Battlecruiser Alamo: Not One Step Back (23 page)

 “I can’t,” she said, shaking her head. “If it was just me, I might.”

 He smiled, nodding, “I know. You’d better get out of her before the shooting starts.”

 She turned, grabbed him, and kissed him on the lips, then without a word turned and pushed off down the corridor, swinging from hand-hold to hand-hold, hurling herself away without looking back. Boris looked at Logan, shaking his head.

 “I’ll be damned,” the pilot said, as Logan winked at him.

 “Natural charm,” he replied, looking down at his watch, “I’d say we’ve only got minutes. Any last requests?”

 The two of them settled back, one on either side of the door, Logan periodically glancing back at Harper, urging her on with his eyes, but he was enough of a hacker himself to know that what he was asking her to do would take time, time that he was afraid they simply did not have. Patting his pockets, he checked his magazines; at least he’d have enough ammunition to last out.

 “Who’s this coming?” Boris said, peering into the shadows.

 “We seem to be overwhelmed with well-wishers today,” Logan said, shaking his head.

 They held their fire, and they recognized the father of the boy Boris had patched up; he was waving his hands over his head, but the pistol nestled in it drew them to leave their pistols trained on him. 

 “I thought I told you to get out of here,” said Logan, gesturing at the gun. “What the hell is that?”

 He waved it around, “After I’d bought our tickets home, I had enough left over for half a dozen of these and some ammunition.”

 “What did you want six pistols for?” Boris said.

 The man turned, waved his arms, and five more people drifted forward, a group of people Logan recognized from among the transient population. He shook his head; these people were wearing old, grimy jumpsuits, all of them looked too thin and had obviously been in zero-gravity for too long, but they were drifting forwards wielding their pistols.

 “You’re the first person I’ve met in a while who seems to actually give a damn about us,” the man said, “and I’m not going to let the men who saved my boy die if there is something I can do to stop it.”

 “We’re going up against corporate security,” Boris said, “not a gutter gang.”

 “None of you need to do this,” Logan said. “Get the hell out of here.”

 “What are you going to do, arrest us?”

 He shook his head, then replied, “Fine, let’s make this official.” He darted back into the office and snatched a datapad off the desk. “All of you sign this.” He tossed it to the farthest of them, who started to sign his name with the stylus.

 “What is it?”

 “You’re all volunteering in the Triplanetary Fleet. Which means no-one’s going to come after you with any criminal charges when this day is over.”

 Some of them looked at each other, “What if we don’t want to join?”
 “You can resign tomorrow morning.” He chuckled, “I don’t think I’ve actually got the authority to do this anyway, but what the hell, I don’t think anyone will complain if we pull this off.” He turned to Boris. “Let’s get some better firing positions set-up.” Indicating the abandoned stalls, he continued, “Break up some of that and build some barricades.”

 “Plasterboard doesn’t stop bullets that well,” Boris replied.

 “They can’t see through it, though.”

 Nodding, Boris drifted out into the corridor and started gesturing people into positions, pushing bits of debris around to provide firing positions, shaking his head most of the time. Logan looked back, occasionally offering direction but otherwise content to watch; he picked out his position near the ceiling, behind one of the larger fans. It wasn’t going to give him much real protection, but it would give him mobility, and it also meant he was the first to see Sokolov drifting down the corridor, flanked by a pair of bodyguards who were obviously designed to intimidate; well-muscled bruisers, they didn’t have the usual catlike stance of one used to zero-gravity.

 “Mr. Winter?” Sokolov said, looking around as the activity came to a stop.

 “Lieutenant Winter, to you,” he replied.

 Shaking his head, he said, “Turn over my people and all of the data you stole, and I will permit you and this rabble to have safe passage from the station.”

 “I’m meant to trust your solemn oath on that, am I?”

 “I will provide any reasonable assurances.”

 “How about this? Surrender you and your men to you and I will recommend leniency at your trial. There’s enough information in that data to send you to jail and force your company into bankruptcy.”

