27

Agni Pariksha

I clamber up the steep side of what used to be the ceiling, grab the rim of the opening to the access shaft. Damn. I'm going to have to hold on with one hand, pull myself up, look, try to prop the rifle on something solid with the other.

I don't like this. There's no cover in that shaft, just what's now a meter-plus wide horizontal crawlspace running the length of the ship. I never designed the White Cat to be defensible from the inside. If someone's already covering the length of that shaft from the cargo airlock, and I stick my head up, that's it. Brace your handguard on something solid, and it's practically impossible to miss at fifty yards.

Going through a door that someone's already dialed in on is suicide. Skill doesn't enter into it. Just a matter of reaction times.

Damn it, I should have prepared for this. We had weeks of idle downtime, while we flew towards Sedna, and I could have worked out what to do. Put up some barricades. Rigged traps with mining explosives. But who the hell ever expects to get into a small-arms gunfight in space? Distances here are in light-seconds. Who the hell ever heard of two hostile forces ending up inside the same fucking hull?

Absurd. But here we are.

And I never even taught Miranda to shoot. Bloody hell. Would I have even been willing to put a gun in her hand?

No trust. Not a team. Not working together. That's going to get us killed.

And here I am, stuck, hanging by one hand in low gravity, unwilling to poke my head out in case there's a rifle pointed at the only place I go through. Or multiple rifles. Hell, I don't even know how many of these guys there are.

“Leela,” I whisper.

Silence.

“Leela!”

Her voice comes in as a whisper as well, although I don't see the need. “Yeah, sorry, just dealing with a little problem. What's up, boss?”

“Can you tell me how many of these guys boarded us?” I ask.

“Ten. The three you got, three on the hull, and two more in engineering. One of them is watching the access tunnel.”

Damn. A shiver runs through me. Good thing I didn't stick my head up. He'd have split it into a fucking canoe. So what the hell do I do now? Hold here and shoot anyone who comes around the corner?

Tactically, that's exactly what I should do. Defenders can just sit and watch doorways. I wanna be the defender.

But I don't have that luxury. The five remaining assholes on my ship can just sit there in a stalemate until—

Wait a second. Five?

“Uh, Leela… I may be only a meat golem, but I'm pretty sure ten minus three isn't three plus two.”

“Yeah, there were two that didn't make it through the hold.”

”Were?”

“Remember the little problem I mentioned? I still have control of the cargo crane. It's… ah… kind of a mess over there, so if you go in there later, bring a mop. And a bucket.”

Something in me winces. Those cranes are designed to move thirty ton cargo containers, and move them fast. If Leela overrode their human-avoidance software… ouch. Bring a bucket, indeed.

So much for the First Law of Robotics. Hope she's okay with that.

“Alright, tell me if the ones in engineering are moving.”

“Oh, I can do better than that. Let me show you a magic trick,” she says, and suddenly the wall becomes… transparent?

I can see them through the walls.

I can see them through the walls.

What the…?

There's two of them, all right, a short, bearded Flatlander with some sort of AR carbine, and a heavyset man with a pump shotgun, clearly over seven feet tall. One's fixed in position, the other climbing slowly, checking some compartment or other, picked out through walls in full, almost luminous color, sort of an… art style… like Leela's…

Oh. Like Leela's avatar. She's using the avatar interface to transfer images from Miranda's little webcams. Good thing I left all but one of those up.

“Oooh. Nice trick. I'm going to hold here for these two. Keep an eye on the other three outside, let me know if they move.”

“Already are. Looks like they're headed for the observation deck airlock from opposite sides.”

Where Miranda is hiding. Damn. Should've had her move before hunkering down. Too late now…. but, no, scratch that, there's nowhere for her to go but out the deck airlock, or up this shaft.

“Warn her. I've only got a few—”

“Already warned,” says Miranda's voice on the link. “I can see them. Going to try to get a vantage point in cover, and watch the airlock. This is really cool, Leela. Thank you.”

