Dominant Species (13 page)

"Don't get lost." The senior Marine nodded once, then vanished into the hole.

Darcy breathed a sigh of relief and slumped against the hull, grateful for a moment without an audience. She sucked for air, her breath little more than a damp wheeze. Another round of wracking coughs renewed the salty taste of blood in her mouth. She stood unsteadily in the aftermath and allowed her head to clear while the armor made one last sensor pass.

Only frozen darkness surrounded them.

Still, Darcy thought, her eyes gazing upward once more, you can never be too cautious.

She reached down to a compartment on her left thigh and produced a slightly curved grey brick. Toggling the motion-sensor to standby mode, she pressed the mine against the ship's hull on the left side of Papa-Six, just above the surface of the lake.

"That should discourage drop-in visitors," Darcy muttered grimly as she watched the fog close over the mine. At the speed of thought, a coded pulse flickered from her armor to the packet of high explosive and densely packed tungsten flechettes. The now-active mine appeared on the TAC, its disarm and manual detonation codes available to each Marine. With the ability to distinguish friend from foe, the mine would provide any strangers with a very abrupt greeting.

Darcy gave a short grunt of satisfaction. Like most snipers, she had little concern of what lay ahead. The ones that crept up from behind were the ones that killed you. A claymore remained her favorite doorbell.

With a final glance into the cavern's depth, Darcy turned to Papa-Six. Like a reptile born to water, the sniper flowed into the jagged opening and slipped beneath the surface with barely a ripple.

CHAPTER 11

Ridgeway had played in stadiums that were smaller than the massive engineering bay. The room extended easily twenty stories above the lake; he had no idea how far below the surface. Countless balconies lined the walls, many edged with pneumatic clamps and loading arms. At some point, Ridgeway surmised, gravitic skids would have ferried equipment from one cliff-ledge dock to another in a beehive of activity.

Halfway up the wall a singular broad balcony circled the entire room. The cantilever shelf extended roughly fifty meters out from the plane of the wall. A handrail ran along the lip of the balcony, although from this distance the metal bars looked like fine thread stretched taut along an endless row of needles.

Higher yet, wide round ducts dotted the chamber ceiling. The distant air handlers were easily twenty meters in diameter. Pushing his visual magnification to its limit, Ridgeway made out the enormous fan blades, motionless in their dark shrouds. The rest of the ceiling was covered with a densely packed collection of pipes, components and grates. Looking up at the crowded surface from below, it looked to Ridgeway like a city hanging upside-down.

A dead city, he amended dourly, it's buildings covered in ice.

Shrugging off the uncharacteristically prosaic line of thought, Ridgeway shifted his attention across the flooded chamber to the tower rising through it's center. He made it to be a central transit column, most likely running from the submerged floor below to the ceiling far overhead. The irregular column served as a hub for dozens of walkways and drive-ramps that radiated out like spokes to the surrounding walls. Ridgeway mentally tagged the narrow skyscraper and the callsign TOWER materialized, adding to the slowly evolving map on the TAC.

The Tower offered the most obvious route to the heart of the ship. Inside, there would likely be banks of elevators, though just as certain to be inoperative. But where you found elevators you would find stairs, ladders, avenues to the floors above.

Sliding his gaze up the Tower, Ridgeway considered his options. The exterior of the column was a mass of alternating ledges and depressions. Given the angle of the ship, he wondered if it would be easier to climb on the upper surface of the leaning Tower than to navigate a canted stairwell. Taz was already moving up the outside of the spire, clambering from one ledge to the next.

Darcy coughed again, the sound filled with a growing wetness. Although she held fast to her ability to soldier on, the deterioration was obvious. Twice Ridgeway had seen the sniper wobble unsteadily before gathering herself.

Ridgeway keyed a private Link. "Stitch, how's Darcy holding up?"

"She's got blood pooling in her lungs, Major. Even with the neuros, we'll be lucky if she makes it six hours before she drops." The appraisal was delivered in a flat, matter-of-fact tone that sounded like equal parts resignation and fatigue.

