Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles) (48 page)

Tahgs looked up from two wounded colonists. “Kra,” she said stoically, “be careful.” The frightened, desperate expression betrayed what her voice hid.

“Will do.” I winked. I took her right hand. “We’ll have dinner again sometime. Promise.” I wanted to ask about Benny, but didn’t. Before she responded I nudged Skids forward. “Unfold that riot shield.”

The chief issued orders as we trotted away. “Mer, colonist, over there. Tahgs, you know how to use that laser carbine?”

Skids looked back. “I won’t lie to you,” I said to him. “But if they don’t make it, they’ll take a lot of Stegmars and Crax with them.” I urged him on. “If we don’t make it, their bravery will be wasted.”

We slipped past more colonist quarters and the rec area, all the time circling upward toward the cargo bay. “My ears are ringing a bit,” I whispered. “You hear anything, let me know.”

We crept through the diesel farm equipment, avoiding several dead Stegmar and colonist bodies, and one engineer identifiable only by a few tatters of dull orange fabric. “Listen, Skids.” He’d already stopped. A voice or two echoed. “I think it’s coming from the cargo bay door.” Skids nodded in agreement.

We crawled around several carts, a large tractor, and a combine.

“Go warp-screw yourself!”

“That’s Maintenance Tech Gudkov,” I whispered.

“Information or the female ends, human,” ordered a synthetic voice. It accented the command with a gurgling hiss.

I crawled forward. Backed against the main door stood Gudkov, facing three Gar-Crax. Behind him stood McAllister. One Crax was an elite in armor. The others appeared to have defense screen generators on their belts. Posted were two Stegmar Mantis. One Gar-Crax faced the access terminal, manipulating a boxlike device.

“Skids,” I whispered. “Sneak over to the right, past the diesel engines.”

“Access door?” he asked.

“Correct. I’ll distract the Crax. You sneak in, get to the shuttle and go.”

“That armored Crax. He’ll kill you.”

“Keep your voice down. I’ve no intention of letting him catch me.” Skids was smart enough to know the odds. I reached into my breast pocket. “Know what these are?”

“Shotgun shells.”

I shook my head. “Popcorn nukes.” His eyes widened. Distant gunfire erupted. “That’s the chief and Mer. Now go.” I collapsed his shield. “Fast as you can. Be silent.” He crawled back behind the carts and began a circular approach.

“Time gone,” said the elite Crax, and knocked Gudkov aside with a backhand.

I took aim at the Crax with the computer, hoping his screen was drained or facing forward.
Blam
! It went down with a hole in the base of its skull. I fired twice more, the first round of buckshot whizzed into the Stegmars, knocking one down and injuring the other. The follow up slug struck the injured Stegmar in the lower thorax, knocking it back. It kicked and spun, but never got up.

To my right, Skids was slinking, making for the door. I ducked as caustic pellets raked the intervening tractor. I slung my shotgun and drew my revolver. I climbed and took aim at the advancing elite soldier.
Crack—Dthzthing
! The AP round struck the helmet, didn’t penetrate, but left a mark. I stood my ground and fired again, hitting its chest without slowing it.

The elite Crax leapt on top of the tractor. I jumped down and faked to my right, before diving under the tractor. The Crax went for the fake giving me the chance to roll under. I didn’t have time to fire before the elite spun and sent caustic fire my way. Tires and metal sizzled.

I made for a cart, the Crax pounding in pursuit. I felt a round impact my helmet and I flipped it off before acid reached my flesh. I slid under the cart wildly returning fire.

I saw the Crax’s feet leave the ground, and I scrambled to reverse my momentum.
Thunk,
in the wagon.
Clump
, the Crax hit the floor. I scampered back under, and holstered my revolver. My only hope was to get the eye slits. I unslung my shotgun. Diving and rolling with bayonet fixed had been reckless, but I was happy to have it now—sort of.

The elite soldier took my action as intent to engage in armed combat. His A-Tech blades against my bayoneted shotgun. I had no intention of honor and let loose. The steel buckshot rattled harmlessly off its elongated faceplate.

