.
“Mother!”
he screamed.

Three scorching blue bolts fired from zapguns shattered the desert quietude—and took out Branch, Monster, and Blondie.

“Kiss dirt, you Neanderthals!” Sergeant Ransford yelled.

The Marines hit the ground as a storm of green tracers and violet bolts chewed up the street, sending dust, grit and chips of concrete buzzing through the air.

On the airstrip behind the Marines, Comanche One exploded in a rain of flaming metal.

Then a number of Khandra snipers—cheetahmen and leopardmen hiding on rooftops along the main street—opened fire as squads of panthermen and tigermen rushed from the hills to attack the platoon. Marines fell screaming, their bodies riddled by zapper bolts.

Pinned down by the enemy’s ambush, the lasernecks fired back.

Baim, DeVito and Tattoo Annie smeared the enemy troops with Eddy machine gun fire. Sergeant Ransford burned holes in Khandra warriors with her M-16. The air sizzled with the flash of lasers and electrified bullets. Khandra warriors howled and died horribly as cougarmen and jaguarmen rushed forward behind a defensive wave of tazer, blaster, and zapgun fire.

“Fall back! Fall back!” Ransford shouted.

“Inside the complex—now!” Akira yelled over the noise of her machine gun as it spat yellow bursts of electric death faster than a bookie can calculate odds. She grabbed Makki’s shoulder and shook him. “Sorry, Corpsman—but you have a job to do!”

Makki nodded, wiped his tears and rushed off to assist the other corpsmen.

The Marines quickly retreated toward the main complex.

Fatty Russo and Pretty Boy Steele burned scores of Khandra warriors with hot laser fire as they covered their platoon’s retreat. Cortez, Horseface Jenkins and Skinny Jones incinerated the enemy with a barrage of deadly red beams from their own M-16s. Nervous Ned and Tommy Barnes covered the retreating Marines with a fiery hail of laser blasts. O’Hara, wearing a scowl on his face, fired his Primo-2000.

The street erupted in a series of explosions that sent Khandra storm troopers flying through the air like so many broken dolls.

“For the love of God,” O’Hara yelled. “Move your sorry butts, you space jockeys!”

Five Marines went down under a barrage of enemy fire as they raced toward the complex.

Akira and Cortez sprayed the Khandra with a blistering salvo of laser and machine gun blasts. Makki and the other corpsmen dragged wounded Marines toward the complex. Blip Levine toppled over—cut to pieces by enemy fire. Horseface knelt over Levine’s body and screamed urgently into the Questron transmitter. Violet blaster bolts whizzed all around him.

“Bulldog Two! Mayday! May—”

Horseface never finished the call as a green tracer burned a gaping hole in his face.

In front of the main complex, O’Hara covered the doors, firing his Primo as the last of the Marines took shelter inside the building. The Khandra surged toward the building, a juggernaut of flesh and fur, blood and bone. O’Hara blasted them into atoms. His fire team backed into the building, their weapons blazing and smoking as they retreated.

Makki huddled low as he dashed across the battleground, carrying a wounded Marine.

“Come on, Makki!” O’Hara shouted. “Move them paws!”

Needles of blazing energy scorched the ground and the face of the building as Makki delivered the wounded Marine into the safety of the main complex.

Akira and Cortex reached the doors and joined O’Hara.

“After you, Cortez,” she said, her Eddy machine gun singing a lethal song.

Cortez hit the Khandra with a shower of laser beams. “Ladies first,” he told her.

“Get inside, you idiots!” O’Hara growled, drawing his .45 automatic and trading shots with the Khandra, alternating between the Primo and the sidearm. “And get everyone up to the roof so we can shove off this rock when C-2 finally decides to show up.”

The last of the Marines raced inside the complex, carrying the dead and wounded with them. Cortez, O’Hara and Akira then ducked inside the building. She found the control panel and slammed it with the palm of one hand. The doors slid shut with a clang. Sounds of battle echoed outside the complex as the Marines raced up a flight of stairs leading to the roof.

“Those are Rhajni out there armed with Drakonian weapons!” Cortez said.

“Frag that! Where’s Comanche Two?” Akira asked.

O’Hara spat on the floor. “Don’t wet your knickers, lass. Let’s move!”

An explosion shattered the windows and showered them with broken glass and flying debris. That was all the prompting they needed. Akira and Cortez ran for the stairs and took the steps three at a time. Outside, the enemy continued to batter away at the entrance. Blue zapgun bolts and green tracers burst against the closed doors.

O’Hara holstered his sidearm and took a quick peek through a broken window.

On the main street, the Khandra continued firing and advancing on the complex. They took cover behind land vehicles, metal crates, refuse bins, mining equipment—anything they could find. Their weapons blazed in the hot sun.

O’Hara cursed and punched the emergency lock-down button. He grinned with satisfaction as thick metal shades rolled into position, taking the place of the shattered windows.

444

On the roof of the complex, the Marines took cover behind a four-foot parapet and traded shots with the Khandra. Corpsmen tended to wounded and dying Marines. A sudden lull in the battle gave the lasernecks a chance to reload and recharge their weapons.

Corporal Baim removed her helmet and stroked her Mohawk haircut. “How’s baby?” she asked Fatty Russo, sharing her canteen with him.

“Napping,” he replied, stroking his M-16. “But I’ll wake her up when it’s time to play.”

Akira looked around for Makki, but he was nowhere to be seen. “Hey—has anyone seen Makki?” she asked. Her maternal instincts kicked in, and she began to fret.

“If that furball gets himself killed, I’ll murder him!” O’Hara said.

A moment later, Makki emerged from the stairwell hatch carrying two Whistler Bombs—powerful explosive devices that looked like flashlights. He had to duck as he raced across the roof when a sudden hail storm of blaster and tazer fire targeted him.

“Amigo!”
Cortez shouted to Makki. “Get your head down before you lose it!”

“Good Lord,” Akira said. She closed her eyes, refusing to watch.

The Marines opened fire on the enemy.

Makki tucked in his chin, ducked even lower, and reached his three friends. He wiped more tears from his eyes and showed them the Whistler Bombs.

“This one hurried back downstairs to grab these,” he said.

The Irishman scowled at Makki. “If you ever pull a stunt like that again—I’ll have you spayed and declawed!”

“What are you going to do with those bombs?” Akira asked Makki.

He snarled angrily. “Kill many foes,” he growled.

“Gimme them things before you set ‘em off and send us all through a time warp,” O’Hara said, taking the bombs from Makki.

The lull in battle continued as the enemy regrouped in the street below, still taking shelter wherever they could find it. Makki went to see if the other corpsmen needed help, but rejoined his companions a few minutes later. Akira dragged him off to a corner where they could have some privacy. She had a few questions she wanted answered.

Makki sat huddled below the parapet, his face wearing a mask of rage while his eyes dripped tears of grief. Akira offered him a drink from her canteen.

“Was that your mother back there?” she asked softly. “Was that her body?”

With a quick nod, Makki composed himself, wiping his eyes on the back of a paw. “Yes,” he said. “This mewling never forgot her face.”