Leela doesn't reply, and I don't have time to pay attention… Tank and Dwarf look like they've finished their sweep of engineering, and are ready to move on the bridge. Tank, true to his name, appears to have a vacsuit that's not skintight, but incorporates some kind of angled plating instead. I think it's armor. Have to try for the face. Good thing he's first, still covering the shaft. Any move they make will have to start with him.

There. Both of them are shifting, And I can see Dwarf pulling himself up to the access shaft, his rifle slung as he climbs, bounding in low gravity. Tank's going to have to shift his shotgun, let go with one hand to get up… there's no room to stand in the shaft now that it's horizontal. The choices are either trundle forward at some sort of crouching duck-waddle, or crawl.

I tense myself to move, waiting to see which one Tank will choose. I can't see where he's looking—Leela has replaced his face with a blur. Must not have the right camera angle. Dwarf is preparing to cover the shaft from behind him, but that won't do any good until Tank gets out of the way…

They'll be vulnerable for a moment and they know it.

“Warnoc!”

The voice is male, deep, rough, from ahead of me. Must be Tank. I can't see Dwarf's lips moving. Bastard knows my name.

“Warnoc! Give it up! There's over twenty of us and two of you!”

Liar.

“We won't hurt you or the girl. We just want the AI and the artifact!”

Liar again.

But also well-informed. Whatever's going on with that ad-hoc fleet, they're getting good information from somewhere. The tightbeam chatter must be thick and fast. Are they sharing information? Are there more boarders on the way?

“Warnoc! Don't be stupid! You have no chance!”

That's what you think, pal. You don't know I can see you through the wall. You don't know I can pick exactly the right moment to pop up, brace my magazine on the deck, and plant a round in your face. Just start moving, pal.

Any time now.

The moment comes. Tank chooses duck-walk, and, just for the moment I need, that shotgun goes on the bottom floor of the access shaft.

Tank sees me come up, pushing fast in low gravity, sees me leveling my carbine, tries to bring his shotgun up again, then makes a rookie mistake that, ironically, almost saves him.

He brings his face to the shotgun stock, not the stock to his face, and his head dips down, out of the green circle of my reticle.

Unfortunately for him, I'm now braced on the lip of the shaft, and it's easy enough to bring the stock up slightly, aiming down, holding just over to compensate for short range. I fire three times, but I think it's the first one that takes him in head. The second and third impacts shatter this facemask, and the skull behind it. He convulses for a moment, then slumps to the floor, blood sloshing in low-gravity ripples.

Superimposed on the wall, the image of Dwarf stops dead and drops back down, spraying suppressing fire. It sparks off the ladder, and the top of the shaft, nowhere near me. He doesn't have an angle. I seize the moment to pull myself forward, just a bit, and go prone in the shaft, elbows tucked in, magazine on the deck.

Yes. I have you now, you bastard. Just try poking your ugly head up again. Please.

“Hey, Warnoc! You think you're gonna stop us that way? All that shit means is bigger shares for the rest of us when we fucking kill you!

It's shriller now, with an anxious tone he can't quite hide, but the voice is the same—it was Dwarf talking after all. He's back under the shaft entrance at engineering, hunkered down and braced the way I was, not willing to stick anything out. He's going to try to wait for me to come to him.

“Marcus?”

I almost jump out of my skin as Miranda's voice enters my brain, loud.

“They're at the airlock. I tried to shut it again, but the door lock's all melted. What's going on up there?”

“I'm not an unreasonable man, Warnoc! But my patience won't last forever! You killed a lot of people today, and for what? To keep something that wasn't yours to begin with? Come on. Come out and we'll talk about this!”

Nice try, pal. I know you're running out of friends. Don't worry. I'll arrange a reunion.

He still hasn't moved. I risk a glance behind me. There's an image of Miranda, hunkering down behind something that Leela isn't showing me, in the observation deck, holding Weasel's machine pistol. She hasn't folded the stock out.

The three boarders are breaching the airlock outer door, muzzles sweeping to cover, cycling the lock… looks like they'll be in observation in a few moments.

