‘There’s air, but everyone keep your helmets on and your suits pressurised until I say otherwise. Let’s work our way up to the bridge,’ Samson said, his voice limited to the speakers in everyone’s helmets.
Price nodded and waved his two Marines ahead, while he scanned the corridor with his carbine. Samson let them leapfrog their way down the hall to the first bulkhead before gesturing for the naval personnel to follow him and take up a position behind them. The Marines stacked up at the hatch, and Price looked back to Samson for the command to open it. Samson nodded, and Price hit the release button. With a grinding protest, it opened slowly, far more so than a well-maintained bulkhead door should. When it clanged to a stop, a plasteel bullet sizzled through the air and ricocheted down the corridor.
Everyone took what cover they could. Even through his helmet, Samson could hear the loud, rattling cracks of return fire from the Marines. He glanced at his wrist panel and saw that there was no drop in air pressure—the bullet their attacker had used was a maritime plasteel one, and had performed as it was supposed to. The bullet expanded quickly, and softened as it did so. The design allowed for shipboard combat, slightly compromised in range and accuracy in exchange for the safety of knowing that your shot was not going to cause a catastrophic failure in the ship’s hull. Standard planetary ammunition was available, but few were foolish enough to try using it for shipboard combat. It seemed that Arlen, this ship’s master, hadn’t gone completely insane.
Price and his Marines needed no further instruction from Samson—he would have only been getting in the way. In a burst of aggression—shouts broadcast from their helmet speakers, and fast assertive movement—they advanced into the next compartment to the accompaniment of rapid carbine fire. From behind them, Samson could see the next airlock slide closed. Another plasteel bullet pinged down the corridor—a last gesture of resistance fired through the shrinking opening. Samson ducked, but there was no way to know where it was going to end up—the movement was instinctive, and could as easily have moved him into its path. A moment later, he felt himself drift off the deck plates.
‘Crafty old bastard,’ Samson said. This situation was another reason for the naval carbine and plasteel bullets: They had far less recoil than a planetary assault weapon and wouldn’t knock the shooter into an uncontrolled tumble in zero-g. Even so, recoil wasn’t entirely eliminated, which made life far more difficult for an attacker who had to move. It seemed Arlen wasn’t entirely unversed in boarding tactics—not that it would make much difference when facing three determined Marines.
Samson checked his wrist panel again. There was definitely only one life sign detected ahead, and there was little hope of taking him alive without casualties. If someone was going to die, Samson was adamant that it wouldn’t be one of his Marines.
‘Take him out, Sergeant Price,’ Samson said as he clung onto the edge of the bulkhead with his free hand, his legs having drifted out behind him.
‘Aye, sir.’
Price and his Marines advanced to the closed airlock and hit the release button, but nothing happened. There was a brief exchange between Price and Corporal Féng before she got to work opening a panel on the bulkhead. Samson saw the bright blue flash of electrical sparks, and gave a gentle pull on the bulkhead he was clinging to, sending himself on a slow, rotating flight down the corridor toward the Marines. The hatch started to open, and Féng pocketed her tool kit and brought her carbine to bear.
Price inverted so the hatch dropped down for him, rather than rising as it did for everyone else. As soon as there was a hand’s width of an opening, another plasteel bullet sizzled out. Samson contorted himself to the side of the corridor, and looked back, hoping his sailors had managed to do the same. He heard another clatter of carbine fire, and Price was through the still-opening space of the airlock hatch. There was a lot more shouting, and some more carbine fire as the other two Marines followed him in. The entire confrontation was dealt with in the blink of an eye, signalled by several shouts of ‘clear’ a moment later.
‘Bridge is clear for entry, sir,’ Price said.
Samson and the others followed in. The bridge was in much the same condition as the corridor—dirty and gloomy. There was a single blood-spattered corpse floating in the centre of the room, a mist of blood spreading slowly through the air. The lifeless hand held a pistol similar to the one Samson was using. Corporal Smit pulled it from the dead fingers, sending the body into a slow spin. He stopped the body with his boot, and only when his scan confirmed the absence of life signs did he lower his carbine.
‘No more unaccounted-for life signs on board, sir,’ Harper said.
‘Doesn’t mean there aren’t any,’ Samson said. ‘We can hold the bridge, Sergeant Price. Sweep the rest of the ship to make sure we’re alone.’
‘Aye, sir.’ The Marines moved off, leaving Samson with his naval personnel.
‘Lieutenant Harper, let’s get the gravity back, then see what you can get out of the ship’s computers.’
‘Aye, sir.’ She hauled herself forward, then stretched out her arms to meet the computer station and absorb the impact.
Despite the amount of time they all spent in space, very little of it was in zero-g conditions. Some
