Chapter 3

This is an unedited first look at my next project! Scene details may change before the final draft, but the gist of the story is there. You may find the odd typo or a sentence that doesn’t read quite right, but all that will be polished up before publication.

PFC Larke Olsom couldn’t breathe. The G-forces crushed down and held her there while the Gauntlet’s engines shrieked redline, every panel in the cargo bay threatening to shake loose. When the transport’s aux grav finally compensated—weak as it was—something deep inside her relaxed its grip, and she could breathe again.

The other boots from Three-Alpha weren’t doing much better, their bodies crushed against fold-out jumpseats that lined the bulkheads. Fresh sweat and blood filled the cargo bay, their victory for retaking the orbital’s hangar decks carried in that copper smell. They’d won that fight. Got those crews back to their ships. But winning didn’t mean safe. Not out here.

The Rikko twins breathed together beside her, like someone had copied and pasted the same Marine. CDF body mods or not, their spacer-thin frames weren’t built for this kind of beating. One standard G turned their faces to wrinkled leather. Made ‘em look like someone’s grandfathers. Hard to think of them as Marine material at all, but they’d proven that wrong back on Three-Alpha.

Doc Myers took up the space on her right, muttering into his wrist comms like this was all routine. Lance Corporal, sure, but he’d told her to call him Doc about thirty seconds after they’d met. Thirty-one seconds before he’d tried that smile on her. Founders knew it was a good smile. But she saw how his charm disappeared when the shooting started, replaced by something far more interesting. Not that she was going to tell him that.

Not four hours ago, she’d been helping the sergeant bust some chip-brained bot jockey out of Division custody with these three watching her back. For once someone had actually asked for her help instead of just taking what they wanted. Funny how that made her want to prove the sergeant right.

Some start to her Marine career. Didn’t exactly show that in the recruiting feeds. But they’d clicked somehow, the four of them. Maybe it was the shared crime, or just the way combat changed things. Not that it mattered now. The Concordat had crashed their little party, and she wasn’t going to be choosy about new friends while trying to stay alive.

“Sarnt says we have incoming,” Doc said. Even he couldn’t make that sound good.

“Ain’t that just great.”

Doc pulled a multi-tool from his combat engineer kit and probed a maintenance panel nestled among the duraplate tiles at his feet.

“What’re you doing?” she asked.

“Wait one.” The panel popped open, revealing rows of fine multicolored wire joined in the center by a small, flat junction. Doc traded the multi-tool for a field terminal and threaded a cable from the terminal to the junction. “I’m going to take a peek at whatever’s chasing us. Beats just sitting here waiting for something bad to happen.”

“I thought you fixed metal and meat?” Olsom asked. “What the hell do you know about ship systems?”

“A good combat engineer knows his way around any system: mechanical, informational, biological.” Doc flashed that million-cred grin until the terminal buzzed at him, its touchscreen filling with red block warnings. “Damn. This ship is old. Last maintenance update was thirty-two standard years ago. Might as well be speaking squid.”

“Aren’t all CDF ships old?”

“Most. Not all,” the Rikkos said together in their weird, coordinated way.

“The big ones take decades to build, so they have to last.” Shapes on the screen assembled like digital building blocks beneath Doc’s fingers. “But maintenance updates are an annual thing. Someone dug this boat out of mothball recently.” 

The last of the building blocks fell into place, and the terminal let out an affirmative two-tone chirp.

“There it is.” Doc pumped his fist, his eyes never leaving the screen. “Bringing up sensors and IFF feeds… now.”

The terminal’s simple holoproj painted a flat, 2D image centimeters above the display. At the center was a rough outline of the Gauntlet, with its angular, arrow-shaped hull, stub wings, and long tail boom. Three dots glowed red dead just outside their predicted weapons range. 

“Three bogeys at our one-eight-zero.”

“Looks like raider strike craft,” Olsom said. Their mere appearance on the plot sent her pulse rate climbing.

“Not bad for a boot-ass Marine straight off the parade deck.” Doc gave a slow, approving nod. “Someone was paying attention during threat ID training.”

“Could be worse, right?” She swallowed the fear rising in her throat.

“It’s not good,” Doc grumbled. “Squids may be shit engineers, but they’re dangerous in numbers. Besides, boats this small don’t have any shields, and squid lasers have bite.”

Tlan “Smokes” Rikko did his usual thing, cigarette hanging loose from his lips while he tried to look casual. “How long to—”

“—the next orbital?” And there was Vlan, right on cue. These two took weird to a whole other level, finishing each other’s thoughts like that.

Doc swiped the threat feed away and called up the nav plot. “At a hundred KPS relative, about ten minutes, give or take.”

“That’s a long time with raiders on our ass,” Olsom said.

The transport’s sub-light engines fired again, the brief punch of high-Gs softened by the aux grav seconds later. A series of alarm tones rang from the terminal as the threat feed reappeared.

“Ah, Twelfth! More raider fighters inbound, tracking on two-eight-zero.” Doc gripped the terminal under one arm and pulled his harness tight with the other. “Squids caught us in a pincer. They’ve got range!”

