Troy Rising 2 - Citadel (16 page)

“And fifty-three passengers,” Rammer said then paused. “Whoa.”

The news had finally gotten a shot of the pilot of the “Comet” delivery into the main bay. And instead of her “official” bio shot, it was from Dana's high-school year book.

“Whoa is right,” PFC Lasswell said. “And oooo-rah! Uh . . . I wonder how we get access to the flight deck.”

“We don't even ask,” Rammer said. “Don't even think about hitting on our cox, Lassie. Down!”

“Lance Corporal
.
.
.
uh . . .”

“Call me Rammer, EM,” LCP Ramage commed.

“We're approaching our search grid and there are about a thousand distress beacons. Be prepared to get to work.”

“Roger, EM,” Rammer commed, cycling a charge into his laser. “We're about to have company.”

There was a clang on the hull of the boat and Lasswell jumped.

“What was that?”

“Debris,” Rammer said. “When you hear that, you know we're about to get to work.”

“Commodore, we have an issue,” Colonel Raymond Helberg said.

The Troy's Chief of Operations was part of the “multinational” group, a British Army colonel whose experience prior to Troy was mostly logistics and base operations. He'd gotten the job due in part to just being damned good but more because he'd spent a year “cross-training” on logistics in the off-shore drilling industry. Since taking the assignment on the Troy he'd found the differences outweighed the similarities. Such as the current issue.

“Go,” Commodore Kurt Pounders said. “Or, rather, which issue.”

Pounders was the Chief of Staff of the Troy. He had once considered being the Karl Vinson's commander a complicated job.

“We don't have the ET brig installed, yet,” Colonel Helberg said. “Based on the distress beacons, we're about to have six or seven thousand prisoners. Which we cannot even feed since they don't eat Earth food.”

“And we solve that how?” the commodore asked.

“Put them on one of their ships,” Colonel Helberg said. “There's a battlecruiser that the survey team says is habitable. What's left. It broke in half in the battle so there's no drive. They're going to have to strip off the guns and missiles but the crew quarters can be sealed off from that area while they are working. Environmental for that area is working.”

“Approved,” the commodore said. “Make sure there's a good sized Marine detachment as guards until they get the weapons off. Strip it of everything but environmental.”

“Will do.”

“There's a lot of debris, Thermal,” Dana said.

Their search area was around one of the Horvath made battle cruisers. It didn't seem to have suffered much damage but there was still so much chaff in area it was like flying through a minefield. Bits and pieces of the ship had been blasted off and there were chunks of armor, support beams and less identifiable objects everywhere.

The whole space around the gate was filled with drifting objects. The largest were the ships that seemed whole like the one that was their target. There were, for that matter, two Rangora battleships in view that seemed more or less intact. Being that close to an apparently functioning battleship in a cockleshell like the Myrmidon . . . was probably a lot like what the battleships felt up against Troy.

There were far more that were in pieces. And bits. And fluff. It was insane. Flying into the main bay had been a piece of cake compared to this. There was no way to miss hitting debris and some of it had vectors high enough that they could puncture the shuttle's armored hull.

“Just take it slow, Comet,” Hartwell said. “Distress beacon at three-three-five mark minus six.”

“Got it,” Dana said, closing with the Horvath evacuation pod. “No chance I can just blast it out of space?”

“Didn't figure you for the bloodlust type, Comet,” Hartwell said.

“I'm from Anaheim, EM,” Dana said. “Remember?”

“Oh. Then, no, we don't get to blast them out of space, EN. Just close to dock.”

“Roger, Thermal,” Dana said, flexing her jaw. It had been a long day.

“Je-jay!” Rammer said, gesturing for the three Horvath to climb out of the escape pod. “Je-jay!”

The docking clamps of all the local ships that were used by more or less Terran sized sophonts were identical. The original design dated from before the Glatun and just keeping the standard design made things easier.

It certainly made securing prisoners easier.

The Horvath came clambering out of the pod, their hand-tentacles on their helmets.

“They really do look like squids, don't they?” Lasswell said, gesturing with his rifle for the threesome to move to the back of the cargo bay. There weren't any seats installed so the Horvath huddled against the back bulkhead.

The extraterrestrials had six tentacles instead of eight with four used for locomotion and two as “hands.” But other than that, they looked very much like terrestrial squids.

“Yeah,” Rammer said, securing the hatch. “EM, we are clear. Next customer.”

