The Xenocide Mission (27 page)

‘Ready to fire per your orders, Commodore.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Gilmore said. He gazed out of the viewport at the pinnace. ‘Fire.’ The port darkened automatically as the pinnace erupted in a ball of white flame which quickly dwindled away to nothing. Bye bye, Device Ultimate.

Donna yelled and Gilmore spun round. ‘Oh my God . . .’

He knew what the thing coming out of the aft compartment was. He had seen pictures, recordings, images. Close up and in the flesh it was even worse. Those teeth, those claws . . . How had the lifeboat been boarded this far out? Why hadn’t they been detected?

‘Boon Round,’ he said quietly, quickly, ‘stand by to seal the flight deck and evacuate the main cabin. Lieutenant, help me with Joel but don’t make any sudden moves . . .’

‘I see you’ve met our passenger.’ Boon Round trotted back from the flight deck with an aide in one grasper. ‘This contains the translation program so you can introduce yourselves. We’ve weeded the probabilities out and it works colloquially now. Her name is Oomoing. She’s asked us to take her back to SkySpy, because she wants to have words with her Marshal of Space.’

‘She’s a . . . friend?’ Donna said, looking at the XC with a horrified fascination. She could fry the thing with her suit lasers if it so much as . . .

‘An ally,’ Boon Round said. ‘She kept us alive on SkySpy.’

Gilmore glared at the XC. It was a glare meant for all members of the XC race. Gratitude for Joel’s preservation wasn’t going to change his more deeply rooted feelings.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I would also like to have words with her Marshal of Space. There’s the little matter of an unprovoked attack on SkySpy.’

‘Oh, Oomoing has a theory about that,’ Boon Round said. ‘The Marshal of Space didn’t order an all-out attack on an extraterrestrial base because she had no idea there was an extraterrestrial base there in the first place.’

Gilmore frowned at Boon Round, at Oomoing, at Boon Round again. ‘So what...?’ he said.

And then the emergency signal came through from the flight deck. It was the Commonwealth standard Mayday call, and it came from
Pathfinder
.

Twenty

Day Twenty: 22 June 2153

Three . . . two . . . one . . .

The attack commenced.

Outlander engineers, suited against the vacuum, were working in the rent in the side of their ship. They had been individually targeted by Barabadar’s forces. As the countdown reached zero, each attacker opened fire on his assigned target. The engineers died, their suits torn apart and their helmets ripped open. The assault squad jetted into the open area.

‘
Area secured
,’ said their leader. ‘
Entry point located
.’

‘Sappers, go,’ Barabadar ordered.

A sapper squad blazed away from the assault craft, carrying a portable airlock module between them. They navigated it into the secured area and settled it against what the assault squad had identified as the entry point into the rest of the ship. Meanwhile the hull defence teams moved into position. In the last battle, the outlander troops had come streaming down from the prow of the ship, both between and outside the hulls, and Barabadar wasn’t going to be caught that way again. The ring of defences now being erected, between the hulls and around the external entrance at the prow of the ship, would detect and fry anything that moved. Another team was patrolling the hull on the lookout for any other entrances that weren’t so immediately obvious.

Barabadar was where she should always be; at the head of her troops. She was poised outside the airlock module. The outlander ship was pressurized and breaching the hull would result in a hurricane of escaping air, blowing back against her and her men. They needed the portable airlock to gain entry. But it had been a minute. How long before the outlanders noticed that their repair team was out of contact?

‘
Seal established, Martial Mother. Ready to make entry
.’

‘Go, go, go,’ Barabadar ordered. The inner door opened and she charged.

The ship’s gravity caught them the moment they were through, but she had expected that. It was a little lighter than Homeworld; not unpleasant, if she had had the time to enjoy it. Some exclamations in her headphones told her that some of the troops had forgotten the briefing. An outlander, one of the two-legged kind, came around a corner up ahead. It stopped in its tracks when it saw her; it opened its mouth and she shot it.

‘Locate the flight deck,’ Barabadar ordered. ‘Implement attack plan.’

The wailing sound of an alarm penetrated her helmet. The outlanders had noticed her presence. So, the attack had really begun.

It had taken over a day to cross the gap between the rock and the outlander ship. A day, with as many of her people as she could spare crammed into the two surviving assault craft. They had been designed for a covert attack – space-black, radar-invisible, engine outlets shielded as much as possible to avoid flares – but even so, they would have been spotted if the outlanders had actually bothered to keep a visual watch . . . which, of course, they hadn’t.
Their
ship had crossed the gap in minutes; naturally it wouldn’t occur to them, in their technological arrogance, that the primitive XCs could, or would, do likewise, just taking a bit longer. Barabadar had sat in the command couch of the lead craft and watched the ship creep closer, closer, closer, until it seemed near enough to touch . . . battle hormones raised her nerves to screaming pitch . . . surely,
surely
they would be noticed . . .

