First Command Page 2

  Holsey pulled another grenade. “We need to get the fuck out of here!”

  Morden loaded a fresh magazine. “Great observation, Em. Any other gems for me? ”

  Holsey was right. Frontin were pouring into the room from both sides of the catwalk, shimmying down the wall. With the emergency shaft open, they were surrounded on three sides. If the Frontin got behind them, cut them off from the door, they would be trapped.

  Morden’s stomach did somersaults. “Pull back. They got us by the short hairs. Holsey and Ditirk first, then Hansen, Brevel, and me.” She glanced at Baker’s still form. If she was still alive…

  If you don’t leave her, we all die.

  Holsey and Ditirk bolted toward the door, but one of the Frontin jumped off the wall, landing in front of them. Morden couldn’t believe how fast it moved, and neither marine had time to react as it kicked Holsey in the side, sending her flailing to the deck.

  Ditirk shrieked as the drone’s blade stabbed through his torso. It opened its mouth and laughed. Morden shivered at the deep, throaty, unbearable sound. Ditirk tried to pull the blade free of his body, but the Frontin grabbed his shoulder.

  Ditirk stopped fighting, staring up at his killer’s eyes. He shook as he was lifted from the ground. The Frontin jerked its arm, rending the sword out the left side of Ditirk’s chest and letting the disemboweled body fall.

  Morden looked up as fresh barbs slammed into the floor next to her. Two more Frontin had reached the edge of the walkway, firing their scatterguns at the deck below. One barb grazed Morden’s knee, then burst as it hit the floor. She wobbled and fell, but her return fire hit one in the chest, and green blood dripped from the walkway.

  Morden’s knee felt numb. Her arm pulsed as she reached for her weapon. Holsey had regained her footing and was driving her bayonet into her attacker. The Frontin roared, grabbing her by the leg. It yanked her off the ground, raising its sword for the final blow.

  Lying on her back, Morden raised her pistol, aimed quickly, and squeezed the trigger — only to find that the slide had locked back on an empty chamber.

  Her heart stuck in her chest. “You fucking fuck! I’ll rip you apart.”

  The Frontin lanced Morden with its eyes, its grotesque mouth twisting at the corners, as if it were was smiling.

  Holsey fired her rife at point blank range. The Frontin’s torso cracked, its body shattered by the round. Holsey fell, landing on her back. She rolled to her feet, firing behind Morden.

  Hansen and Brevel had come up next to Morden, no doubt forced from their position by the intensifying fire. If it wasn’t for the men holding the door, they would have already been dead.

  Rounds were whizzing by Morden’s head, bursting against the rear wall, disintegrating the ancient photos.

  Morden waved her arm toward the door. “Move, jarheads. Time to get the hell out of Dodge.”

  No one objected.

  Morden tried to stand up, her arm and knee screaming as she tried to transfer weight to her shattered limb. Her head spun at the excruciating bolt of pain. Swallowing down bile, she let her pistol fall from her numb hand.

  It was out of ammo anyway.

  Hansen reached down, grabbed her by the shoulder, and dragged her to her feet. “This isn’t nap time, ma’am!”

  Rounds exploded all around her as they approached the door. Holsey and Brevel were firing towards their pursuers, the Frontin’s anguished screams proof of their effectiveness.

  Glover and Valmar stepped out of the doorway to let them escape back down the hallway towards the Ajax, rifles firing past Morden’s head.

  Bachmen signaled them to hurry. Morden caught his eyes just in time to watch the left side of his head disappear, a scattergun blast hitting him from behind.

  Morden gasped as the private fell out of sight. Hansen let go, freeing his weapon to fire. Morden’s knee buckled, pain lacing through her as she broke her fall with her hand. Hansen’s Enfield sent round after round back down the narrow hall.

  They were trapped.

  Glover’s body was lying beside her, neck bent at a horrific angle, eyes blank. She hadn’t seen what got him. She reached out, pulling his pistol from its holster. If they were going to die, it wouldn’t be quietly.