Ridgeway had seen enough death and dying to know that there was no way to sugar-coat bad news. Stitch was well-aware of Darcy's toughness, if the medic gave her six hours, the average guy would likely drop from the same injuries in four.

Ridgeway groped for options. As a last resort they could pool the final reserves from every suit of armor and hit Darcy with a short run of infra-red, but that would be no more than a delaying tactic. The cell-regenerating properties of pulsed infrared were therapeutic, but not miraculous. Given her condition, it might be of no use at all. Internal hemorrhage was taking a brutal toll on the sniper and little short of a full surgical unit could blunt that assault.

The other side of the argument was just as pressing. Dumping the last of their power to Darcy would leave the Marines defenseless, and that was not an option. Ridgeway had to save as many members of his team as possible, even at the expense of the one.

The image of the silver-grey medal crept unbidden into his thoughts and Ridgeway shook it off. He refused to admit defeat, clinging doggedly to the belief that he could save them all. They needed a break, he thought with growing anxiety, and breaks didn't just happen. You made them.

So get to work, Ridgeway chided himself, shrugging off the mental lapse. Make it happen.

He looked at the Tower and flagged additional target points in a blur of mental activity. "Monster, Merlin, the thermal flow is warmer on the starboard side of the Lobby. Head up the Tower and take the first ramp to the right. There's some heavy cable strung along the underside of the walkway-- follow it. If you get even a hint of voltage, run it down. Merlin, I need your best magic and I need it yesterday."

"We're on it." Monster growled. The bulky armored figure spun on it's heels, one gauntlet slapping sharply against Merlin's shoulder. The two set off at as aggressive a pace as they could force, magnetic boots clamping harshly to the pitched metal walkway with each determined step.

Ridgeway was already focused on the remaining Marines. "Darcy, you take Stitch and the Rimmer straight up the Tower. If the guys who built this bitch think at all like us, there should be some kind of command deck near the top with an overlook of the whole section. Maybe we get lucky and find a sickbay or an aid station."

He paused to look at the battered figures standing around him. Darcy leaned heavily against the metal rail, her posture screaming of pain and exhaustion. Ridgeway hated to push her any harder, but there was no other choice. Salvation, if any existed in this frozen grave, lay somewhere above. His voice filled with determination, Ridgeway gave the word. "Let's do it."

The Marines launched themselves without question. The objectives, as well as the stakes, were apparent to all.

As Stitch hefted the limp orange form across his left shoulder, one of the rubbery arms flopped oddly as though having two or three elbows. A dull moan drifted out, muffled by the suit's dense rubber skin.

The constant flex of unstable fractures was chewing steadily through the Rimmer's drug-induced haze. A screaming prisoner was an unacceptable compromise and soon Ridgeway would have to decide between burning additional drugs to keep him quiet, or silencing him for good. But the question of him having possible intel had yet to be answered. For now, the Rimmer would have to tough it out.

Darcy pushed herself away from the rail and one foot slipped in a sudden lurch that threatened to send the sniper sprawling. Grabbing the rail, she straightened as Stitch approached, leading the way with forced authority. Their boots rang solidly against the metal floor as they headed towards the Tower.

Ridgeway watched them go, knowing all to well the burden of responsibility that Darcy carried. She would march farther and fight longer for the men who depended on her than she would for herself. An ugly truth, but one that Ridgeway counted on.

As they fell into formation, Ridgeway keyed another private ComLink. "Taz, I need a sickbay and I need it now."

"On the way, Majah."

Overhead, the Aussie's plated form accelerated up the angled Tower like a carbon-composite spider. The Marine had gone from picking hand-holds to the brute force method of climbing spikes. With each hammering motion, Taz drove a thick blade into the sheet metal wall of the Tower, pulling himself up with relentless speed. Chunks of shattered ice cascaded down the side of the Tower, a pachinko rattle set to the steady beat of blades screeching through metal skin. So much for stealth.