There had been that heart-stopping moment earlier when a small vessel left the larger one and shot by, almost within pouncing distance. But it didn’t seem to have noticed them and it had vanished into the depths of the inner system. She had wondered what it was for.

And now they were in.

‘Move, move, move!’ In the absence of their officers, one dead and the other missing, Sergeants Cale and Quinlan were in charge of the marines. The two platoons rushed to pull on their armour as the alarm rang out and the depleted Able Platoon ran to the boat elevator, taking up position as it began to move up towards the ceiling of the hangar. The more numerous Charlie Platoon hurried to the elevator that would take them to the lower decks. The XCs had gained entry to the ship; it was already too late to repeat the intra-hull manoeuvre of last time.

Sergeant Cale tensed as the elevator moved up into launch position in the boat bay. His hands tightened their grip on his gun.

‘Set thrusters to—’ he began.

Laser fire tore into the marine next to him. The space entrance was rimmed with XCs and they were all firing. Able Platoon fell on their fronts and returned fire instinctively. There was no cover in the passage; both sides just had to take it, and the marines were much more exposed than the enemy.

‘Withdraw the elevator!’ Cale shouted. ‘Withdraw the elevator!’

It seemed to take an age before the platform began to sink back towards the hangar again. Three of the XCs broke cover and charged at them on full thrust . . . and crashed to the deck as they entered the grav zone. They were killed in an instant, and their bodies provided cover; only a fractional amount but much needed and enough to last the marines before the elevator had withdrawn out of gunshot.

‘Hangar control, put the field over the entrance,’ Cale ordered. He looked up. An XC was standing framed in the entrance above. It raised its gun and fired straight at him.

The fire flickered against the field and the energy dissipated.

Unfortunately the same field meant Cale couldn’t fire back.

‘Stay in your suits,’ he ordered. ‘Control, depressurize the hanger.’

It was only a matter of time before the XCs began to cut through the hull. Able Platoon would be ready.

The attack spread throughout the ship. Andrew McLaughlin staggered out of his cabin to see what the racket was. He bumped into his marine sentry and she caught him as he staggered.

‘What the . . .’

‘Sir! Get back!’ The marine had her weapon drawn. ‘We’re under attack from—’

Three XCs came round the corner of the passageway, and they and the marine opened fire at the same time. The charred remains of the marine, McLaughlin and one of the XCs dropped to the deck.

The observers watched in horrified fascination as the laser cut through the door to the granny annex. Slowly, but with a grand and ghastly inevitability, the hatch toppled forward onto the deck, landing with a mighty clang. Two XCs leapt into the room, weapons raised.

Nothing happened. Some of the observers opened their eyes again. Four more XCs had come in and were keeping them covered with their guns, but that was all.

Rhukaya Bakan glared at them. Well, were they going to open fire or weren’t they?

Barabadar had never actually captured any kind of spacecraft, let alone an outlander one, and would sneakily admit to having enjoyed the planning almost as much as she enjoyed the actual experience – the challenge of pitting her low-tech strategic instincts against the high-tech reality of the outlander vessel, which was quite unlike any she had seen before. What tactics made strategic sense? Obviously, all key areas to be secured, and the outlanders who actually knew how to run the thing to be kept alive, at least until it was established whether Sharing was possible between the two species.

So, outlanders gathered in groups in what looked like an operational centre – and she had, reluctantly, to trust the imagination of her troops in guessing what probably was and was not an operational centre – should be taken prisoner. Individuals, or even twos and threes, caught out in the passageways were to be disposed of – they would only hinder the advance. Anyone from either category that offered resistance was to be shot on the spot.

‘
Martial Mother, Squad the Fourteenth. Outlanders
have attempted to leave ship. Have repulsed them
.’ Squad the Fourteenth was one of the external squads, the one posted to defend the large entrance up at the bow.

‘Do you need reinforcement?’ Barabadar asked.

‘
Negative, Martial Mother
.’

Even so . . .

‘Squad the Twelfth, assist Squad the Fourteenth. The outlanders might try harder next time.’

‘
A firmative, Martial Mother
.’

‘Squad the Fourteenth, how many of them were there?’

‘
No more than twenty, Martial Mother
.’

There had been many more than that who had attacked the rock, and who had defended the ship after it was rammed. So, somewhere on board was a large complement of fighting troops who were almost the equals of her own. They too had to be dealt with. But everything was secondary to capturing the command centre, and she thought she had it. A very solid-looking hatchway, a pair of large steel doors, secured against her, and it was where she would have put the command centre if she had designed this ship herself – almost slap bang in the centre.

