Overdrive (38 page)

Five shepherds and
one sheep surrounded the bodies of two winged figures lying slumped on the
lounge’s floor.

“What’s going on
here?” said Felix, hurrying inside.

“I think we might
have been rumbled," said Ram Terry. “These two," he said, indicating
the bodies lying on the floor, “tried to sneak in. I disabled their fields and
my faithful Shepherds did the rest.”

“Right," said
Felix, looking decidedly uneasy. “Are we likely to expect any more company?”

“Oh, assuredly so,"
replied Ram Terry. “Crystal and the others are due back any moment now. I am
more than confident in her abilities to overcome the likes of these.”

“No, I mean…oh
never mind,” he said, frowning.

“How’s the repairs
going?” Ram Terry asked politely. 

“Done. We can
leave as soon as the others are on board.”

“Good," said
Ram Terry. “We still have 5 minutes before the Gitanians are in range.”

“Well, that’s good
news," replied Felix. Sarcasm seemed to get quite lost in the Holy Ram.

The lounged
airlock beeped loudly and rotated.

“Who’s that?” a
worried Felix asked.

“I don’t know,”
replied Ram Terry. “The airlock’s been overridden.”

He gave orders and
the five Shepherds spread themselves around the airlock. It opened and Tarquin
emerged, carrying a body over his shoulder and narrowly avoiding a whack in the
head from one of the stave carrying Shepherds.

“Whoa there
cowboys. Take it easy. Its me.”

Felix released the
breath he’d been holding with a rush.

“Thank fuck for
that.” He eyed the body draped over Tarquin’s shoulder. “Who’s that?," he
said with some apprehension.

“Logan. Got hit by
some microprojectiles. Some semi major damage to his chest but he should be
alright. He’s out cold.” He looked around the lounge. “Where’s the med bay?”

Felix indicated a
small alcove at the rear of the lounge and hurried to get out of the way. The
lounge was quickly becoming crowded as Walter and Bruce made their entrance,
ushering in a very subdued Knights Captain Tynan. Tarquin made his way through
the small press of people and deposited his human cargo into the bed shaped
medical unit. The unit beeped reassuringly as it started to administer
coagulants and newskin to the charred area.

Satisfied, Tarquin
turned around and pointed one meaty finger.

“You," he
said, indicating a bewildered Tynan who was standing as far away as was
possible to get from every other inhabitant of the lounge. He was trying hard
to look inconspicuous.

“Who me?,"
replied Tynan nervously.

Tarquin sneered at
him. “Yes, you. Sit.” He swiveled, pointing his finger at one of the couches
situated as far from Bruce as possible, returning his arm on the same arc to
point directly at Tynan.

Tynan moved
quickly, casting a wary glance at Bruce. The Gorilla favored him with a toothy
smile, canines prominent, watching intently as the Areopagite sat down meekly
in the spot indicated. Tarquin picked out two burly shepherds to keep watch
over him.

“Hit him if he
moves," he instructed. The two shepherds grasped their staves eagerly.
Tynan suddenly developed a nervous tic in the corner of one eye, much to
Bruce’s glee whose grin had broadened dramatically.

Felix looked
around wildly as Walter and Bruce collapsed into the lounge seating. “Where’s
Crystal?”

Walter looked up
wearily, reluctantly meeting Felix’s gaze. “The brave girl covered us as we
made our escape. She’s outside, holding off the Areopagites so we can get clear."

“We’re not leaving
her," said Felix, resealing his vacuum suit and heading purposefully
towards the airlock.

“No-one suggested
we should," said Tarquin’s voice behind him. Felix turned and regarded his
friend. Tarquin was still securing a full suit of assault armor even as he
moved into the lounge, the suit quickly adhering and sealing over his limbs and
torso. Logan’s plasma cannon was gripped firmly in one hand.

He marched towards
Felix and pushed him back into the arms of two shepherds. “Hold him," he
instructed.

