Several hours later, Hadeishi climbed awkwardly up one of the gangways to the command deck, having trouble adjusting to the restricted field of vision and clumsy weight of his new armor. The bandolier of grenades strapped across his chest and the bulky Yilan -class shipgun over his shoulder banged against him with every movement. Maybe, he thought-a little late- this wasn’t a good idea.
Clomping in his heavy boots, the Nisei made his way onto the bridge and fetched up beside Tocoztic’s station at Navigation. The Thai-i looked up at the sound, about to snarl something rude, and yelped in alarm. Trying to leap backward while snatching out his service sidearm earned the lieutenant a hard collision with the second chair, a bruise, and a seat on the deck.
“Resume your station, Thai-i. I am no Khaid.” Mitsuharu opened the visor of the salvaged combat armor to expose his features. His face seemed a little small inside a helmet designed for the larger Khaidite cranium and jaw, but the foundation of the suit itself was composed of a gel similar to that used by the Fleet, and had sized itself to his frame as best it could. The chitin plates riding on the gelcore were now awkwardly distributed, but he hoped they’d still serve.
Tocoztic recovered himself smartly, climbing up from the floor with a doughty, “ Hai, Chu-sa! ”
“Status of that light cruiser, Thai-i?”
“Still holding course, dead on for the end of our burn, kyo.”
“Hm.” Hadeishi frowned, turning to the holocast to check their vector.
De Molay, working on a thermos of tea, raised an eyebrow at the Nisei officer. “I thought you wanted them to come hunting for you?”
“I want them to come-look-find nothing-and return to their initial patrol pattern.” He tugged a stylus from the holder at the edge of the Navigator’s console and sketched out a trajectory in the air. “Like so. Then, when we overlap course here-roughly-we’ll match velocity for nearly thirteen minutes.”
Mitsuharu looked over at the old woman, his face filled with speculation. “Unless… can your absorptive mode swallow our engine flare as well?”
“No, it cannot!” De Molay sat up, wincing at the pain in her side. “It is a passive system, as you can well guess. It is not a weapon, but a defense.”
Hadeishi laughed, brightening for a moment. “We will make do, Sencho.”
Feeling well enough to stand, the old woman limped over to him and examined the Khaid armor from top to bottom, testing the dark black-and-green fittings and running a fingertip along the tight, blocky lettering on the upper arms. Nodding in approval, she said, “You make a fine raider, Chu-sa Hadeishi. I think you’ve been in the wrong business all along!” Then her face grew more serious. “How many are you taking in with you?”
“I leave you our esteemed Thai-i here as pilot,” he said, “plus two in Engineering and Galliand in medbay. But not Cajeme, he’s in the first team with me.”
De Molay’s expression darkened and she rapped him sharply on the arm, making the chitinous armor ring hollowly. “That would be fifty-five men sent to their deaths, Chu-sa, if your calculations are wrong.”
“ Wilful carries no missiles, no guns, Sencho. We cannot overcome this Khaid from a safe distance. We must do this the hard way, as your ancestors did in the old days.” He flashed a brief smile. “And so we need at least eight minutes at zero-delta, but thirteen would be better.”
“We could abandon this place, take these men to the nearest Fleet depot.” The old woman’s voice was beginning to sound tired. Her fingers tightened on his arm. “Saving some would be better than losing all, would it not?”
Hadeishi shook his head. “These men and women are Fleet, Sencho. It is not in them to flee the battlefield when their comrades can still be saved, or when they can still strike out at our enemies.”
Then he carried her back to the shockchair, and the Thai-i helped him tuck her into the blankets.
“Ten minutes to intercept.” Tocoztic’s voice echoed in Mitsuharu’s earbug. Within the Wilful ’s port cargo-bay, ship-comm was still working. The Chu-sa had the Khaid radio in his armor working as well, which let him hear the rasping breath and muttering of every man and woman crowded into the bay with him. The alien armor was lacking any number of features-no personal vitals, no med-band-style dispensers-but it would hold pressure, the chitin-scale armor was tough, and the maneuvering jets had propellant. No complaints.
“All teams, equipment check,” Hadeishi announced, rotating to the crewmen who’d drawn Team One duty with him. There were five-Cajeme and his two assistants, who were heavily laden with demolitions packs and a pair of magnetic rams-then a marine for security, and the junior comm officer from the Eldredge, who had survived the destruction of her ship by an utter miracle, and was kitted out with the most powerful field comp they could salvage from the Wilful and a satchel filled with tools, spare parts, and data crystals. Mitsuharu ran through a careful check of Cajeme’s z-suit and his demolition packs. “Can’t have you lose air while we’re working, Nitto-hei. You might drop something that makes a loud bang.”
The Yaqui’s leathery face remained impassive as he waited, but his nut brown eyes were sparkling. “The Chu-sa relates an excellent joke, kyo. Knowing how difficult it is to drop things in z-g.”
“Eight minutes.” The Thai-i ’s voice was growing tenser by the second.
“All teams, sound off by section,” Mitsuharu ordered as Cajeme finished checking the Chu-sa ’s armor. Team Two was also six men-two engineer’s mates and the rest of the blasting plastic, along with a portable monofilament saw from the Wilful ’s shop and a plasma cutter carried by two more able-bodied men-then another two marines with salvaged Khaid grenade launchers. Team Three was next-eighteen men in the heaviest armor and shipguns, either Fleet or Khaid, they could scrape together-and then Team Four, the cleanup crew, which comprised the remaining twenty-five. These men were armed, in some cases with no more than their personal sidearms.
“Six minutes, kyo. Target is holding steady course.”
Hadeishi nodded to Cajeme and the junior comm officer. “Load up.”
Cajeme and his cutters swung up into the first tray on the cargo gantry. Hadeishi and the comm officer followed, spacing themselves equidistant across the second tray, with the marine to her left.
I’ll miss our little talks, De Molay’s voice came in his earbug, when you’ve had your guts pulverized on the side of that ship.
Mitsuharu clicked his teeth, switching channels. “The cruiser’s still off-vector?”
By a point and a half. The freighter captain’s voice was very dry. You’ll only have three minutes and you won’t be coming in at a right angle.
“As long as our velocities match, we’ll be fine.” Hadeishi felt his blood quicken, his vision sharpen, everything begin to grow preternaturally clear. “Just keep a steady hand on the tiller, Sencho .”
“Five minutes.” Tocoztic’s voice had settled, becoming hard and flat. “We’re in their wake. Powering up the gantries.”
A set of rails embedded in the roof and floor of the cargo bay rattled to life, warning lights blinking and their motors whining. Team One was on the ventral rail, crouching in their successive loading trays-each a large, X- shaped rectangle a few centimeters larger than an Imperial-standard cargo pod. Team Two had already secured themselves to the second tray-and directly “below” them the rest of the teams were swarming into the second rail.
We’re in the drive-plume full-on, De Molay reported, though Mitsuharu could already hear a roar of background static on the Khaid radio as the exhaust of the Khaiden ship’s antimatter drive washed over the Wilful ’s hull. Three minutes and we’re popping out like an appleseed. Primary hull temperature is soaring and we’re getting radiation damage to the secondary.
“All teams, secure yourselves!” Hadeishi craned his neck, eyeballing everyone. He secured his tether to Cajeme, who was already linked to the others. “Three minutes, thirty seconds to the bay doors, four minutes to contact!”
Time dragged as Mitsuharu breathed slowly and steadily through each nostril in succession, steadying his heartbeat. The radio circuit was filled with tiny noises-men praying under their breath, the rasp of someone with smoke-damaged lungs, the tic-tic-tic of someone nervously clicking their teeth together.