“Roger, Rammer.”

“EM, unless you want us to start stacking, we'd better head to the barn,” Rammer commed two hours later. The cargo bay was solid with Horvath. A couple had been carrying laser pistols when the shuttle docked. They'd also carefully handed them over to the Marines.

The Horvath were didactic and dictatory when they were in positions of power. But Rammer had been a prisoner collector for the last encounter with Earth's former overlords and he'd found them to be incredibly docile when a laser rifle was in their face. Even the officers. He'd been told they weren't really officers but that was their position basically. They just bunched up in a group and sort of stroked each other. It was pathetic, really.

“Understood,” the EM replied. “We're transferring them to one of their ships that's sort of intact. We don't have quarters for them on the Troy.”

“Roger,” Rammer commed. “What the frack ever, dude,” he added after cutting the circuit.

“We're full up, Dana,” Thermal said.

“They look so . . .” Dana said, spinning the shuttle around and heading for the Rangora battlecruiser that was being used as a temporary brig. The ship was trashed. She couldn't believe there were habitable areas on it but that was the destination.

“Paris,” Dana said. “I need a vector for prisoner transfer.”

“Roger, Three-Six,” Paris said. “Stand by. You have shuttles in front of you.”

And there were. Dana had seen the 142 lined up on the shuttle bay but seeing most of the squadron scattered across the debris field around the ship was another thing.

“Three-Six,” Longwood commed. “What's your status?”

“Five by, Command,” Hartwell said.

“Grapnels?”

“Nominal, Command,” Thermal replied.

“We need to clear some of this debris while you're waiting to dock,” Command said. “Take direction from CM Glass.”

“Clear debris, aye,” Thermal replied.

“See the marked debris?” Mutant commed. “Hull plate. It's on trajectory to get into our operating area. Just grab it and move it out of the way. Carefully, Comet.”

“Move the debris, aye,” Dana said. “Carefully, aye. Okay, EM, how?”

“Going to have to do a snatch,” Thermal said. “I'll put a flying grapnel on it. Stabilize it. Main grapnels. Move it.”

“Okay,” Dana said. “I need a vector.”

“Coming up on your system.”

Clear debris. Pick up prisoners. Drop off prisoners. Clear more debris.

Some of the debris was Horvath. Dana wasn't sure how to feel about that. Hating an enemy with an unknown face was one thing. Seeing a bloated Horvath body, its space-suit ripped open, drifting past your shuttle in the depths of space was another.

“This is going to be fun,” Thermal said. “I've got a suit distress beacon.”

“There are a bunch of those,” Dana said.

“This one says its alive,” Thermal said. “Which we are required to pick up.”

“Absolutely,” Dana said.

“.
.
.
so you're going to have to do a snatch in EVA. Are you EVA rated?”

“I am,” Rammer said. “My co isn't. Is this guy stable?”

“Looks good,” the EM commed. “We're going to do this on readback.”

“Roger, readback,” Rammer said, rolling his eyes.

“Open inner airlock door.”

“Open inner airlock door, aye,” Rammer said, rolling his eyes again.

✺ ✺ ✺

Hanging out of the hatch of the boat, even if you have a safety-line clipped off, trying to grab an enemy prisoner who'd been floating in space for six hours, while debris was whizzing by your face, wasn't Rammer's idea of fun.

“Gung-ho, sir,” Rammer said. “I'm just so fracking gung-ho . . .”

He had to admit it was a great view. Except for the Horvath who was anything but motionless.

“Je-jay!” Rammer commed on the open channel. He wasn't even sure if the Horvath used the same channels. “Je-jay!”

He hot-sticked the flailing suit to adjust the electrical potential between the suit and the boat and managed to get a safety line on a clip point. With that in place he hauled the squirming squid into the airlock.

“Close outer airlock door,” the EM ordered.

“Stand by,” Rammer said, kicking the squid into the corner of the airlock. It didn't seem to be responsive to reason. Or a swift kick for that matter. “Close outer door, aye . . .”

“I think that dude needs whatever the Horvath use for a psych ward,” Lassie said.

The Horvath had popped its helmet as soon as it was in atmosphere but it was still flailing its limbs and squealing like a herd of pigs.

“That sound is getting on my nerves,” Rammer said.

“You're not the only one,” Lasswell pointed out. The other Horvath were notably agitated and were avoiding the flailing prisoner.

“EM, we have a situation in the bay,” Rammer commed.