  Morden desperately searched the room, firing at the Frontin swarming past the kitchen.

  The kitchen!

  It only had the one door, and the service window, it would funnel these bastards towards them, give them a shot at holding out.

  Morden fired again. “Go for the kitchen! Holsey, grenade! Cut us a path.”

  Holsey had perfect aim, the grenade’s detonation clearing a path through the charging Frontin. Hansen scooped Morden up, every inch of her body aching.

  Brevel was in the lead, clearing one of the Frontin bodies with a leap. A barb winged his leg, but didn’t explode. The corporal started to stumble, dropping his rifle as he tried to break his fall.

  “Glen! Stay down!” Holsey screamed, emptying her rifle on the advancing enemy, trying to provide cover.

  Valmar stooped to pick the corporal up, a decision that cost him his life. A Frontin barb hit an exposed energy conduit behind them. It exploded, reducing them both to ashes in a hail of shrapnel and plasma.

  “Glen! No!” Holsey’s voice shook, and she started forward toward the charred mess that had been her fiancée.

  Sergeant Hansen left Morden propped against the wall, used one hand to grab Holsey by the shoulder, pulling her back. Holsey fought him, yelling and cursing, struggling to reload her weapon.

  “He’s gone, Em!” Morden pulled herself along the wall toward the galley door.

  Holsey responded by shaking Hansen’s grip off and firing down the hall, walking backward in an orderly retreat.

  Hansen took hold of Morden again and helped her the last few feet to the kitchen door.

  They entered the galley, Hansen dragging Morden with him as they charged through the dining area and toward the wide service window. Hansen placed Morden on the window’s counter, letting her scramble over to the other side. A second later, Holsey jumped after Morden, followed quickly by Hansen. The two silver cooking robots whizzed back and forth with full plates of food, seemingly confused.

  Scattergun bursts slammed into the room, the two robots erupting in a shower of sparks and fragmented metal.

  How many Frontin are there?

  Holsey dropped to one knee and fired, cutting down attackers one after another. A grenade landed beside her. She cursed, kicking the explosive away. It detonated in mid-air, lifting her from her feet and slamming her into the wall. Morden looked over at her, the effort of turning her head making her grimace.

  Holsey was covered in lacerations, blood flowing from her nose. Morden reached out and touched her neck — she was alive, but barely.

  Morden rested her back against the wall, drew Holsey’s pistol from its holster, and fired at all the targets as she could see. She only had ten rounds, but she’d make each one count. She willed herself to focus on the pistol’s sights, the pain in her shoulder and leg unbearable.

  She fired quickly, knocking down at least six more Frontin before the last round passed through the barrel.

  “Stay with me, Lieutenant.”

  Hansen was looking down at her, his face white, terror covering up the handsomeness she had grown accustomed to.

  Morden dropped Holsey’s pistol. “I’m sorry, Robert.”

  He smiled. “We can still do this, just stay with me.”

  He fired another burst towards the oncoming enemy. She could only see one more, moving quickly along the base of the wall towards them. Hansen saw it, firing. The marine’s round went wide.

  The Frontin’s didn’t.

  Its scattergun blast hit Hansen squarely in the chest, showering the wall behind him in gore. His body twisted in place, his mouth open in a silent scream, his glazed eyes staring accusingly down at Morden as he crumpled, slack and lifeless, at her side. Morden’s nostrils burned with the sm
ell of blood and burnt flesh.

  Her stomach churned, sick.

  The Frontin warrior roared. It smiled broadly, picking Hansen up off the ground and tossing him aside like a rag doll. It grabbed Morden by the chest plate, lifting her up in front of it. It looked her in the eyes, a low growl emanating from its lips. She saw it slowly pull a sword out, scraping it across her armor, clearly relishing the moment.

  Morden’s head spun. She had heard tales of Frontin eating the hearts of their living enemies.

  Not today, asshole.

  Fear and adrenaline focused her, cut through the pain searing her nerves.