I backed away. A flick of its halberd clipped away the tip of my bayonet. I fired again with no results. The elite Crax charged, swinging its blades down. I braced my shotgun above my head. The blow drove me to my knees, but the barrel’s perforated sheathing held. Like the chief’s pike, the Umbelgarri alloy withstood the molecular saw.

Surprised, the Crax pressed down. I gritted, resisted. His bulk and armor-enhanced strength tore at my shoulders, compressed my entire body. Something landed on the armored soldier’s back.

It was the Chicher diplomat. In a flash he whipped his tail blade around and drove it into a vulnerable spot. The rat-like alien left the quad-blades imbedded in the Crax’s armpit and vaulted off the elite soldier’s back before it could react and grab him. From on top of a tractor cab the Chicher spit on its remaining hand blades in defiance.

The soldier grasped at the quad-blade. I rolled away and fired upward before it succeeded. The Crax snarled and turned on me.

I scuttled back, seeing a thin stream of red running down from under its arm. “We hurt it,” I yelled. “It’s bleeding.”

The Chicher clucked and chattered something, drawing the injured Crax’s attention. The soldier turned, stumbled, then lunged at the taunting Chicher, but didn’t quite make the top of the tractor hood. Still, it deliberately swung its halberd, slicing through the cab, sending the Chicher scurrying over the side.

I slid a flare round into my shotgun and aimed for the faceplate when it turned. Blam! The yellow flare ignited, blinding the soldier. It dropped its halberd and fell to the ground. A gauntlet clumsily knocked the ignited chemical paste aside. I sidestepped, drew my revolver, and took aim. The AP round penetrated the crystal eye slit. The body slumped before the armor locked in place.

I sighed before turning toward the bay door. A Gar-Crax was still up, engaged in hand-to-hand with Gudkov. I holstered my revolver, not chancing an AP round into the bay door. Instead, I slid two slug rounds into my shotgun.

The Crax’s jaw hung at an odd angle, but Gudkov looked worse off. Blood poured from a head wound, his blood-soaked uniform was rent from shoulder to hip, and his right arm hung, dangling. McAllister lay dazed behind him.

I fired from the hip just as the Crax leapt and spun, slamming its tail into the battered human. My slug took the Crax in the thigh as it landed, causing it to stagger and fall. My second shot clipped it in the tail.

The Crax climbed erect with a snarl. Its screen intercepted my next shot. It hobbled forward to retrieve its halberd. I searched for cover as it took aim.

From behind, a red-haired dervish leapt onto the Crax’s back, grasped its broken jaw and yanked. The Crax snarled and screeched. Instinctively it spun, grasping for its attacker. I fired another lead slug into its ribs. The Crax’s wounded leg collapsed and it crashed to the floor. McAllister rolled away while I charged and fired again, and again.
Click
. I drove what remained of my bayonet into the alien’s neck and twisted before it could rise. Blood sprayed. It grabbed the shotgun muzzle, then fell limp.

I loaded more shells and searched for enemies. “Skids,” I yelled. Maybe he hadn’t made it into the bay yet.

“No!” cried McAllister. “Keesay, help me.” Covered in blood, one eye swollen shut, she looked up. “He’s dying!” Frantically she applied pressure to his chest and abdomen. Blood welled over her fingers.

I jumped and leveled my shotgun at two approaching forms. I nodded to the Chicher and said to Skids, “Post. Yell if you see anything.” I knelt across from McAllister. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

“No,” she sobbed. “Help him.”

I surveyed Gudkov’s injures. “Right shoulder dislocated,” I mumbled. “And forearm broken.” I looked further. “Lacerations, a bite to the scalp. No cranial penetration.” I recalled the tail blow. “Ribs broken, possible punctured lung.” I lifted McAllister’s hands. “Deep abdominal wounds.”

“Shut up and help him!”

Somehow Gudkov had retained consciousness. “Never liked. You rugged damn Relic.” He knew he didn’t have long and locked eyes with McAllister. “Nova, go with Keesay.”

She cradled his head. “No! Don’t leave me.”

“Can’t help it.” He looked back to me. “Keesay?”

“I’ll protect her.”