“That was a good trick you pulled with the girl, Warnoc! Clever! How'd you get her to go along with it?”

His voice is a little too infused with forced joviality. If he wanted me to come to him, he'd be trying to make me mad. Trying to bait me. Dwarf doesn't want to attack. Dwarf wants to get me talking, delay me while his men come up behind.

I haven't got much time.

I've got to get back and help Miranda. But I don't dare leave him behind me. Or rush in in some foolish charge.

“Marcus,” says Leela. “what if I kill the lights? You've got that infrared eye—”

“No good,” I whisper. “He'll have a flashlight on his rifle. Pretty much everyone does. Miranda, they open that door, you just fire a burst from that MP at the lock. Don't expose yourself. You don't have to hit anything, just keep their heads down.”

“Or did the girl put you up to this, Warnoc? You know who she is, right? She's a Martian heiress! The Old Man's granddaughter, or something. What's she paying you? Is it enough to die for? You put down your weapon, turn her over to us, we'll give you a full share!”

You said you didn't want the girl. Can't even keep your story straight. Just keep talking, pal. Keep talking and don't move. You don't know I can see you.

I just need to get you to fire a little more. Okay, steady…

I creep forward along corrugated steel of what used to be the shaft wall, inching forward on my belly, knees, and elbows, rifle as steady as I can keep it. Amazing how hard it is to push forward when it's not a bunch of us bros goofing off with paint marker rounds. Even though I can see where he is, know he's too far off the shaft to get a clear shot, still something in me braces for that grisly impact.

For the feel of a bullet slamming into flesh.

It doesn't come, of course. Creep forward, just a little more…

Fuck. Can't believe I used to think this was fun. It's fucking not. But maybe I can still use a trick I learned when it was.

I squeeze off a single round into the outside wall of the shaft, just opposite where Dwarf is crouched.

A “semi-frangible” round isn't just a cheap lump of gold like most bullets. It's a metalloid composite designed to break up on contact, to go through body armor but not the hull plating of your station. This means one hell of an impact spark, and what feels like a spray of hot sand, hitting everyone close by.

Dwarf reacts with a startled jump, and, sure enough, a flurry of unaimed fire at what little of the shaft he can see.

Comfort shooting.

In a firefight, when you're scared, it feels good to shoot. Makes you feel safer. Makes you feel like you're doing something. Takes practice and discipline to learn to wait until you have a target in your sights. To learn how to shoot to hit, not just shoot to shoot. Dwarf may be not be a total novice, but he's wound pretty tight, and he's wasting ammo on fear control.

I crawl forward again, rolling sideways to pass the opening to the bridge. Dwarf is just three or four meters away, huddled against what used to be the floor of the engineering level. Must be standing on something. Bolted down furniture? I can't see his surroundings.

Almost in position. Let's see how many times I can work this trick… I squeeze another round, and am rewarded with another spray of fire… nowhere near me, but something hot stings my neck. Fragment hit. I can feel the slow trickle of a bead of blood.

In a real fight, you can't hear a bolt lock back on an empty magazine, not after all those gunshots, but Leela has him dead to rights on the nearest camera, and I see him pull the mag, not dropping it, just holding it in his hand, trying to do a quiet switch.

I launch myself up and forward, standing bent over in the shaft, crane around the doorway. Reaching my muzzle to just where I know he'll be. I center his ruddy surprised face in the reticle, and I know I've got him, got him cold, and I squeeze a single shot.

Nothing happens to that face. How did I miss?

He drops the rifle and he's reaching for his belt, must be for a sidearm…

I slap the trigger again and again, but that face doesn't shatter, I can't see an impact…

He collapses downward, onto the gear cabinet he was standing on, his beard dripping, soaked with blood.

Idiot. I'm an idiot. So excited I forgot to hold over for the short range. I've been shredding his throat. He's not even twitching now, not thrashing as he bleeds out—I must have cut the spine. His frantic eyes meet mine, for a moment, his lips move, trying to say something, but it's just a wet gurgle, and his face sags and goes dead.

“Marcus? Marcus?”