  She pulled her combat knife from its sheath and slashed at its eyes. It howled, falling back over the counter as it stumbled in pain. Morden hit the ground, landing directly on her shattered knee. She tried to stay conscious, but spots danced over her vision as pain consumed her. Her eyes closed, and everything went dark.

  Chapter One

  Aboard the RAS Verdun

  Docked at Arnhem Station

  “Incoming transmission, Commander.” Isabelle’s familiar voice rang in Commander Kim Morden’s ears, pulled her from her sleep. She cracked open an eye, saw the screen on her desk flicker on, illuminating the room.

  Always when I’m sleeping…

  Morden begrudgingly pushed herself into a sitting position. “Accept communication.”

  Admiral Knight’s face appeared on the screen. “Commander Morden, good morning. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  Morden rubbed her eyes, fighting off the fatigue that drew her back towards the warm covers. “Admiral?” She put on her best smile. “Uh, no sir, you didn’t.”

  This was highly irregular. Admiral Knight should be contacting the captain, his brother. How often was it they were even in range for face-to-face visual communication?

  The man before her was wearing much too large a smile for this early in the morning, an annoying habit she’d come to expect from the admiral. His hazel eyes set in his warm, pale face, contrasted with the crisp white of his dress uniform. Despite his infectious joviality, she respected him. He exemplified duty and service, having commanded servicemembers on the front line of every major battle of the past four decades, including the Black Star Campaigns that had taken the life of her father. Admiral Knight was a naval officer through and through, and his family had served as long as the Royal Alliance had existed. He was older now, in his prime, probably his late fifties, judging by his receding hairline and silver-gray hair.

  “Well, get used to it. Captains are rarely known for their well-rested lifestyles, trust me.”

  She blinked, staring at the screen. “Captains?”

  “You heard me, Captain Morden. I am promoting you, effective immediately.”

  Leave the Verdun? The room spun around Morden’s head as she tried to understand.

  She braced herself on the edge of her bed. “Sir, leaving the Verdun isn’t my first choice, I don’t want to abandon Captain Knight.”

  “I admire your loyalty, Captain.” His smile crept further across his face. “We know you love the Verdun, and that’s why we selected you for the job. And before you ask, Captain Knight has just accepted command of the McQueen. He should already be gone.”

  Morden felt her draw drop, stared at the image on the view screen. She must have heard wrong. Her commanding officer and close friend had accepted promotion and left without saying a word to her. Not that sudden reassignments were unusual. She knew logically that the key to surviving the Milipa Cold War was bluffing — making one ship look like ten, keeping their defenses air-tight. She also knew that, with the Royal Navy’s current rapid expansion project, experienced officers were often being siphoned off to crew new ships and to season green crews. In this environment, time was a perilous indulgence. That didn’t make accepting rapid-fire changes any easier.

  She became suddenly aware that she had been staring at the admiral for a good ten seconds, the older man holding her gaze quietly.

  Morden straightened herself. “Sir, don’t we need a change-of-command ceremony? This isn’t by the book.”

  The Admiral laughed. “Captain Knight’s expertise is needed elsewhere before he takes command of the McQueen. He has selected several other officers from the Verdun to join him.” He paused to take a slow drink from a royal blue porcelain mug. “The political situation since the Ardaugh incident is tenuous at best. The McQueen’s presence on the border will show the Milipa it’s business as usual, and, frankly, we need the Verdun for another mission as soon as she can get underway. Your replacement officers will be arriving at the station in just over two days. Your new executive officer has your briefing packet. Use whatever time you have until then to inform the crew of the change.”

  “Admiral.” She worked to keep the frustration out of her voice. Not only the captain, but several other members of the senior staff, her friends, were leaving too. “The Verdun has just completed a strenuous mission. The crew is tired, and this will be quite a shock. Captain Knight is loved by the crew. More time would—”

  “I’m sorry, Captain, but we need you en route immediately. You have two days, and then you’ll leave for Derek’s Triangle. More details will arrive shortly. Admiral Knight out.”