Fading, he searched with his good hand for McAllister’s. “Relic, say something. A prayer for me, for us.”

I was at a loss. McAllister hovered close, listening to Gudkov’s faltering words. “I love you, too.” She looked to me. “He’s dying,” she cried.

I placed my hand on his head, and recited as best I could from memory, a verse from my grandfather’s funeral. “For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to be born. A time to die.”

McAllister sniffled, eyes locked with her companion. Until that moment I hadn’t even considered Gudkov as her love.

“A time to plant,” I continued, “and a time to pluck that which has been planted. A time to kill, and a time to heal. A time to break down, and a time to build up. A time to weep, and a time to laugh. A time to mourn, and a time to dance. A time to embrace, and a time to refrain.”

McAllister was calming. Gudkov was struggling to hang on, somehow smiling.

“A time to get and a time to lose. A time to rend, and a time to sew. A time to be silent, and a time to speak.” I took a breath. “A time to love, and a time to hate. A time of war, and a time for peace.” I slowed. “Anatol Gudkov. It’s now your time for peace.”

His hand clenched McAllister’s. Then his eyes rolled up and closed. She pulled him to her. “No!”

Her cry haunted me, same as years before. I got up and looked around. Skids had watched Gudkov die while the Chicher stood guard. The alien signed, “Move.”

I signed, “Agreement,” and pulled McAllister away from Gudkov. “We’ve got to go. More Crax and Stegmar on the way.”

“So?” she asked.

Empathy would get me nowhere. I spun her around, clenched the front of her shirt and pulled her close. “I just made a promise to a dying man. I intend to keep it.” I let her go. “You might consider survival. It’s what
he
wanted. Otherwise his sacrifice means nothing.”

She gazed down. “Now,” I said. “Get us into that bay!” I tugged a platinum ring from Gudkov’s finger and slapped it into her hand. “Put this in your pocket and get moving.”

Skids ran up and yanked on my vest. “The system says the bay’s depressurized.”

“Damn! McAllister.”

A glimmer of a smile crossed her lips. “Inverted the reading. Let’s go.”

I signaled to the Chicher to follow. As McAllister entered her code, gunfire and flashes emanated from beyond the agricultural equipment.

McAllister halted the door’s elevation at thirty inches. “Get under. It’ll drop and lock in fifteen seconds. Depressurization will begin thirty seconds after that.”

I followed Skids, McAllister, and the Chicher. The exploration shuttle rested in the center of the cargo bay, surrounded by secured crates and equipment. It looked like a modernized ground assault shuttle on steroids. McAllister turned and stared at Gudkov, solidifying the scene in her mind until the door dropped. I waited with her, and urged Skids toward the shuttle.

McAllister clamped the ring between her hands, raised it to her forehead, and whispered. Then she snapped, “I’m fine. Get going.”

“You know anything about shuttles?” I asked as we ran. “Spotted some of the crew dead back there.”

Her battered, reddened face betrayed more than her words. “What do you think?”

“I was hoping so.”

A shuttle crewman ushered us up the ramp. Except for her midnight skin, she could’ve been Club’s twin, angry expression and all. “Inside,” she said. “Either of you know anything about shuttles?” She recognized McAllister. “Okay, you do.”

“I know something about pulse lasers,” I said.

Club’s twin slapped the wall panel. The ramp retracted and the door slammed shut. She grabbed my shotgun and thumbed, “Aft, ventral.” She looked to McAllister. “We’re short-handed. Man the cascading engine. You, kid, get yourself and your furry friend strapped in.”

“Hang in there, Skids,” I said. “We’re just a little behind your mother.”

The exploration shuttle was huge compared to standard shuttles. I climbed around a land survey vehicle to find the ventral turret just forward of the engine compartment. I lowered myself into the control seat and slipped on the auxiliary com-gear before surveying the controls. The engines began to hum. I doubted the computer targeting system would lock on, so after activating the system I keyed manual control. It queried twice before enabling manual control of the dual pulse lasers.

“Ventral turret, status,” called the pilot.

“System powered. Manual control selected.” I continued to study the system. It was more advanced than the simulator’s.