Ridgeway called up Darcy's life signs on the TAC and noted her vitals with alarm. He toggled another private ComLink. "You holding up Lieutenant?"

"Feelin' strong, feelin' mean" she hissed back, quoting from a boot camp cadence. But what Ridgeway heard through her voice spoke louder than tough words. The wet rattle was unmistakable, a crackling wheeze that grew thicker with every labored breath.

"Hang in there Marine," Ridgeway instructed, his voice firm.

She coughed once. "You never let me down yet Major."

Ridgeway grimaced, wondering if that would still be true in six hours.

CHAPTER 12

"Dammit Merlin, can you get it running or not?"

Ridgeway slammed his fist down on the smooth console and a spider web of cracks fanned out across frost-covered plexan.

"Shit," he snarled, immediately regretting the outburst. He side-stepped across the sloped floor and looked out through the gaping hole in the wall of the Tower. Merlin was somewhere between the Command Deck, where Ridgeway now stood, and the surface of the lake some sixteen floors below.

A hoarse cough drew Ridgeway's attention and he turned back into the room. Darcy was slumped on the floor, the front of her armor gaping open once more. Steam rose from her body and curled in the frigid air. Stitch kneeled beside her, trying to offset the bleeding that relentlessly filled her lungs.

There had been no emergency sickbay on the command deck, only a small eyewash station and a first aid kit whose contents had long since been removed. Thus far the Marines had found no medical supplies at all.

Just beyond the recumbent sniper, a pair of mangled turbolift doors lay on the floor. Taz had ripped them out of their frame, using the elevator shaft as a faster route to higher floors. His trail wasn't hard to follow.

Although the room was just as cold as the rest of the cave, the volume of ice had decreased dramatically. A layer of crunchy frost coated most surfaces but this could be swept away with a pass of the hand. Sealed from the Lobby environment, at least until Taz carved his own doorway, the Command Deck had resisted the glacial progression seen outside the Tower.

Ridgeway could hear Taz moving above. The aussie's search method had eroded to charging down one dark hallway after another, kicking frozen doors out of the wall. They had run out of time for finesse.

He glanced at the chronograph that ticked relentlessly on the TAC. Almost four hours had elapsed since the Marines had entered the ship and they were still without power or sickbay.

Leaning forward, Ridgeway looked out the window and made a routine check on the figure in the orange suit. The Alliance driver lay in a heap on a retractable section of catwalk that extended no more than ten feet from the tower. On what amounted to a short plank high above the surface of the pool, the now-conscious trucker had nowhere to run. Not that he could run far on broken legs if he tried.

A mournful plea for help echoed for the hundredth time from outside the window.

Suck it up, pal, Ridgeway snarled inwardly. The incessant whining grated on his nerves. For the hundredth time he questioned the decision to drag the Rimmer along. A dubious source of information at best, the broken trucker had already proven to be a bothersome parasite. As the wails droned on, Ridgeway found himself sorely tempted to toss the orange-clad figure over the ledge.

He shook his head and shifted his attention to a neural switch. In a sudden blur, telepresence took him to a dark room where Merlin struggled with a tangle of equipment.

Through borrowed senses, Ridgeway assessed the scene. The cramped engineering room lay somewhere in the belly of the ship, its walls encrusted with switches and valves scattered among a tangle of heavy pipes. Ridgeway could see breaker boxes, fire extinguishers and a wide control panel. Glistening condensation beaded on every surface and droplets of water fell through the room in a slow, erratic percussion.

Water, Ridgeway realized, not ice. The room was warm.

As if they were his own, Ridgeway watched Merlin's hands rapidly splice paired wires pulled from a thick trunk of cable. Muttered curses drifted to Ridgeway's ears. "Come on you sonofabitch!" Merlin coaxed as his armored fingers moved with amazing dexterity.

"What've you got?" Ridgeway asked quietly.