  The screen winked off. Morden sat on the edge of her bed, trying to rein in her emotions. Command of her own ship was the dream that had driven her since she’d been a child. She’d curled up on the couch and listened for hours to her father’s stories of his adventures, the wonders of space, the glorious battles against the ancient foes of the Alliance.

  How could she replace Captain Knight? He was more than just her commanding officer. His patience had softened her edges. She had been so angry when she’d arrived here, fighting to overcome her mistakes, wrestling with her past. He had been supportive and understanding, making her feel at home, finally on solid ground.

  And why Derek’s Triangle? The region was a dump, a backwater, not even part of the Alliance.

  Morden pressed the light pad. The lights located in the center of each of the room’s four walls flickered to life, adding a faint buzz to the silence.

  She blinked, breathing deeply, trying to compose herself.

  She stood up, walked quickly across the room, past the walk-in closet on the left, to the restroom. She tapped the faucet, turning on the water flow. She cupped her hands and splashed water on her face, the cold liquid washing away the desire to return to her sheets.

  Mechanically, Morden organized her shoulder-length black hair back into its regulation position, her mind running through what the admiral had said. SSShe knew she had the technical skills to run a ship, but was she really ready?

  Being a captain was more difficult than simply understanding operations. A captain was the ship’s leader, teacher, and spirit, a representative of the Alliance on foreign ground. It took years to be ready for that responsibility. Was she equal to the task?

  Her eyes swept the quarters that were no longer hers. For years, she had embraced simplicity. The regulation, slate-gray walls were blank except for the obligatory image of the Verdun against its coat of arms. Had it not been for the pile of papers on her desk, someone looking in would assume the room was unoccupied.

  She couldn’t help but feel unready, the enormity of the situation pressing down on her. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, quieting her thoughts and steadying her body. Her eyes slid open again, her discipline restored. The only sign of the tension inside her was her hand unconsciously gliding over the only visible blemish on her skin, a faded scar on her right arm.

  She spun on her heel and crossed the room to the closet, pulling out her uniform. At least she would look the part, even if she couldn’t feel it.

  “Isabelle?”

  The soft voice of the AI filled the room seconds before her holographic image appeared in front of Morden. “Captain, your morning report is available in your office. I have a few robots standing by to move you to the captain’s suite.”

&
nbsp; Isabelle appeared as a young woman, her long, wavy brown hair falling well past her shoulders. She spoke with a light French accent, her pale skin, blue eyes, and light, feminine build speaking to her gentle, resilient nature. Each AI was rewarded for its decision to serve others with the selection of its own self-image — gender, ethnicity, skin color, every minute physical detail. Isabelle had chosen well, connecting herself to the cultural heritage of a ship named after an ancient battle.

  Morden noticed that Isabelle had reduced her height to match her own, the fleet minimum requirement of five feet even. Morden had never really thought about her height — she’d always had enough tenacity to make up for her size. Apparently, Isabelle was trying to make her feel more comfortable, show respect for her new commanding officer. Morden appreciated the gesture.

  Good AI were vital to the Alliance. They allowed ships to react faster in combat, processing information faster than any human could. The very survival of the Alliance rested on the strength of its navy, and the AI contributed greatly. The last few decades had weakened that strength as unforeseen enemies ate away at it. The Quaggar, the disappearance of the Black Star Empire, and the Ardaugh Conflict, among other incidents. Friends melting into enemies. Alliances crumbling. Innocents crying out for protection.

  Things were not quieting down.

  As the cold war with the Milipa dragged on, decade after decade, the pressure for top-notch AI was growing. The Verdun was a warship, a battlecruiser, but Isabelle made her personable, giving the ship a living, tangible personality. She was the soul that ancient sailors, braving the sea on wooden vessels under wind power, had ascribed to their ships.

  Morden straightened her uniform. “Have one of the senior officers meet me here in fifteen minutes. Then have whichever of the senior staff remains on board ready in the forward conference room in a half hour. We have a lot to do and no time to do it.”

  Isabelle’s image wavered and faded “Yes, Captain.”

  This is going to be a very long day.