“Roger, Command,” Hartwell said. “Comet, we have permission to return this group to the brig-ship.”

“RT brig, aye,” Dana said, turning the boat towards the distant big. “I'm not trying to whine, Therm, but any idea how long we're going to have to do this?”

“No idea, Comet,” Hartwell said. “Until we get orders to discontinue. Which will suck for these squids.”

“Sir, we're going to have to start on a rotation schedule,” CM1 Glass said. “My coxswains are going to start making serious mistakes pretty soon.”

“Confirm,” LCM Martin said. “I was just talking to squadron about that. Come up with a cycle.”

“I'd especially like to get Comet back to the bay, sir,” Glass said. “She and Thermal have been having one hell of a day.”

“That's a definite confirm.”

“Je-jay!” Rammer said over his suit speakers. One of the Horvath had squirmed out of the group grope and was moving over to the prisoner.

“Damaged,” the Horvath speaker said. “Care.”

“Je-jay!” Rammer said, gesturing with his rifle. “Back. EM, ETA on getting to the brig?”

“Thirty minutes,” the EM commed.

“I need a link to my command,” Rammer said.

“Roger.”

“Rammer, Pridgeon, go.”

“We have a POW who was Dutchman, Staff Sergeant,” Rammer commed. “It's apparently insane. One of the other POWs, officer by the rank tabs, wants to administer care.”

“Roger, stand by.”

There was a few moments pause and SSGT Pridgeon came back.

“ETA to the Brig?”

“Thirty minutes, min.”

“Roger. Allow care.”

“Allow care, aye,” Rammer said, lifting his rifle. “Go ahead,” he said, gesturing to the flailing prisoner.

The Horvath officer squirmed over to the former Dutchman and stuck a tentacle into its head. The flailing stopped.

“Holy hell!” Rammer said, stepping over and kicking the officer away. The one absolute requirement of taking prisoners was that you kept them safe. It was drilled over and over again and any prisoner that died while in custody could be considered murder on the part of the custodians. The chief custodian being one Lance Corporal Andrew Neil Ramage. “Cover it!”

“Got it,” Lassie said, lifting his rifle. “Je-jay!”

“Dammit!” Rammer said, checking the suit telltales. “It's dead! Staff Sergeant . . .”

“What the hell happened?” Pridgeon said as the last, live, prisoner exited the shuttle.

“That bastard stuck his tentacle into some spot and killed it!” Rammer said, pointing to the Horvath officer. “It said it wanted to administer care! It's on video and audio, Staff. That's what it said. ‘Damaged. Care.' Just that. And then it fricking killed it!”

“God,” Pridgeon said. “We're going to be writing reports for ever! Get the damned body.”

“It just killed it,” Hartwell said, playing the clip again. “Just put it down like a dog.”

“Are we going to get in hot water?” Dana asked. Somehow, again, seeing one of the Horvath who had killed her father, and by extension her mother, killed in front of her eyes wasn't particularly satisfying.

“Don't see why,” Hartwell said. “I mean, we'll probably be called to the inquiry. But we just drive the truck. The jarheads are the ones in hot water. And looking at the vid and audio I don't see where they could have known.”

“Thirty-Six,” CM Glass commed. “RTB for crew rest.”

“Uh . . .” Dana said. “You were saying?”

It certainly sounded like they were being pulled off for the prisoner incident.

“RTB, aye,” Hartwell said, rolling his eyes. “Rammer, we're RTB. All aboard who're going aboard.”

“Stand by, EM,” Rammer commed. “We're getting a confirm. Aye, EM, boarding.”

“And we have containment,” Thermal said. “RTB, Comet.”

“RTB, aye.”

“And we have good seal,” Thermal said. “Shutting down. And we made it back into the bay without hitting anything!”

“EM, permission to pop my helmet in the shuttle?” Dana said, ignoring the jibe.

“Permission granted, Comet,” Hartwell said.

“I need a bath,” Dana said, climbing out of her seat and heading to the hatch. “I need to soak in hot water for about two d . . . Hello.”

“Uh, hi,” the Marine said. “I'm, uh, Rammer. Lance Corporal Ramage. This here's Lassie. PFC Lasswell.”

“EN Parker,” Dana said, nodding.

“Right, uh,” LCP Ramage said. “We, uh, just wanted to say that we appreciate the smooth ride.”

“You're welcome?” Dana said.