1: PIRATE NEST
GNS Callaghan
The Atliekas
Nine Geminate Navy Marines shot silently through the black, catapulted from a destroyer’s missile tubes with a force no unaugmented human could withstand. Despite the one-hundred-g shove, the catapult added very little to the warriors’ velocity. The ship they’d emerged from was traveling more than nine times that speed. By default, that meant the Marines were, too.
Cocooned safely inside a viscous bath that dampened the catapult’s effects, Boone Brady mentally gritted his teeth and held on during two interminable seconds of agony. The lattice of carbyne nanofloss woven throughout his body might have kept him from turning into a slurry of organic goo, but it didn’t mean the push the GNS Callaghan had imparted was a fun experience.
The filaments of SmartCarbyne embedded throughout his soft tissue and critical organs were tied to an accelerometer inside his head. These automatically hardened when excessive forces were detected, but the material could also be triggered manually—which is what Boone and his team had done prior to launch. The feeling they engendered as they transitioned was maddening; his organs itched, and there was no way he could reach them to scratch.
Behind them, Callaghan continued its deceleration, coming about to keep pace with the Atliekas belt. Rigged for quiet running, the destroyer was a giant shadow, a silent sentinel guarding their six.
Their target was a derelict mining platform, located seventy-five thousand kilometers inside the Atliekas. Currently, it harbored a small band of pirates. If Boone and his teammates had anything to say about it, the station wouldn’t be their home for much longer.
Boone wasn’t worried about detection; the clamshell encasing each squad member was covered in the same material as the stealth drakeskin suit he wore. The carbyne-reinforced suit was made of metamaterials that used transformation optics to guide incident waves around the wearer. The nanoweave was tunable, providing full-spectrum stealth.
Total flight time would be a little over an hour. Boone used that to cycle through his head-up display, keeping one eye on telemetry while reviewing the team’s playbook for the upcoming mission. He felt the clamshell sway as the onboard Synthetic Intelligence rocked him gently to one side to avoid a chunk of ice that had broken free from a nearby rock.
Despite conventional wisdom, asteroid belts weren’t densely packed. Space was vast, even deep inside the Atliekas. The rocks in orbit around Procyon’s main sequence star didn’t require much navigation; the suit’s SI negotiated the path with ease.
As they neared their destination, the squad’s sergeant called out, {Two-minute warning.} The comm channel’s EM burst was localized and low-powered, designed to reach only those flying in tight formation.
The clamshell’s thrusters engaged, delivering a surprisingly gentle deceleration compared to the kick in the pants Boone had experienced at the beginning of the journey. The thrusters were encased in a unique ‘meringue’ spun from aerogels and metal foams. These concealed the bloom that came from heating the propellant gases. The material absorbed all emissions, effectively masking them from detection. As far as the SI running the platform’s automated defenses was concerned, the suits were little more than micrometeorite dust.
Boone’s position in the formation was toward the rear, but that would soon change. For today’s action, he’d be filling the role of overwatch, the rest dividing into fireteams to scour the structure and clean house. The Geminate Navy had a zero-tolerance policy for those who preyed upon honest merchants.
The platform enlarged on Boone’s HUD as the squad neared. They came to a stop relative to one of its maintenance hatches, the location provided by the manufacturer and confirmed by stealth drone the day before.
{Grant. Breach.} At the sergeant’s command, a figure moved forward, breaching canister in one hand.
{Boone.} That single word had Boone slipping behind Grant.
The breaching canister, commonly known as a Bravo Charlie, flashed green as the unit successfully hijacked the control plate governing the airlock. Grant flashed the all-clear hand signal and the hatch opened.
Boone followed him inside, the rest of the squad floating in behind. He snagged one of the built-in handholds at the same time he disengaged thrusters. The platform’s rotation did the rest, orienting him in the ‘down’ direction as centripetal force asserted the equivalent of one-third of a g of artificial gravity on his body. He heard a hiss over his suit’s speakers, the hatch sealing and repressurizing under Grant’s command.
{Power down,} the sergeant ordered.
Despite the fact they were once more in atmosphere, communication would remain nonverbal throughout the mission, the team using the combat network established before leaving Callaghan. The network was courtesy of an evanescent wire embedded in each Marine’s brain. They’d explained to Boone how it worked when it was implanted, but it might have been an alien language for all that he understood it. If it wasn’t a weapon, it was pretty much a black box to him.