 “You haven’t possibly had sufficient time to download any data, nor would any information accessed in that manner be acceptable in any court.”

 “Except the court of public opinion.”

 “Oh, our public relations budget is quite extensive, I assure you, and our lawyers will be only too glad to engage yours in battle.” He looked at the ramshackle fortifications, “You don’t really plan to make a fight of this, do you? There will be a lot of deaths.”

 “My people are fighting because they want to, yours are fighting because they are getting paid.”
 “I take it you don’t claim a salary from the Triplanetary Fleet, then? In any event, it matters not.”

 Logan drifted forward, hand moving towards his pistol, “As senior officer present in a government installation, I am officially notifying you that I am declaring martial law, rendering civilian administration null and void.” At this point, he was pulling things out of the ether. “You are hereby ordered to stand down, and prepare your facilities for full investigation.”

 “That was a mistake, Winter,” Sokolov said. “Until now, there was an outside chance that I might choose to permit you to live. You have sixty seconds to surrender.” He looked around, addressing the others, “If any of you wish to individually surrender, you should feel free to do so.”

 He turned around, starting to drift back down the corridor, undoubtedly to join his men. The bodyguards waited a second before following, covering his withdrawal, and Logan turned back to the open office door.

 “Harper, I need some good news around now…”

 “I’ve got some for you. In about three minutes I’ll have the information you need.” She looked at Logan, and continued, “And no, I can’t speed it up. I’m sucking processor power from everywhere I can think of as it is.”

 He tossed his communicator to her, “When you get the location of the pirate base, tell Alamo instantly. Then you can feel free to join the fight.”

 “I’m really not good with guns.”

 “Call it on-the-job training.”

 There was no time for him to do anything other than gently drift back into his position. He checked his pistol one last time, making sure the magazine was home and full, and pulled another out of his pocket, tucking it behind a strap on the wall.

 “Let them fire first,” he said, setting his communicator to ‘record’ and strapping it in a position to record the battle. Somehow he had a feeling that he might end up needing some evidence of this one.

 The first wave drifted cautiously down the corridor, riot shields and pistols at the ready. It seemed likely that they had received the same orders, not to engage the enemy unless fired upon, which promised to make it a very boring gunfight – until someone fired the first shot. Logan had no idea who, the noise was ambiguous, but bullets started to crack all around his position, smashing dents into the metal, tearing gouges in his improvised protection.

 “Fire!” he yelled, setting the example with a carefully aimed shot. Instantly, the battle had become chaos; almost no-one seemed to have any real experience at firing in zero-gravity. Logan and Boris had both had the wit to hold onto something when they fired, but the recoil was tossing the rest of the combatants around the corridor. At least it made for a target-rich environment, and Logan put down two of the enemy with two shots.

 A cry of pain came from ahead of him, one of his men wounded. Redoubling his efforts, he fired another shot, and the corridor was now a mess of drifting bodies, all of them out of the battle, but still potentially targets, whether intentionally or unintentionally. Then the second wave came forward, and Logan understood Sokolov’s strategy; these were firing while holding hand-holds, then swinging themselves up into cover in between shots.

 “Concentrate on the second wave,” he said, as much to Boris as to anyone else; most of the rest of his army were scattered all over the place, and some of them were smashing at the enemy with their fists or the butts of their weapons. Droplets of blood were drifting around the corridor, splashing the walls where they hit, and he squeezed off another trio of shots, clicking out the empty cartridge and letting it fly through the air.

 He grabbed the next one and rammed it home with a satisfactory click, and looked around the battlefield; the second wave had excellent cover, and were starting to pick off anyone they could see. His men were pinned down, caught behind whatever protection they could find, not daring to shoot for fear of the effects of the recoil – at least three of them were drifting, out of the battle one way or another.

 Peering into the darkness at the far end of the corridor, he made out a third wave approaching, these ones barreling right down the middle. The end game was approaching as they remorselessly advanced towards them, crouching behind their shields, not even bothering to fire. Why did they have to? They’d be mopping up the wounded soon enough.