The hits came fast and sharp against the hull plates above. Combat lighting switched from bad to worse, turning everything red dead. Olsom braced hard, knowing whatever came next was going to hurt. When the howl came over the PA, she felt it in her bones.

“Uh, we’ve got a problem,” Doc said.

“No shit!”

“No.” He prodded the terminal with his finger. “I’m seeing thermal warnings in junction 1-6-Bronze-8.”

Combat lighting made everything blood-dark, but there was no mistaking that smell. Metal getting hot enough to kill. Her harness clicked free and she was already moving. Every ship carried fire suppression gear, even a rust bucket like this. She’d find it. Had to find it. Some lessons you only needed to learn once.

“What the hell are you doing?” Doc shouted. “We’re still evasive!”

The smell had her now, all memory and teeth. “Ain’t dying by fire, Doc.” She was already scanning the bulkheads. Somewhere. Had to be somewhere.

“One more bad aux grav delay and you’re a stain on the bulkhead!”

“Didn’t know you cared.” She threw a smirk Doc’s way and started hunting. Basic training had drilled ship layout into her head until she dreamed about it. Emergency gear always followed a pattern, if you knew where to look. And there it was, four seats down, red against gray. The extinguisher practically jumped into her hand as she grabbed for it.

Now, to find the fire. Beneath her feet, the aux grav made every step feel like a guess. She only needed one, maybe two minutes, but didn’t trust the old ship keep her upright long. Other Marines had left their seats, searching for the source as well. Smoke gathered near the ceiling, a hot, pitch black storm cloud that smelled like the twelve hells.

“Doc, where the hell is junction one-six-whatever?”

“It’s here, in the cargo bay. Starboard-side.” He pointed to the bulkhead opposite of them. “Look for an open maintenance panel.”

She spotted it quick enough, throwing sparks like angry stars. Her boots barely touched the deck as she wove through the cargo locks, extinguisher clutched tight. Then the whole universe tilted. The engines’ punch turned everything wrong, leaving her hanging in air that couldn’t decide which way to pull. When gravity finally picked a winner, she hit the deck, hard. Everything hurt and her stomach was doing backflips, but she still had the extinguisher.

No time to think. Just aim, breathe, and shoot. Retardant gel flowed from the extinguisher’s nozzle, clinging to the junction grid in thick, expanding gobs. The panel spit more sparks as the gel did its work, but the smoke began to clear. Maybe they’d make it after all. She turned to find Doc’s approval through the haze.

“How’s that for—”

The cargo bay erupted in a burst of light, heat, and a metal-rending bang! Her eyes burned, the long ghost of a laser beam still fading in her vision. The Gauntlet’s klaxons began their three-tone wail. Rapid decompression. Damn squids had stuck them good.

“Patch kit!” Doc threw off his harness and dove toward the floor where a funnel cloud of smoke whistled through a puncture in the deck.

“On it,” the Rikkos shouted back.

“Decompression, decompression, decompression!” came the call from the front of the cargo bay. “Rebreathers, now!”

Every ship in the fleet carried the same gear in the same place. The hazard strips led her right to the emergency station, those endless training drills finally paying off. Standard layout, standard symbols, standard everything.

She thumbed the release. Empty. Her mind refused to process it at first. Empty meant dead. Empty meant someone had cleaned this ship out and sent them up here anyway.

“I got nothing,” shouted another Marine four cells aft, staring into his own empty box.

“No pressure, Doc,” she said, “but this boat’s flying without vacuum kits.”

The Rikkos jogged back toward the breach carrying a flat metal crate between them. Doc pulled the crate beside him, its mag-locks engaging with an electric clack.

“You’re wrong, Bugs. Keep looking.” He pulled a plasma torch from the crate and cut away the jagged edges of the puncture. “This torch might work in a vacuum, but I don’t.”

She found another box where near the rear of the cargo bay. No vacuum kits. No medkits. But there was something inside this one, half a handprint smudged against the interior lid. In the hazard lighting, it looked redder than red. Like old blood.

Doc let out a ragged cough as he showed the twins where to place the sheet of hull patch. “Where’s our masks?”

The bite in his voice stung. “I’m telling you, there aren’t any!” she growled back. Not her fault nobody bothered to pack this flying coffin before they launched.

“Okay, okay.” White-hot plasma burned from his torch, welding the hull patch to the deck. “Get my terminal. Let me know what else on this piece of shit needs fixed.”

She collapsed into her jumpseat and grabbed the field terminal. It felt wrong in her lap—bulkier, more rugged than the admin block learning pads. She tapped it, and the screen went all buttons and symbols like some techno fever dream.

“What am I supposed to be—?” She stopped, tried again. “Doc, none of this makes any sense.”

“Shit!” The venting had stopped but something still whistled through a gap where the patch hadn’t stuck. Doc was already moving, second patch in hand, torch spitting white fire. “System diagnostics. Upper right. Maybe.”

“Maybe?” The menu might as well be written in lupanthaese. NAV CTRL. COMM CTRL. FTL CTRL. Half the options were grayed out. The other half might as well have been “I… I don’t see it. Doesn’t anything work on this ship?”