“What the fuck do
you think you’re doing?," an enraged Felix demanded, struggling against
the Shepherds grip. “I have to go get her."

Tarquin was
already cycling the airlock. “You’re not wearing armor and you don’t know how to
use a plasma cannon. The Areopagite’s will cut you down. I’ll be back with her
before you know it."

“You’ll have to be,"
said Ram Terry. “You have less than 5 minutes before the Gitanian
reinforcements arrive."

Sheep and man
stared at each other. Ram Terry eyed Tarquin levelly, meeting the man’s gaze
through the armor’s thick visor.

“If you’re not
back by then, we have to go. The Overdrive must be safeguarded.”

“Bastard,"
screamed Felix, attempting to tear himself from the firm grip of the Shepherds.
“Fuck the Overdrive. I want Crystal."

“I understand,"
said Tarquin, nodding at Ram Terry. He turned to Felix and met his friend’s
anguished face.

“Don’t worry, I’m
a professional." With a last wink and a cherry wave, he stepped into the
airlock and disappeared.

Felix sagged in
his captors arms. “Bring her back to me Tarq," he whispered.

◊

“Well?. Where’s my
fucking hostages? Honestly Sammael. I’ve got six fucking frigates and one big
fucking PDS station about to blow us out of the cosmos and here you are, sitting
on your arse and wanking yourself off for all I know. Do I have to do
everything myself? What did I do…”

Against all sane
logic, Sammael cut off Princess Gabriella in mid spiel.

“You’ll have your
hostages my Princess. Two minutes.” Then he closed the link. He’d face the
consequences later. No one ever cut off Gabriella. Ever. The last person who
did lost their empire, their wives, 36 assorted concubines, their testicles,
and eventually, after prolonged torture, their lives. Sammael knew he was on very
shaky ground indeed but then again, he had little to loose and even less time.
Facing Gabriella’s intimidating wrath was draining and demoralizing. Feelings
he could do without considering the opposition.

He looked up.
Twenty meters away stood the woman he’d faced and been thoroughly routed by.
Despite himself, he contemplated the similarities between routed and rooted.
She was a good looking woman. Just the sort who would look good strapped down
on his work bench, legs akimbo, begging for it. Her mouth looked like it could
scream to. And it would. Once he started using the knives…

Vaguely, he
realized someone was talking to him.

“My lord?” One of
his Angelic shock troops was looking anxiously at him. “I brought the Afer back
from the ship as you directed. Your orders?."

Sammael smiled
savagely, shaking himself out of his reverie. “Excellent." He would have
her though. She was too perfect to kill. Yet. He would make her pay for the
humiliation.

Crystal was
staring at him coolly. Her level gaze had never once wavered from his;
enraging, goading. He grabbed the Afer from a nearby Angel, carefully sighting
down the long muzzle. “Hope you enjoy this bitch," he muttered, “because I
certainly will."

The Angel directly
to his right disappeared in an exploding fireball of plasma. Sammael was so
close that he could feel the heat even through his armor, liquid drops sizzling
on it as he backed hastily away from his melted brethren. Around him, other
figures were falling as they too were engulfed by mysterious bolts, seemingly
rained down from the heavens.

“What the fuck’s
happening?," he bellowed to no one in particular. In the confusion, the
woman had disappeared. His troops were being attacked by an adversary unseen.
Even as he staggered about in confusion more of his troops were cut down.

A sword wielding Valkyrie
appeared in their midst, hacking limbs and heads from his disorientated troops,
seemingly without any resistance whatsoever. The blue field surrounding her
made it impossible for his Angels to counterattack.

He sighted along
the Afer again, intent on making no mistakes this time. It would have been nice
to play with the women but she was simply too dangerous to live.