Boone pushed his helmet’s visor up, unsealed his clamshell, and slid out of it. The armor landed with a soft clunk against the bulkhead as he laid it alongside the others. From the corner of his eye, he caught the glitter of audio chaff, tiny motes of light flickering in and out of view. The cloud of noise-cancelling nanostructures would attenuate the sound of nine Marines divesting themselves of their outer suits. Too cumbersome for direct action, they would remain in the airlock until the mission was complete.
{Boone, Grant: Recon.}
At the sergeant’s command, Grant stepped forward and applied the Bravo Charlie to the inner hatch. While it worked, both he and Boone donned their balaclavas. The hood was made of the same material as their drakeskin suits, shielding the wearer from view.
Once the inner hatch was bypassed, Grant slid it open a fraction of a centimeter and launched a surveillance microdrone. The two Marines watched the feed as the drone scanned the area.
{Clear,} Grant said, palming the door open.
Boone’s P-SCAR—the Navy’s pulsed, special combat assault rifle—had been secured against his chest during the flight. He brought it around into high-ready and nodded once to Grant. They slipped through, weapons inscribing slow arcs as they swept the corridor. Grant motioned he would go left and for Boone to go right. Boone nodded and turned, disappearing into the shadows of the dimly lit corridor.
The place was a dive. Ransacked, with anything of value long removed. Access plates hung open where wires had been stripped. He ducked beneath broken conduit that hung limply from breaks in the corridor’s ceiling, sidestepped around debris littering the floor.
About all that could be said of its enviro plant was that it had a breathable atmosphere and could generate enough spin to simulate a modicum of gravity. Boone had to modulate his steps to keep from bouncing and hitting the ceiling.
Boone launched a surveillance drone of his own, the tiny machine an advance scout, searching for traps—and warm bodies. He was pretty sure he’d be able to see his breath if he removed his balaclava. His suit’s thermostat was turned up as high as it could go while still remaining stealthed, but that wasn’t saying much. He clenched and unclenched his hand to work more warmth in them and to keep them flexible.
Grant must have thought the same thing. {Let’s bag these assholes and get back home where we can thaw out.}
{Hooahh, brother.}
Half an hour later, he and Grant completed their sweep and reported in.
{Tangos scattered in two main sectors,} Boone said, dropping pins on top of a map he pushed to the combat net. {Five are in this room here, looks like a dining facility. The rest appear to be asleep in their quarters.}
Grant supplied the locations for those.
The sergeant nodded and speared Boone with a look. {Catwalk in place like the specs showed?}
Boone nodded. {Can confirm.}
{All right then. We proceed as planned. Fireteam Bravo will take the D-FAC. Charlie and Delta, round up our sleepers. Boone, you’re Archangel.}
That meant Boone would go high, operating as the squad’s overwatch. Heads nodded and the fireteams formed up. Then nine stealthed figures slipped through the hatch.
The predictive systems of Boone’s drakeskin suit tied into the combat net and pulled the Navy’s IFF transponder code from each of his fellow Marines. The code squawked an ‘identify friend/foe’ signal that outlined each soldier in green on his overlay. Those who’d taken up residence on the platform didn’t have such an advantage; until the moment the fireteams struck, the pirates would remain oblivious to the Marines in their midst.
Boone slowed as he approached the catwalk, eyes tracking up the support beam to the framework above his head. The walkway encircled the platform, suspended from a support truss. Since the platform was built like a donut without the hole, it was the most unobstructed view he’d get of the space. Though Boone’s vision inside the buildings was limited to his optics’ infrared heat maps, he’d easily spot movement anywhere else.
He climbed to the top and settled in, deploying additional surveillance drones—one per fireteam. The small airborne devices jetted ahead of the Marines, advanced scouts that used active sensors to ping the area ahead of the men and women, with blips that cycled on and off too quickly to trigger the platform’s warning system.
Above their heads, Boone did much the same, using his P-SCAR’s reticle to methodically scan each area, in search of IR signatures indicating hidden tangos or unusual structures that might hide traps.
Bravo was closing in on the dining facility when the cluster of pirates split up, two of the five heading straight toward the fireteam.
{Bravo, two tangos coming your way, spinward, first cross corridor on your left.} Boone’s words were measured and calm as he pushed the mental warning to the fireteam. From his position, he could just see the spot where the two groups would intersect.
{Copy.} The sergeant’s voice was curt. {Charlie, Delta: you’re about to lose your element of surprise.}
Boone realized he was right; the moment Bravo engaged the pirates, the rest would be alerted.