Miranda sounds frantic. Has she heard the shots? Is she in a fight herself? As if in answer, there's a shot from down the corridor behind me. One. A pistol. It's my Sphinx. She's run the MP70 dry.

“Miranda. You're clear behind. Get to the access shaft!”

I'm scrambling to turn around.

“They're shooting at me!” Her voice cuts off with a squeal as a rattle of fire echoes from that direction.

“You're clear behind! Spray some suppressing fire and fucking move your cute little ass!”

I crawl as fast as I can, not worrying about covering the end of the shaft. I can see them. I know where they are. None of the three have an angle on me, so I can fucking hustle.

A pistol shot. Two more. And suddenly the lights go out, all of them… Leela's thinking quick. I barely have time to cut in my thermal vision, as a figure picked out in temperature gradient lines comes barreling straight down at me, at a run, shoulders hunched.

Blood surges in my ears, but my brain kicks in before I even move to shoulder my carbine. The figure is so tiny it can only be Miranda… only she could stand straight up in here, just a slight bend to avoid the ladder.

I roll behind it to avoid her, give her a gentle touch on the back of the thigh as she runs blind past me, just to let her know I'm there. She doesn't startle or break step… Leela must be showing her a recent location.

Ahead of me, the observation deck lights up again with focused beams. Lights on weapons. No matter. Leela's bought her a second or two to get clear, and that's all she needed. I can't even hear her running footsteps anymore… she's moved that fast.

I hope to fuck she's not running with her finger on the trigger like a total novice, but I don't hear any accidental shots from that direction, and the three of them ahead of me are a bigger problem. I can't see them.

“Leela?”

“Sorry. Cameras are visible light only. I can't see them in the dark.”

“So turn them back on!”

She does, and they're right there, scattered, converging on the end of the tunnel. Three, all the same height, maybe seven feet or so, wildly decorated Belter vacsuits, looks like AK-style rifles. All alike. Moving rapidly, climbing… I think they're trying chase Miranda.

Fuck me, are they actually triplets?

I plant myself prone next to the entrance to medbay.

Okay, assholes, you're Tweedledee, Tweedledumb, and… ah.. Tweedledumber. For about thirty seconds before I fucking kill you.

Invade my home, will you?

Shoot at me, will you?

Try to steal my prize, will you?

Try to kidnap Leela, will you?

Threaten to rape Miranda, will you?

I've seen a lot of blood today, and I'll see yours as well. I'm fucking glad about it, because trash like you belong dead. Just keep taking steps, because I'm better than you, and I'm faster than you, and I can see you coming, and I'm right here waiting.

It's Tweedledee who moves into view first, right into my sights. Or maybe it's Tweedledumb. I have no fucking idea… this nickname thing only works when I can tell the bastards apart. And he doesn't need a nickname anymore, because I fucking crush him.

I can see from the first hit that he's wearing plates, but I just keep on fucking going. One two three four five… fuck, I've lost count, and the plate is puffed up into a sandbag of broken ceramic, and Tweedlewhoeverthefuck is down on his stomach, breathing through a sucking chest wound or three, because armor may cover a mistake or two, but nothing, not a damn thing a human can wear, is gonna stop repeated blows from a big ass overpowered Special Purpose Round.

I just roll right on into the end of the shaft, and the next one catches a round below the armor, right where I was aiming… pelvic shot. Shatter that girdle of supporting bone, and it's mechanically impossible to stand, no matter how tough or drugged or crazy you may be. Sir Isaac Newton doesn't give a shit how determined you are.

When he pitches backwards, shrieking, the next two rounds catch him upwards, under the armor, crotch to shoulder blades, and the shrieks turn into a high-pitched bubbling whistle.

I don't know if it's dumb luck, the advantage of surprise, or his inability to see around my muzzle flash that stops the last one from laying one on me. But maybe he's just lost his nerve, 'cause he's practically running backwards, spraying rounds.