 The air circulators were beginning to clear the corridor, helpless bodies being dragged towards the wall, and it gave him another shot at a careless member of the second wave, who found himself tumbling into space, clutching his arm, until another shot ended his problems forever. He looked ahead, saw another piece of cover up the corridor, and realized it would be an excellent place for a crossfire. Without thinking twice, he pushed off, bouncing off the wall to put his trajectory into a spiral.

 A fusillade of shots rang out, first from the enemies then from his own side, who suddenly had some available targets to play with. The Cornucopia corporate troops were good – he was going to need a new shirt when this battle was over, but he reached his cover, taking another shot for good measure. The third wave continued to approach, but then he heard a triumphant yell from the rear.

 “Got it! Alamo has the location!” Harper yelled, and Logan came within a heartbeat of cheering. He had hoped that the failure might have caused the attack to be called off, but that was obviously not in the minds of his assailants, who continued their charge. His side had spent their ammunition carelessly in the early stages of the battle, wasting it on the decoys of the first wave, and a series of clicks and curses suggested that he probably should have given them some instruction on fire discipline.

 “Going to be one hell of a last stand, Logan!” Boris yelled, as he fired a shot.

 Logan slapped another magazine home, tapping his pocket, then cursing; he glanced behind him and saw four magazines floating behind him, then looked down at his pocket – which now had holes at both ends, courtesy of Cornucopia Mining. All he could do now was make each shot tell, and he lined up to try a futile shot at the third wave. As he pulled the trigger, two of them recoiled forwards, tumbling end over end, and he glanced at his gun. Even if he was that good a shot – and he wasn’t – they would have fallen backwards.

 The explanation was immediately apparent as Logan saw a group of six people, armed with low-velocity rifles, diving down the corridor. These were professionals; small thrusters on their backs to correct for the recoil from their weapons, and the third wave quickly descended into total chaos as they scrambled to turn, to face their new enemy. The second wave was even more confused.

 “Come on, let’s get them!” Logan said, swinging himself into the corridor, scooping up his magazines with an outstretched hand, and firing into the fray, kicking himself into the action. A dozen more shots later, and it was all over.

 “We surrender!”, a gruff voice cried.

 “Cease fire!” Logan said. “Throw away your weapons.”

 The gunmen complied, and he and the new arrivals soon had them facing the wall, hands secured behind their backs. He turned to Boris, who was grimly looking out at the carnage.

 “How bad?”

 “Bad,” he replied. “I’ll get them down to the doctor. Can I borrow your card?”

 Logan shook his head, “They’re either Triplanetary spacemen or prisoners. If he doesn’t treat them, start breaking things until he co-operates.” He turned to see Lilith drifting down at the rear, a rifle in her hand. “You changed your mind.”

 “I decided that this station would be a lot better off with you running it. Those bastards are bad for business.”

 “We’re going to finish them off.” He turned, “Anyone who can still fight, follow me.”
 “Where are you going?” Harper said, drifting through the door.

 “Cornucopia’s offices.” He slapped another magazine into the pistol. “I want Sokolov.”

Chapter 22

 Marshall tipped the coffee pot into his mug, and grimaced as the only reward for his effort was a few dark brown drops. Cunningham looked at him, gesturing to the dispenser; his turn to top it up. The deck office at least had a half-decent coffee maker; he idly noted that he should ask Quinn to get one of his crew to move it up to the bridge at some point. A twenty-million credit refit, and he still couldn’t get a decent drink in his office. The water swirled and gurgled in the pot; then Marshall’s attention was drawn to his beeping communicator.

 “Marshall,” he said.

 Zebrova’s voice answered, “Sir, Spitfire Station just sent us the co-ordinates of the aerostat.”
 “You’ve checked them?”

 “Deep-scans indicate that it’s there, sir.”

 “Right. We’re on our way.”

 Caine looked up from her datapad, “They’ve found it?”

 “Location will be feeding into our navicomputers now.” He looked around, shaking his head, “Squadron scramble, I guess.”