But, leaving Gunny Neely in place and fighting his way through the remnants of the dog-demons facing them, the chief trotted down the corridor. It was a ship and it was surprisingly humanlike. Oh, somebody bigger than humans but they seemed to think alike. SEALs trained a lot in the layout of ships. One of their main missions was to take them down, after all.
He found the elevator right where he expected, took it up one level, headed back. He’d used the same system as the first sergeant to examine what Two-Gun was looking at as the sergeant received his suicidal orders. And they were good orders. Top knew what had to be done and he ordered it. Miller admired that in a leader. But there was such a thing as a back-up plan. And while Miller wasn’t going to steal First Sergeant Powell’s thunder, wasn’t going to undercut his authority, it wasn’t like Top outranked him.
So he trotted down a corridor and found what he thought he’d find, a walkway looking down into something that looked one hell of a lot like a quarterdeck. You had to have some place to assemble troops. You tended to put it near the bridge, so the CO or the admiral didn’t have to walk too far. And you set it up so people could watch. Whoever built this thing thought a lot like humans.
There was a dog-demon guarding it. On the other hand, it was watching the fray below. Like their larger cousins, because biologists had determined that the two were closely related, the dog-demon had this little patch right behind its armored head…
And so there was no longer a dog-demon guarding the walkway. Miller ducked back as the rhino fired. No reason to stand around when plasma was going off.
He stepped back out as it chuffed, took aim, stopped and waited as Two-Gun — what a kid! — stumbled out of the smoke and flames of what should have killed him by all rights and blazed away with his two cut-down Barretts. Of course, the kid couldn’t see. Most of his optics had to have been blasted out and the vision plate on the front of his armor was covered in soot. But it was a game show, really game. Damn that kid was good. Miller couldn’t like him more unless he was a SEAL.
The chief shook his head inside his armor and fired one round from the 14.5, blowing out the brains of the preparing-to-charge-and-fire-again-I’m-going-to-smear-that-suit-of-armor rhino. Which dropped like a pithed frog just as Two-Gun’s pistols clicked back empty. Really, unless you looked real close the damage from a 14.5 through the back of the head wasn’t going to look all that different than a .50 through the soft palate of the mouth.
Berg collapsed and the SEAL chief warrant officer ghosted back down the corridor, unnoticed.
“And that sounded expensive,” Spectre admitted as the ship dropped out of warp. “What do you think, Command Weaver? Over or under a billion?”
In space, nobody can hear you scream. But you could hear a ship scream, it transmitted through the feet of your boots, through hands gripping stanchions and controls. And the Vorpal Blade was screaming a death knell.
“Under a billion,” Bill replied.
“XO? Damage report.”
“We just lost the tail,” the XO said over the command freq.
“You mean the towed array sonar?” Spectre replied. “No big deal. Sonar is not a necessary component at the moment.”
“No, Captain, I mean the tail. The ship just broke apart aft of the main engine room.”
“Good, Commander Weaver owes me a dollar,” the CO said. They’d just lost the very expensive towed array sonar, yes. But also the propellers, the turbines that drove them, the reducing gear and just about everything that made a submarine capable of being a submarine. “However, we don’t use any of that stuff in space. It was just more target area. Any casualties?”
“Not on that run,” the XO replied. “But if we take a round through the sickbay it’s going to get ugly.”
“Agreed. How’s the neutrino generator holding up?”
“The tribble is still successfully duct taped to the phaser, Conn!”
“Good,” Spectre said uncertainly. “Prepare for another run.”
“Now that was something that I hadn’t expected,” Weaver said, chuckling.
“And that was?”
“That Commander Belts-And-Suspenders was a Voltaire fan. Somehow I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around that image.”
“The philosopher?”
“Musician. It’s a long story, sir.”
“For later then,” the CO said. “Pilot, engage.”
“Oh, grapp me,” Berg muttered. “Hello?”
He was roasting. The inside of the suit was like an oven; it had to be over a hundred degrees, maybe two hundred.
“Hello?” he yelled.
“You there, Two-Gun?” a voice sounded through the armor. A claw scrabbled at the vision port and then another came into view. He found himself looking at the first sergeant through the two thick panes of aliglass.
“Top?” Berg yelled. “I think everything is out on this thing.” He pushed at his actuators and managed to get an arm moving but it was like lifting weights.
“I’ve been checking it out,” the first sergeant yelled. “All your motivators are out but it’s functional in manual mode. Drink some water, though. You’re going to dehydrate fast until it cools down.”
Berg sucked at the water nipple, then shrugged.
“I think the bladder burst from the heat,” Berg said, coughing. “That would explain the steam.”
Even without motivators it was still possible to roll a Wyvern upright. Not easy, mind you, but possible. But when he got to his feet, he started to sway and shimmy.
“What the hell?” Berg shouted.
“Look at Two-Gun disco,” a voice boomed from behind him. “Welcome to the manual version of the Wyvern. They suck and I say that as someone with way too much time in them.”
“What happened?” Berg shouted back, turning stiffly to see the chief standing behind him. Unlike his own and the first sergeant’s, the chief’s armor was pristine, with the exception of a splotch of blood on one claw.
“You got it, son,” First Sergeant Powell shouted. “You got it. Good job.”
“Great,” Berg said. “How? My machine gun’s off-line.”
“Here,” the first sergeant replied, holding out Berg’s pistols. Both were locked back. He didn’t even recall firing them.
“Oh,” Berg said. “Great.”
“Hang on,” another voice boomed. “Just hold still.”
“Do I got fungus on me?” Berg yelled, suddenly. “Get it off if I do!”
“Crisped,” the first sergeant replied.
“Fried to cracklin’,” the chief added. “Seriously burned up totally. Not an issue.”
“Okay,” Berg shouted, suddenly realizing he’d heard the last clearly. “Lurch?”
“I’ve got the commo module replaced,” the former armorer replied. “How’s that?”
“Great,” Berg said normally. “Motivators?”
“Harder,” Lurch replied. “Those I don’t have spares for.”
Berg’s armor rocked forward and his machine gun came into view.
“You can fire one of these things offhand,” Lurch said, handing him the 14.5. “But they’re kind of heavy without motivators. And your ammo’s—”
“Blown up,” Chief Miller finished. “Seriously, son, you should see the back of your armor. It’s almost funny. The good news is the blow-out panels work.”
“Great,” Berg said. “What now, First Sergeant?”