*****
Now:
“We’re going to lose I/Cs in about fifty seconds, Captain. We have to shut her down!”
Adrienne’s gut plummeted as the ship slowed. With failing compensators, the Gs actually increased. Now it was a race: Loss of inertia verses compensator failure. The finish line was the smear they would become if failure came too soon. She tried not to think about it. Ruptured spleens and powdered bone weren’t the nicest last thoughts.
“Fire atmospherics, Morgan,” Bob said.
Silence. “Sir?”
“If we splatter a few extra hours of atmo aren’t going to matter. Fire the goddamn atmospherics on my mark.”
Every ship had three standard propulsion systems: Jump drive, which traversed the massive distance between stars almost instantaneously; subspace drive, which bent the laws of physics and allowed for speedy inter-system travel; and atmospheric drives, focused jets of gas which were the last resort of a crippled ship…or the subtle trick of a fighter skirting the edge of capture.
But the transport wasn’t a warship. Atmospherics were tied to their backup air. If Bob used them, he didn’t think they’d need the extra supply.
“Where’s my bogey?” Bob muttered, more to himself than his sweating partner. “Come on, sucker. Walk where I can touch ya.”
“It's off the reads?” Adry asked.
“Yeah. It turned on subspace and attack systems long enough to hit us, then dropped back to atmospherics. It could be flying up our ass right now and I wouldn’t be able to see it until it forced our cargo bay.”
“You’re talking like it’s a possibility,” she said.
“Until it’s back on radar it’s a probability. It…there you are.” He dropped hand to the controls and hit a few buttons. “Radio transmission down and right. Shit, it’s ten feet off our tail.”
“Radio transmission? Is it hailing us?” The gees had died back to sane levels. She clawed out of her chair and caught the back of Bob’s. “What’s it saying?”
He hit two buttons. The voice on the com system was cold and emotionless. It was like hearing something made of silicone and paper imitate human speech. But that was par for the course. A naturally telepathic species, Overseers only spoke to slaves. Usually, right before they ate one.
“--Your ship is damaged and you are stranded. Cut your protective measures and power down your weapons. Your ship will be repaired and you will not be harmed. Message repeats. Vessel of the United States Marine Corps, you are overpowered. Your ship is damaged and you are stranded. Cut your protective measures and power down your weapons. Your ship—”
Bob cut the feed. “Yeah, right. Trussed up and saved for dinner, that’s the Overseer version of ‘not harmed’. Doc, tell me you got a suicide pill somewhere in that case of yours?”
They’d handed those out at the start of the mission. She’d flushed hers down the john. “No. What about the scuttle charge?”
“We’re a glorified shipping container. They’re not wasting ordinance on a humanitarian mission. Don’t want us blowing on a few hundred civilians.” He hit a whole bank of switches, piling more gees on top of their load. “Doc, there is a gun next to your crash chair. Put the clip in it. That goddamn thing is going to force our rear in five minutes. Morgan, how’s your hand?”
Adry looked left and wished she hadn’t. Red was everywhere. On instrument panels, on his clothes, on the bandages around his thumb. Morgan was shaking from the blood loss.
“It’s good.” He picked up his own gun, cradled in his good hand.
“Jesus Christ, Morgan.” She started towards him.
Bob’s rough grip pulled her around. “Look. We don’t have the ordinance to stop the son of a bitch when it boards. The only thing we can do for humanity is convince it that attacking someone else this way is a bad idea.”
Metal scraped against metal. The alien ship was now suctioned against them, air bladders filling the void between ships, wires attaching to vital sensors. Soon it would force the rear door open, and the Overseer would arrive.
“Save the last bullet for you.” Morgan said. “You’re going to want it.
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