He fired and his
aim was true, the azure bolt immediately dissipating her protective field.
Suddenly she was vulnerable. He shouted his triumph and his shock troops
rallied, surrounding the woman and pounding her diminutive body with micro
projectiles and plasma blasts which she evaded with dazzling displays of
athletic ability. It was only a matter of time until they nailed her but time
was a luxury he definitely did not possess.

He motioned for
one of his lieutenants.

“My lord?."
The man radiated complete deference and servitude. He liked that. It served as
an indicator that his star was in ascendance.

“Take a squad and
board that ship. Pilot it out and dock with the Blazing Trumpet. Her Highness
will have her hostages.”

The angel bowed
and departed, motioning for several others to join him. Sammael turned his
attention back to the woman. More than 20 Angels now surrounded her, although
that number was gradually diminishing as she made sporadic forays into their
midst, her blade a blur as it cut down her Angelic assailants. It was a battle
of attrition however. Light score marks on her body indicated where she’d been
brushed by a plasma blast or a micro projectile detonation. She was slowing
down. The angels around her could sense this and were closing in for the kill.

A heavy plasma
blast knocked Sammael off his feet. When he raised his head, a tall figure,
clad in full assault armor stood above him, plasma cannon pointing menacing at
his head. Before the strange figure could fire, four Angelic shock troops
jumped on him, forcing him to the ground and pinning his arms behind his back.
The plasma cannon slid across the floor, out of easy reach.

Sammael regained
his feet. He sneered at the prone figure and in one quick motion, bent and
ripped off the suits helmet. He smiled when he saw who lay beneath.

Raising his head,
he shouted an order. “Forget the woman." She would have been a pleasing
trophy but there would be another time. “We have our hostage. Back to the
ship.”

He lingered as his
troops hurried out of the docking bay. The woman stood, exhausted and impotent,
as several Angels carried Tarquin's body away. He met her gaze again. He
couldn’t leave things like this. It would be too much like a retreating horde
after raping and pillaging a local village. He pulled his plasma pistol and
fired.

She made no effort
to evade the bolt. She simply disappeared, the plasma blast exploding
harmlessly on the bulkhead behind her.

Sammael looked
around, confused. She hadn’t moved, she had simply ceased to be there. He
shrugged. Such matters were better contemplated when there wasn’t such urgency
involved.

He turned and
hurried to catch up with his men.

Behind him, molten
droplets from the bulkhead dripped slowly onto the floor of the docking bay,
the only sound in the now empty bay. A strange breeze suddenly sprung up,
rippling the hardening surface of the floor. Just as quickly, the breeze
disappeared, taking the hint of the strange presence with it.

Chapter Eleven

The data input
coming from the ship’s AI, his personal AI and the visual tactical analysis up
on the bridge screen was getting towards overload. Asel sat back in his command
chair with a frown. Events were coming to a head and despite his meddling, it
didn’t look like he would end up with any appreciable advantage.

Even with all the
processing power at his command, his ship could still not tell him whether
Gabriella would escape, and with her the precious Overdrive data. If push came
to shove, he’d rather she got it rather than the Gitanians; his father could
negotiate for an exchange later on, loath as the head of the Watchers would be
to do so.

Of course he’d
blame Asel for it and consign him to some hellhole in a petty planetary
governor’s position for the next century or so. No thanks. Of course, he’d
rather he ended up with the data over everyone else and would happily see
Gabriella go down in a giant ball of fire, burnt to a crisp re-entering
Gitane’s atmosphere, screaming as she fell into oblivion. Wishful thinking.

He looked over the
tactical display again, just to be sure that he hadn’t made some infinitesimal
mistake that would come back and bite him on the arse later on. No. No mistake.
It still wasn’t looking good. He hadn’t quite anticipated the heated armed
response from the Gitanians. After tipping them off about the hostile takeover
of one of their stations, he had assumed they would take it reasonably
seriously and dispatch perhaps 2 or 3 frigates to investigate. He hadn’t
counted on the Gitanians bellicose parochialism.