I drop prone, stomach-first, on my elbows again… wild fire always goes high. Try to line up a shot… click. I'm dry. In practice I could always feel the bolt lock back on an empty chamber. Not now. Roll on my side, index finger on the mag release, grab another for my belt. Other index finger to line it up on the magwell. Hit the bolt catch. Clack. Good to go.

And I'm after him, some undignified and painful-as-fuck combination of duck-walking and shuffling on my knees. It's actually easier because the whole damn floor, the mouth of the shaft, is slippery with blood. Have to keep my hands out of it—I don't want my rifle slipping—but I'm drenched in gore from the chest down.

The last one—I've decided arbitrarily that it's Tweedledumber—is not looking in any mood to come back at me. He's in the observation deck, with his back to me, climbing. What's he trying to do?

Cycle the airlock. He wants out.

Well, not before I've had my moment. I'm out the end of the shaft, shoving a corpse out of the way, rifle shouldered, sighted, ready. Not scanning back and forth. Leela can see him, so I can see him. I know right where he is.

He's got his back to the airlock again as I hit the entrance, holding on, scanning for me. A defender should have an advantage, but not this time. He has to find me and put his sights on me. Trying to cover the whole room takes some fraction of a second. I already know right where his head is. Action beats reaction every time.

A roar of gunfire tears across the walls—ceiling—whatever, as I put two bullets in that head, turn one eye into a fountain of blood, and he convulses, going to the ground, spraying rounds everywhere.

I stumble against the shaft exit, trip, faceplant on the clear diamond-laminate window several meters below, surprisingly hard for low gravity. I scoot backwards on my butt through a pool of blood, looking, I suspect, not at all like a high-speed, low-drag, elite ninja operator. But I really, really do not want to be randomly shot by the corpse of a dead man.

Silence. He's either stopped thrashing, or his mag is dry. I rise to my knees, scan around pointing my rifle, but there's no more VR images in front of me or around the ring.

I've done it.

I flick the selector to safe and let my rifle hang on the sling, try to get my legs under me.

A pair of dainty little feet land beside me from above, and Miranda extends a hand to help me up. How'd she get here so quick? I take her hand, but treat it as symbolic gesture… I mostly rise on my own. Otherwise I'd just pull her down with me.

I can barely make out her face. My faceplate's speckled with blood, and hers is outright smeared with it. Hell, we're covered in the stuff, and so is the whole observation deck. Liquid gets everywhere in low gravity. It's even splashed on the windows, above and below.

We're standing over a pile of corpses, here on the lowest point of the circular wall. I guess right now it's the floor. The ship is a mess. We're a mess. My chest is reminding me that now the adrenalin is gone, and it's still a mass of bruises.

But we're alive.

“We made it,” says Miranda, like she's shocked, or trying to make sure.

“Yeah, we made it,” I reply, too wrung out with exhaustion, and… relief… to do anything but numbly state the obvious.

And then, with no transition, she's folded in my arms, her feet not touching the floor, and I don't even have any idea who started it, except, no, I think maybe it might have been me. She's pressed against me and she's hugging me back and my rifle is pinned between us and my chest really fucking hurts.

“Ow.”

“Oops. Uh… sorry.”

“Yeah, bad idea. I think I need to lie down for a bit now.”

“Bad… uh, yeah. Bad idea. I should check those ribs,” she says.

Then there's a hiss from somewhere. Is Leela trying to express disapproval? Disgust? It's not a human sound…

No, wait, it's the airlock. The fucking observation deck airlock, opening—

I whirl, but I'm too late, grabbing for my rifle… time slows, runs like tar, but my hands are just as glacial, fumbling to get the safety off, raise the muzzle…

The eleventh man, the man who didn't have an image, who Leela didn't see, is a descending dark blur behind the muzzle of the pistol, and then behind blinding flashes of light…one, two, three of them. I don't feel a thing, just a funny numbness in my chest, a spreading warm wetness…

And as Miranda raises my Sphinx and pounds the rest of the magazine into his unprotected face at little more than arm's length, I can only wonder, with an odd, detached calm, as the worlds fade to gray…

Why wasn't there a camera in the airlock?