It’s a hundred meters from the terminus of Echo concourse to the airlock at the end of Foxtrot concourse. We haven’t covered half that distance when the security alarm overhead goes off, an annoying two-tone trilling sound. Most of the civilians in the concourse have scattered already at the sight of the fully armed and armored SI troopers with combat demeanor, so we have this section of the concourse mostly to ourselves.
“This is a level-five security alert. All personnel, shelter in place and secure airlocks.”
Staff Sergeant Philbrick clears the corridor ahead with the muzzle of his rifle before waving us on. “Fifty meters. Let’s hustle.”
My hand is now pleasantly numb, and the painkillers have started kicking in, but I know that the pain will return before too long. For now, I run behind Sergeant Philbrick and next to Dmitry and Colonel Campbell, glad for the concentration of chemicals in my bloodstream that keeps that razor-sharp agony from registering in my brain.
“Major Renner sends her regards,” Sergeant Philbrick shouts over his shoulder toward Colonel Campbell. “She’s warming up the fusion plant right now. Ship’s at combat stations.”
“What about those SPs all over the ship?”
“Third Squad took care of ’em,” Sergeant Philbrick shouts. “Disarmed and secured in a storage room out on Foxtrot.”
We reach the airlock for Foxtrot concourse, which is a laminate hatch six meters wide. Sergeant Philbrick motions us to a halt. Then he waves Corporal Nez forward, and both of them check the concourse beyond in quick and efficient fashion.
“Clear,” Philbrick says. “Let’s move. Second Squad, we’re coming your way. Get ready to fall back to Indy.”
On the way back to the ship, Foxtrot concourse seems about three times longer than I remember it from the way into the station, despite the fact that we’re moving a lot more quickly for the return trip. I count the bulkheads we’re passing through—one, two, three, four, five. There were twenty-five of them on the way up from Indy.
Before Sergeant Philbrick reaches bulkhead number six, the airlock comes down from the top of the bulkhead almost silently and slams into place, barring our way to the far end of the concourse.
“Contact rear!” the private bringing up the tail end shouts. I see red and green targeting lasers bouncing off the walls of the concourse, and a second or two later, figures in dark blue armor rushing down the concourse behind us from the direction of the main part of the station.
“Into the corner,” Sergeant Philbrick orders. He uses his armored bulk to nudge Dmitry and the colonel toward me and behind one of the support beams just in front of the bulkhead. His squad fans out and takes firing positions, aiming their rifles back up the way we came just moments ago.
“Security police,” a magnified voice booms in the corridor behind us. “Drop your weapons, or we will employ lethal force.”
Improbably, Corporal Nez chuckles. “?‘Employ lethal force’? Who the hell talks like that?”
“Don’t kill anyone ’less you have to,” Philbrick orders. “They shoot first, we take ’em down.”
The sheltered space between the support truss and the nearby bulkhead is pitifully small. I am keenly aware of the fact that I am in an enclosed space with a bunch of troopers about to shoot at each other, and that I am not wearing battle armor.
“Keep the Russian safe,” I say. “He goes down, nobody’s going back through to Fomalhaut.”
Philbrick removes the sidearm from his holster and hands it to me butt-first. I take it and check the chamber.
“Drop your weapons,” the voice in the corridor shouts again.
“Not a chance,” Philbrick shouts back. “You shoot at us, you die.”
I chance a look around the support beam that is shielding me inadequately. The cops in the corridor behind us—I count at least four—are wearing heavier armor than the SPs who arrested us earlier, and they’re carrying PDWs. The four SI troopers with us outgun them by a fair margin, and they’re seasoned combat troops besides, but there isn’t much space in the narrow confines of this space station corridor. If both sides open fire, it’ll be a bloody mess.
“All the airlocks on this concourse are sealed,” the cop shouts. “No way out but through us. Tactical response team is going to be here any second. Don’t be stupid, jarhead. Put ’em down.”
Staff Sergeant Philbrick exhales slowly. Then he shakes his head. “We don’t have time for this shit. Watch your target markers. Low bursts. On my mark.”
He looks at each of the SPs in turn, and I know that he is using his suit’s targeting computer to send priority target data to his fire team through the TacLink.
“One, two, fire.”
The SI troopers raise their rifles as one, and four trigger fingers tighten to execute the order. One of the SPs sees that the balloon is about to go up, and he flinches back and fires a burst from his PDW. The high-pitched rattling of the PDW’s report rings through the concourse. The projectiles hit Corporal Nez in the chest and side, and he jerks back in turn.
Then four M-66 rifles hammer out simultaneous bursts. The two nearest cops are cut down instantly, swept off their feet by the impact of dozens of tungsten fléchettes their light armor has no hope of stopping. Sergeant Philbrick gives a signal, and the two privates get up from their crouching position and advance on the two remaining cops. One of them sticks his PDW out from behind the support strut he’s using as cover and starts pouring bursts down the corridor blindly. I pull back behind my own cover and try to meld with the wall.
There are two more bursts of rifle fire, and then there’s silence.
“Clear,” Philbrick shouts.
Corporal Nez gets up from the rubberized deck and checks his armor. The small, high-velocity rounds from the cops’ PDWs have left silver-gray smear marks on his hardshell plate. I see that the SI troopers chose to go heavy—their armor is fitted with the optional add-on ballistic plating we only wear when we expect to do a lot of heavy close-quarters battle. It adds twenty pounds to an armor suit that’s already one weighty bitch of a load to carry, but the heavy kit can shrug off anything short of an armor-piercing shell from an autocannon.
The four SPs are on the ground, all motionless. Sergeant Philbrick stands over them, kicks their PDWs aside, and shakes his head again.
“Dumb shits,” he says. “Civvie cops against combat troops.”
I check myself for extra holes and don’t find any. Colonel Campbell and Dmitry are unscathed as well, although the vertical support strut we were hiding behind shows evidence of bullet impacts not ten inches from where my head was just a few moments earlier.
“We need to get the airlock open,” I say. “Tac team’s going to have bigger guns and better armor.”