His hand tightened around his P-SCAR, the rifle’s barrel braced against the railing of the crosswalk high above their heads. The three Marines he’d just pinged sent back a round of two-clicks for reply. The sergeant was in the lead. Through his reticle, Boone saw the man send a flurry of hand signals to the two Marines with him. They broke apart, heading for the sparse cover a pair of exposed steel trusses would provide, while the sergeant took a knee behind a broken piece of equipment.
{Five seconds… three…two…} Boone’s mental voice was soft as he counted down the time to intercept.
{Eyes!} The sergeant leading the team called out the warning, his P-SCAR tucked into the pocket of his shoulder, the muzzle of his rifle aimed head-high.
The moment the two pirates rounded the corner, the sergeant fired. The P-SCAR’s ‘P’—its pulsed plasma burst—ripped electrons from the air in a laser pulse that lasted a mere quadrillionth of a second, creating an invisible ball of plasma. Another slightly longer pulse followed at its heels, detonating the ball of plasma in a combined flash-bang/flash-blind.
Dazed, and with both vision and hearing temporarily impaired, the pirates stumbled back. Reaching for their weapons, they blindly sprayed the hallway with fire. Return fire from the Marines cut the pirates down in seconds.
{Damn idiots,} the sergeant grumbled as he rose. Motioning his team forward, he said, {So much for bringing them in alive. All right kids, bag ’em and tag ’em.}
Heat maps from Boone’s advance scout drones showed the sleepers were stirring in their quarters. The warning had been sounded. Highlighting the feeds, he pushed them to the two corporals leading each fireteam. {Getting movement on scan, expect resistance.}
Two-clicks sounded in his ear.
He returned his attention to the third scouting drone, the one preceding the fireteam to the D-FAC. Bravo had rounded the corner, moving out of his direct line of sight. Suddenly, the feed’s heat map lit up like a Christmas tree.
{Bravo! I’ve got blooms, two and ten o’clock!} Boone’s own muscles coiled, a visceral fight or flight response to the explosive devices he saw coming online as he willed the Marines to safety.
{Cover!} the sergeant barked. Through the feed, Boone saw all three launch themselves back toward the intersection.
The drone disappeared in a flash of blinding light just as three forms flew around the corner, partially assisted by the overpressure wave from the detonation.
He flinched sympathetically as a wall of fire rushed over them. The drakeskin suits were well-equipped to handle incendiary burn-overs, but no one would call it a pleasant experience. Telemetry from their suits flashed briefly yellow, then returned to green as the three rolled to their feet.
{That’s it. I’m done playing nice,} the sergeant growled. He motioned his team forward and they disappeared down the corridor.
With no drone left to scout ahead for Bravo, Boone switched his attention to the drones above Charlie and Delta, only to discover they’d already routed the sleepers and had them well in hand.
While Bravo mopped up, Boone positioned his P-SCAR for one last visual sweep of the platform. That movement saved his life.
The high-pitched sound of a projectile sang in his ear. He expected to hear the thwack of a slow-moving bullet smashing into the bulkhead behind him; what he heard instead was the fast ping of a ricochet.
Shit! That’s not a station-approved weapon!
Boone threw himself into a roll, momentum carrying him up to one knee. He pushed off, feet pounding against the brushed steel walkway as another shot whinged past.
His drakeskin suit hid him from view and the cloud of audio chaff that encased him partially masked his steps as he ran, but it could do nothing to mask the sound that traveled through the steel structure itself each time his feet struck the walkway’s surface. That meant whoever was shooting at him had a damn good idea where he might be.
{Archangel taking fire,} he called out, as he reached mentally to recall his scout drones. If he could get a lock on this joker’s position—
A shot hammered into his left side, hitting him in the floating ribs just above the kidney. The drakeskin’s synthsilk did its job, diffusing the bullet and turning what would otherwise have been a through and through into a massive bruise. He stumbled but caught himself, his attention split between his destination up ahead and the feed pouring in from the two scout drones.
Pain shot through him as he dragged air into his lungs, the action causing his ribcage to expand. The triage app stored in the data partition of his wire flashed an alert, indicating medical nano was being routed to the injury.
{Sitrep!} Bravo’s sergeant snapped.
