Strange Company Nick Cole (best classic novels TXT) 📖

like zee avenger from one of za early romantic novels written by Luc Desaix,” she said in her pidgin French with the Falmorian buzz of the humanoid eels. “A man withs many scars zhat make him zo attractive to ze woman who zeeks a competent and daring man who has done ze zhings normal men are too afraid to do. Walked ze night unafraid. To fight… when others will not. To pay back wrongs zat must be answered, my estrangier. You look like such a man.”

My estrangier.

I think about her a lot. Still do. I wrote her one time.

But that’s a common side effect of Falmorian party girls. Ask any penniless mercenary.

So back to Chief Cook’s little playlet.

“Was…?” I’d asked as he recited the vitals of the big beautiful Clipper docked out there on the green ring near Gate 39. Even from this distance it was huge, rising high into the morning fog, heedless and serene as artillery rained down on the terminal off to the west. Ships were considered off-limits by the powerful Commercial Nav Guild. Too important to be wasted on petty conflicts. For the most part, both sides abided and didn’t target. Of course, there were accidents and those got decided in Stellar Appeals Judiciary. One downed ship could wipe out a company like Strange and force us into bankruptcy, or piracy.

Whichever paid better.

He’d executed that perfect left face and raised his hand to his tanned tight forehead to shield his brown eyes from the morning sun burning through the gauze overcast. Except now I noted he had his mirrored aviator shades on. As trademark a part of him as the spec ops beret and shiny black boots he polished alone at night, listening to acid jam from forty years ago, big during the desperate years of the Sindo, muttering to himself and finding certain things funny. As though telling himself jokes he’d never heard before again. Jokes only he found funny. Jokes he’d never tell another living soul. Secrets too.

Then I saw a downpour of smoking artillery out there, more ghostly-ghastly shells arcing through the sky to rain down on the area near Gate 39 and all over the serene Neptune Clipper waiting to lift and heave off to those worlds we all dreamed of.

Someone swore back in the culvert as it went down. They saw it too. Shells smashed into the shining white-and-blue upper hull of the beautifully graceful starship getting ready to take on high-paying evacuees no doubt. Those who’d realized the game was over on Crash, or Astralon, or whatever.

Engineering was hit first. One massive round straight through the superstructure. One of the wings portside took three shells and lost her landing gears as the indirect rounds went straight through, tearing dark maintenance decks and components like lifters and inertial stabilizers to pieces. An explosion in the outboard thruster tanks sent hull plating into the shattered glass at the back of the terminal. Huge sheets of the stuff cascaded down in great waterfalls. But we heard nothing at this distance. Only saw its slow-fall destruction. Compartmentalized, as all starships are for that kind of damage, the ship simply and unceremoniously collapsed along her port side onto the tarmac and landing apron, listing like a drunk who couldn’t find his way home after a night’s binge. Other rounds struck the beautiful Clipper but none caused destruction so fantastic as the damage to her portside wing.

One round went wide… on purpose possibly… and nailed the nearby APU pylon that powered the ship while she was docked. Fuel cells went up, and there must’ve been flammables for refueling nearby along the tarmac. Now black billowing smoke was coming from that area and also the portside wing array of the Clipper.

Chief Cook turned back to me, smiling that wide, skeletal, almost perpetually psychotically happy-trip grin.

“Was,” he stated officiously.

I studied the scene for a moment. It was right in our lane. We’d have to go through that.

“Why?” I asked.

“Figured you’d need cover, Sergeant Orion. Generals up at High Command don’t want to hit that section of the terminal because some of them have, how shall we say, recalcitrant cousins among the defenders. So I noted that the artillery plots were going to make sure that section of the terminal didn’t get hit at all. Then they could murder you on the approach. And… oh boy oh boy, Sergeant Orion, I don’t need to tell you how much weaponry they’ve got in there to repel, but it’s a lot if the long-range observers are right. So I figured we’d hit the ship, get you a smokescreen going, and if you move your men just right you can keep the smoke of the ship, and in fact use the ship, to hit the terminal without taking too much incoming. Black oily smoke and flaming starships have a tendency to obscure the field of battle. That’s straight out of the Ultra Marine field manual, Sergeant. Trust me. Top secret stuff. I’d have to kill you if you told anyone.”

I thought about that for a second. I could see the merits of what he was saying. Using the ship as cover to hit the terminal might work.

“But the ship’s on fire.”

“It is, Sergeant Orion. It is indeed. Once you reach her engineering stack you should be able to use the main spine inside the ship to get up to the hab docking arm and infiltrate through to the terminal. No one will expect an attack through a burning starship. That’s crazy, Sergeant Orion. Right? Gonna be a big surprise for them when it actually does happen. You and your boys pop out. Bam. Pow. There you are right inside their line. Pretty cool, huh? It was partly the Old Man’s idea. You could say I’m here to officially change your orders and have you assault through the Neptune Clipper to breach the enemy line. Once you’re in, the rest of the line is going to hit the terminal on cue in this