‘Everyone stay sharp,’ he said. ‘You never know when some crazy old hauler will decide today’s the day he wants to make a stand against the rule of law.’ His commander had used that line on his first boarding mission. He’d thought it was catchy enough to remember for future use, but felt awkward saying it.
There were mutters of ‘Aye, sir’ from behind, but they were swallowed up by the sound of the Marines checking over their weapons. He envied them the heavier body armour of their suits. There was a good chance they would be able to take a hit from a smaller weapon and survive it. The same shot would cut through him and keep going until it hit something more substantial. Their job was to stand between him and the projectile, so he hoped they were good at what they did.
The approach to a suspect vessel was always a tense moment—more so when you’d only done it a couple of times, all of which had been peaceable affairs. Eventually, every naval officer had to deal with a resisted boarding, and you never knew how you were going to react until there was someone shooting at you. His reputation was chequered enough. The last thing he needed was to be seen freezing under fire. He unholstered his pistol, removed the clip of plasteel bullets, checked that the chamber was clear, and tested the firing mechanism a few times, hoping the rote-learned movements would calm his nerves.
There were a number of things the target vessel and its crew could do to make Samson’s life difficult. If they tried to make a break for it as the shuttle approached the vessel’s entry hatch, they could be left stranded there while the Sidewinder went in pursuit. It was an uncomfortably small vessel to have to sit in for hours awaiting the mother ship’s return. If the vessel fired their thrusters at the right moment while the launch was initiating its docking procedures, they could rip the airlock off the launch and cause an explosive evacuation. Some of them would likely survive—those farthest from the hatch—but experiencing that was never going to be the high point of your day. With the launch crippled, the cargo vessel would then be free to depart while the Sidewinder would be forced to remain and attempt to recover her crew. He could only hope that whoever was watching from the Sidewinder’s sensors was alert enough to spot a power surge, and have the weapons officer knock out the engines beforehand.
The coxswain brought the launch up alongside the cargo vessel’s hatch, hove to, and then initiated the boarding airlock. Samson did his best to push his concerns to one side, but as soon as the green light indicated a successful coupling and a good pressure seal, he breathed a sigh of relief. The boarding crew donned their helmets and readied to move off.
‘Final equipment check,’ Samson said. ‘Suit pressure, helmet seal, weapons loaded and safety catches on.’ His career might have sunk as low as it could, but he had no intention of having a fatality on his first mission in charge. ‘Everyone ready?’
‘Ready to go.’
Samson put his helmet on, checked that it was locked in place, and pressurised his suit. ‘Sergeant, lead the way.’
‘On me,’ Sergeant Price said. He hit the hatch release button and disappeared into the small telescopic boarding lock.
His Marines followed without hesitation, while Samson listened to hear if the launch depressurised. There was no sound of rushing air, and no sound of gunfire. With atmosphere present, he would have been able to hear any trouble. So far so good.
‘Entrance clear!’ Price’s voice was louder through Samson’s intercom, but he could hear the sergeant’s stentorian voice carry from the other ship.
‘Swabs on me,’ Samson said, casting a glance at Harper. He was immediately angry with himself for caring what her reaction might be. This was his mission. His decisions were the only ones that mattered. He moved to the hatch, readied his pistol, and followed the Marines.
2
The first step onto a boarded vessel had always been anticlimactic for Samson. He had only been on a couple of boarding missions over his short career, and this was his first time in command—a combination that was enough to bring back those first-day jitters. He fully expected to be throwing himself into a maelstrom of small-weapons fire, although he had yet to actually experience that type of welcome.
Ordinarily the sense of anti-climax was overwhelmed by one of relief. To desire a hail of plasteel bullets was to desire a short life, and Samson enjoyed living far too much—or at least he had, until he’d been transferred to the Sidewinder. Now he would take anything to remedy the boredom of inspecting ships and occasionally hunting reported pirates. They’d yet to find one, and he was beginning to think the reports were all the product of overactive imaginations.
Price and his Marines had taken up station in a dirty corridor that ran the flank of the ship, punctuated by bulkhead airlocks. The section they were in was illuminated with strip lights that were starved of adequate power. They were duller than they ought to be, and flickered intermittently. It made Samson wonder how far off from falling apart this ship was. Judging by the grime, the wear, and the dim lighting, probably not far at all.
Samson checked the instrument panel on the wrist of his suit. It showed one life sign on board—just as Sidewinder’s scans had. That didn’t mean there weren’t more threats on board, from masked life signatures to automated defences. He was responsible for the lives of everyone he had brought onto this ship, and he had no intention of losing any of them to carelessness.
The panel confirmed that there was a viable atmosphere on the ship, as well as a functioning gravity generator running at only slightly less than Terran Standard. Both of those could be shut off by their