His scout drones had located the asshole. Boone pushed the feed to the sergeant. {One tango, tucked between a wall and a charging station, anti-spinward, quarter-klick.}
{I see that, private.} The sergeant’s words were dry. {What’s your situation?}
Every breath Boone took was painful. Dammit, how long does it take medical nano to— His thoughts fragmented as his side fell blissfully numb.
A shot hit the railing just in front of him and he dug deeper, pouring on additional speed to close the last few meters. Without slowing, he caught the edge of a support beam in one hand and let momentum swing him around until he was snug against its back side.
{I’ve taken cover behind one of the beams,} he reported, breath sawing in and out in great gasps. {Going to try to get off a shot.}
{Negative,} the sergeant replied. {That’s your only cover up there, and he knows it.}
As if on cue, the pirate began concentrating his shots on Boone’s location.
{Copy. Taking steady fire now.}
There was a pause, and then a female voice cut in, clear and crisp. {Delta has eyes on.}
A map appeared over the combat net, limning the tango in red. A firing solution appeared, its engagement cone also in red, a warning to the others to remain clear of the area.
{Taking the shot,} she said calmly.
The hail of bullets ceased at the same time Boone heard, {Tango down.}
Boone pushed away from the bulkhead, his bruised side awash in numbness. His mouth twisted when he thought about what awaited him back on the ship. Once his suit synched with the armory and ratted him out, he’d be ordered to report to the infirmary, no doubt.
For now, he’d return to his duty as overwatch. {Archangel back in position.}
By his count, the asshole who’d shot at him was the last of the resistance, but after that recent bit of excitement, Boone wasn’t leaving anything to chance. It never hurt to perform an ‘idiot check,’ to make sure he hadn’t missed someone.
The scouting drones came back null.
{Archangel, idiot check complete,} he reported over the combat net.
{Bravo team, idiot check complete.}
{Charlie, same.}
{Delta, same.}
When a voice from Callaghan cut in, Boone knew the sergeant had reported the mission’s success. Though the destroyer was ninety thousand kilometers away, latency was hardly noticeable.
{Prisoner head count?} The icon tagged to the voice indicated it was the platoon’s lieutenant who had spoken.
{Charlie has four,} Grant reported.
{Delta, three live, one bagged.}
There was a pause. {Bravo. Three live, two bagged.}
{Daaaay-um,} a second voice from the destroyer, the corporal running comms, drawled. {Looks like Bravo’s buying tonight.}
{Can the chatter, corporal,} Bravo’s sergeant growled.
{Copy.} The voice on the other end sounded crisply in Boone’s head. {Shuttle’s inbound, ten mikes.}
An hour later, they were back on board the Callaghan. After Boone checked his P-SCAR back into the armory, he and the rest of the Marines involved in the skirmish had time to hit the showers before reporting in for an after-action report.
Boone winced as he stripped out of his drakeskin suit and pulled his baselayer shirt over his head—or tried to, at any rate. Getting the damn thing off took a bit longer than it should have. He heard a long whistle and then hands grabbed the material, clearing it over his head.
Payne, the corporal who’d led Delta, held his shirt in her hands. Her eyes were on his left side.
“That’s going to be one colorful bruise,” she said with a shake of her head. Dropping the shirt into his hands, she sidled past and into the showers.
“Colorful’s right, bro.” Ramirez came to a stop beside him and stared critically at Boone’s bruised ribcage. “You do know the overwatch is called Archangel because you call down death on the enemy, not because you have a desire to become an angel, right?”
“Ha-ha. Funny.” Boone scowled at the other man as he tossed the shirt into the laundry.
“Has it reported the strike yet?” Ramirez jerked his chin in the direction of Boone’s drakeskin as he began stripping out of his own.
Boone stifled a resigned sigh and bent to retrieve the suit. “No, but it’s just a matter of time.” He folded the armored camouflage and then slipped it inside its protective case to be auto cleaned.
Ramirez watched, his head cocked. “In three… two…” His countdown accompanied Boone’s hand as he sealed the lid. An alert popped up, ordering him to report to medical.
Boone’s mouth twisted in a resigned smile. “Yep. There it is.”
Ramirez clapped him on the shoulder, causing Boone to wince.
“Only incident in the entire action.” The other man pointed a finger at Boone. “Maybe you should be buying the drinks tonight.”
Boone turned for the showers. “Figures you’d say that. You were on Bravo.” He paused at the entrance to shoot Ramirez a long, narrow stare. “If I hear that you tried selling the others on that idea, I’m coming for you.”
Ramirez’s laughter followed him inside.
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