“Figure it out,” Doc spat.

Olsom slid her finger over the screen, scrolling to reveal more options. CARGO CTRL. POD CTRL. SYS DIAGS. There it was. The menu slipped sideways, replaced by another list of building block shapes colored red or green.

She smiled. “Got it.”

“Alright, let’s take it by the numbers,” Doc said, hair soaked with sweat. “Remember, green good, red dead.”

“Yeah.”

“Sub-light engines.”

She blew a breath. “Green. Good.”

“Holy Twelfth, I could kiss you. Hull integrity.” 

And damn if she didn’t want him to mean it, just a little. “Er, red.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Doc groaned. The patch’s thin edge beaded beneath the torch. “RCS.”

“Good.”

“Well, at least we can still run. Aux grav.”

“Good.” The building block labeled AUX GRAV flashed twice, then went red. “Wait, no. It’s red.”

“Shit. Probably power feedback from the junction on 1-6.” He tossed the torch into the crate. “This is as good as it gets. Any more heat and the patches will tear. Hey, Rikkos, give me a hand.”

Together, Doc and the twins hauled the repair crate over the leaky welds and re-magnetized it.  Doc wiped the sweat off his forehead and gave the crate a kick.

“Good enough for Navy work.”

“Seen worse,” the Rikkos said.

The background hum of aux grav fields faded away, and there was no force keeping them on the floor. The click of boot magnetics rippled through the cargo bay as the Marines returned to their jump seats. Olsom strapped on her seat harness, keeping one hand on the bulky field terminal.

A warning flashed on its screen: IFF UPDATE. NEW CONTACTS.

“Hold on.” She tapped the alert, and the screen flipped back to threat display. Six red dots zig-zagged behind the Gauntlet, their weapon vector lines flashing with incoming fire. But they were dropping back, edging beyond the maximum effective range of their lasers.

Two dots emerged at the top of the screen. Small and fast moving. IFF returns labeled them Razor One and Two, colored friendly blue.

“Founders, they’re ours!”

“Gauntlet, this is Razor One,” the pilot crooned over the PA, calm and cool like the jet jockeys in the government feeds. “Looks like you’ve got some uninvited guests.”

“Razor One, Victory Five. You’re just in time,” the major’s voice came next with no hint of concern. “These squids crashed our party and now they’re shitting on the floor.”

“Just call us the clean-up crew, Victory Five. Victory Actual sends his regards.”

The cargo bay went wild, everyone acting like they hadn’t just about died. Doc practically bounced beside her, all victory slaps and that handsome-trouble smile. Even the twins looked alive through their wrinkled faces. She managed something close to a grin, but she felt like spare parts.

On the threat feed, the two blue markers split apart, their movement vector lines stretching as they gained speed. The red dots did the same, their focus switching from the Gauntlet to the incoming strike fighters. Razor Flight was outnumbered, but not outgunned. Weapons vectors flashed between the passing strike craft, and two red dots faded from the plot.

“Hard dock, two minutes,” the wolf pilot growled over the PA.

“Hard dock?” Her stomach already knew she wouldn’t like the answer. “That’s bad, right?”

“Put it this way—” Doc tucked the terminal away with a too-casual shrug. “Remember all that fun we just had with gravity? That was practice.”

Something made her do a double-take when she looked back at the twins. Without gravity yanking at their faces, they actually looked their age. Just two eps floating there without a care in the void. Hard to believe these were the same geezers who’d been fighting beside her ten minutes ago. Founders take her, but they looked almost normal.

“You two gonna be okay?”

Smokes nodded. “Our body mods are—”

“—guaranteed within human norms,” Vlan said.

“What does that mean?”

“You live, we live,” they said through identical, mischievous grins.

The sound of barked orders and clattering gear grew silent. Subtle vibrations buzzed through the deck, and a queasiness in the pit of her stomach said they were maneuvering for a braking burn.

“Here we go.” Doc sucked in a breath and grimaced. “Twelfth save us.”

Olsom gripped her harness and mumbled, “Okay, Doc.”

The engines roared and suddenly she was being crushed from every direction. Breathing became something she had to remember how to do. Alert lights started fading to nothing as black crept in from the edges of her vision.

Just had to stay alive. One second at a time. Don’t think about home. Don’t think about Ma and Pa. Don’t think about how space was just another fire waiting to take what it wanted.

The noise died except for metal cooling and engines purring. She could see again, could breathe again, could almost believe they’d made it. Then something big reached out and caught them. The stop knocked her teeth together, and suddenly gravity had opinions about which way was up.

Her didn’t agree. She barely got her harness off before she was retching, bile hitting the deck between her boots. Her throat still burned when the major’s voice came over comms.

“Welcome to the Victory, Marines.”

Then hands were steadying her—Doc and Vlan, while Smokes hovered nearby. All of them wearing those done-but-not-dead grins. Still breathing. Still together.

Maybe death was waiting around every corner out here in the void. But staying alive was the one thing she knew how to do. The blocks had taught her to fight for herself. The Colonial Defense Marines had taught her something else—how to fight for others. And these new friends, strange as they were? Worth fighting for.