‘First Son, Squad the First to my position,’ she ordered.

‘
Martial Mother, Squad the Third. Engine room . . . we
think it’s the engine room . . . secured
.’

‘Prisoners?’ Barabadar said. Inside her helmet was a rough outline of the ship. They had counted the number of exposed levels in the damaged area, and from that estimated the number of levels in the entire vessel. A spot appeared on the thirtieth level from the top, ten below the entry area, to mark Squad the Third’s success. Other spots were appearing as more and more squads reported a successful capture.

‘
Still alive, Martial Mother
.’ The squad leader sounded slightly reproachful that she could think otherwise.

‘
Martial Mother, Squad the Seventh. Armed opposition
moving down from the bow. Request reinforcement
.’

This spot appeared five levels from the top of the ship. So, the rest of the troops had made themselves known, coming down inside the ship to where the fighting was.

‘Squads the Eighth through Tenth, assist Squad the Seventh.’

Messages of acknowledgement came through but Barabadar was distracted by the arrival of First Son and the rest of Squad the First. She pointed at the sealed steel doors.

‘Open them.’

Two sappers pulled out cutting lasers and set to work.

‘
Martial Mother, Squad the Sixth. We have captured a
room full of the four-legged outlanders. I can’t see what
operational purpose the room itself serves, but your orders
about outlanders grouped together
. . .’

‘I understand.’ Barabadar thought. ‘How many of them?’

A pause. ‘
About fifty
.’

That decided her. ‘Prisoners,’ she said. Even if the room they were in didn’t serve an operational purpose, fifty of the ship’s crew wouldn’t be gathered together for no reason. Once again, she wished Oomoing were here.

‘
Acknowledged, Martial Mother
.’

Barabadar checked the diagram in her helmet. It was speckled with spots. The ship was almost taken.

‘How are you doing?’ she said.

‘Almost through, Martial Mother,’ said the lead sapper. ‘There.’

The doors were too heavy to be kicked aside. There was a further delay while lifting equipment was brought in. Up at the front of the ship, Barabadar’s squads and the troops seemed to have reached an uneasy stalemate; the outlanders were securely dug in and it would have been costly to send in her people to flush them out, though she could have done it. The problem was, it would cost lives and out here beyond Firegod orbit, reinforcements were in short supply.

The equipment came; cables attached to the severed doors strained and the doors fell away. Nothing on the other side offered fire. Barabadar walked through, gun at the ready.

‘My Mother!’ First Son protested. She ignored him. If this was the command centre then she needed to be the first in, the one to take it. Yes, it was bad security and she should have sent others through first to check it was secure. But this way was more fitting.

Two-legged outlanders stood around. They were all in the same dark-blue clothing that the one back on SkySpy, Oomoing’s friend Long, had worn. Some had gold stripes on their shoulders. None was armed. Some sat at consoles, others just stood and looked at her.

And yes, this was the command centre, no doubt about it. There was a large central console with several seats scattered around it. More around the edge of the room. Screens, information displays, data feeds everywhere.

Barabadar removed her helmet and sniffed the air. She was amused; a strong smell that could only have been fear. Oomoing had theorized that the outlanders retained that primitive feeling. The rest of Squad the First filed in behind her, guns at the ready.

‘I am Marshal of Space Barabadar, you are my prisoners,’ she said. She looked around her. ‘Well, I spoke to
someone
on this benighted vessel; one of you motherless runts must have some means of understanding me.’

One of the outlanders made a move; its hand went slowly to its belt, pausing when every gun in the room swivelled towards it.

‘Hold your fire,’ Barabadar said. The outlander showed no signs of continuing the movement now that it had the attention of every Kin present. Barabadar stepped forward, removed the device from its belt, handed it to the outlander. For all she knew, the outlander was triggering the scuttling sequence, but she had to take the risk. She did need to talk to the creatures.

The outlander spoke into the device, then held it up.

‘Speak into this,’ said a neutral voice. ‘It will translate your words.’

Barabadar took the device in one of her feeding hands, studied it. Impressive.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I am Marshal of Space Barabadar. Who is in charge?’

‘Captain McLaughlin was killed.’

‘Then I repeat the question.’

A pause. ‘I am. 019323 Nguyen, Karen, Lieutenant, Commonwealth Navy.’

Much of that was just noise. But the word ‘lieutenant’ was familiar – one who acts for a superior, presumably in this case the late captain – and Barabadar could guess what a ‘Commonwealth Navy’ was through sheer common sense.