The MPs march us out of the security booth and through the large airlock that separates Foxtrot concourse from the rest of the station. Out in the main part of Independence, there’s a bit more activity than in the concourse behind us, where Indy’s berth is the only occupied one. The civilian yard techs and shuttle jocks going about their business on the main concourse look at us as we pass by, two fleet sailors and an SRA noncom handcuffed and flanked by four armed military police officers.
We walk down the concourse about a hundred meters when the MPs direct us to another concourse to our right.
“Echo,” the sergeant in charge says. “We’re this way.”
“You know that Sergeant Chistyakov here isn’t subject to the UCMJ, right?” I say. “He’s not a POW. The Alliance is going to be pissed when they find out that you crapped all over the treaty.”
“The Alliance can kiss my ass right now,” the sergeant says. “I am just executing orders. Not my circus, not my monkey.”
“You call me monkey, I take electric stick off belt of yours and stick it up your big ass,” Dmitry says matter-of-factly from behind the sergeant.
The MP sergeant stops and turns toward Dmitry, who looks at him with an unconcerned little smile on his face.
“You don’t shut the fuck up and march, I’ll flush your ass out the nearest airlock, Russkie.”
I tense and prepare to jump into the tussle that’s sure to break out any second now. We are cuffed and unarmed, but I bet I can get at least this blustering asshole on the ground before they take us down with their stun sticks.
Behind us, there’s a minor commotion in the main part of the station. I hear the tromping of armored boots on the nonslip deck around the corner. We all turn to look back at the airlock we just passed through, not ten meters behind us.
Two SI troopers in full battle armor come around the corner and train their rifles at us—or more precisely, at the MPs surrounding Dmitry, Colonel Campbell, and me. Their targeting lasers paint green streaks across the light armor shells of the MP uniforms, which look pitifully inadequate compared to what the SI troopers are wearing.
“Hands off the weapons,” an amplified voice booms. I recognize it as Staff Sergeant Philbrick’s. “Away from the fleet guys and on your knees. Do it now.”
Dmitry moves away from the MP escorting him. The MP grabs his flex cuffs and tries to pull him back, and Dmitry reverses direction and butts the MP corporal aside with his shoulder. The corporal is almost a head taller than Dmitry and in light armor besides, but he stumbles aside as if he has been hit by an opening airlock hatch.
Next to me, the MP sergeant draws his pistol from the holster by his side and raises it toward Dmitry. He sees the muzzle swing toward him and dashes forward, but there are five meters between them, and there’s no way Dmitry can outrun the MP’s trigger finger. I am much closer, and I act on reflex.
I hurl myself at the MP sergeant and bring my cuffed hands down on his pistol as it comes up. My left hand hits the top of the weapon’s slide near the muzzle end. I grab the front of it and push it aside, away from Dmitry and me. The gun raps out a three-shot burst that’s shockingly loud so close to my face. There’s a sudden searing pain in my left hand that makes the headache I’ve been nursing for the last hour seem laughably mild in comparison. I scream and tighten my grip on the gun with the other hand, but my fingers slip off the now blood-slick polymer, and I drop to my knees. Then Dmitry is in front of me, and he plows into the MP sergeant and sends him flying backwards. I look to my right and see two green targeting lasers converging on his chest armor.
“DROP THE GUN,” Sergeant Philbrick’s voice thunders on maximum amplification, loud enough to make the nearby bulkhead shake with the sonic energy.
The MP sergeant looks up, his expression that of a panicked, remorseful kid whose prank has hurt someone. He drops his gun to the deck, where it lands with a dull thud. Then he raises his hands and pulls his head low between his shoulders. The two green targeting markers on his chest never waver.
The other MPs decide that freezing in place is an eminently wise course of action. Behind Philbrick and his fellow trooper, two more SI troopers in battle armor appear in the airlock opening, rifles at the ready.
“You fucking imbecile,” Sergeant Philbrick says when he steps between us and picks up the MP’s pistol. “Look what you’ve done. Nez, hand me a trauma pack.”
“Yes, Sarge.” The SI trooper next to Sergeant Philbrick lowers his rifle and reaches into his medkit pouch.
My left hand feels like it has been split in half with an axe, and it doesn’t look much better. I cradle it to my chest, look at it to assess the damage, and immediately wish I hadn’t. There’s a chunk of my hand missing, along with two fingers. Where my pinky and ring fingers used to be, there’s nothing left but powder-burned shredded meat. I must have had my finger right in front of the muzzle, and the expanding gases from the blast did as much damage as the three armor-piercing rounds that preceded them. It hurts so much that I can’t even scream, even though I want to.
“Hang on, Grayson.”
Staff Sergeant Philbrick takes the trauma pack Corporal Nez hands him. He peels the cover off with his teeth and slaps the whole thing onto my hand, mercifully covering the mess from sight. He kneads the pack into place to shape it to the wound area. I feel instant relief as the medication cocktail baked into the pack simultaneously numbs my hand and releases the fast-acting local painkiller.
“Shackle these assholes and let’s move,” Philbrick says to Corporal Nez. “That gunfire’s gonna draw attention. We’ll have a tactical team on our asses in a minute.”
“Copy that,” Corporal Nez says.
The SI troopers round up the MPs and use their own flex cuffs to shackle them together. When the troopers are done, the MPs are standing in a circle, attached by the wrists, with one of the station’s vertical support struts in their middle. The SI troopers take all the sidearms off the MPs, unload them, and throw them into a nearby garbage chute.
“Let’s move out. Back to the Foxtrot terminus. I’ll take lead. Nez, bring up the rear. Put Grayson and the others between us. You okay to move, Grayson?”
“Yeah,” I confirm. “Let’s go.”
When we move back to the airlock to the main concourse, I look back at the gaggle of MPs. The sergeant who blew off two of my fingers is just staring ahead at the support beam in front of him, as if he doesn’t want to meet anyone’s gaze for fear of inviting retaliation.
Just executing orders, I think. Ain’t that always our fucking absolution.
CHAPTER 12