At least nobody’s still out in the corridor.

  She swung her head forward again, staring at the corner up ahead with laser-like intensity. It had been some time since she’d been in so intense a combat situation, and she’d never faced an enemy like the one now approaching. She felt a flutter or two in her stomach, but mostly, she was grim, ready. Death had been snapping at her heels her whole life. She still feared it, of course, but not exactly the way most people did.

  She waited, concentrating on her breathing, her eyes focused.

  Then it happened.

  She saw movement, right at the edge of the corner. The soldier didn’t swing around and come racing down the corridor. She only saw a thin sliver of his body, mostly his arm, and the side of his head. She almost leaned out to take an aimed shot.

  But her instincts told her what was coming.

  She jerked herself back inside the room…just in time, as a burst of hypervelocity rounds ripped down the corridor, ten or more of them slamming into the edges of the doorway, right where she’d been a second before.

  She was still trying to convince herself she’d avoided any hits when she heard a loud, deep yell behind her.

  Gregor!

  She spun around, just as her comrade dropped back from the doorway, falling to one knee as he reached out and put his hand on his right arm.

  Andi could see the blood spurting all around, seeping out between his fingers as he clasped at the wound. For an instant, she almost panicked, but then she got a better look. It was bad enough—and no doubt painful as hell—but it was survivable. Gregor was tough as nails, and she figured, he’d not only survive the injury, he’d be back in the fight as soon as he managed to get some kind of rag or strap tied around his arm.

  She felt the urge to race over and help him, but she knew that was impossible. The two of them were in the forwardmost room, and if Foudre Rouge made it down the corridor and burst inside, they’d both be as good as dead.

  She twisted her body, swallowing hard as she swung her rifle around, and leaned out, ever so slightly into the hall. She opened fire, targeting the very edge of the corner, the place where the Foudre Rouge soldier had been seconds before. Her shots were louder, deeper, than the high-pitched hypervelocity rounds.

  She caught a glimpse of a shadow, one of the troopers just around the corner, held back by her fire. She was burning through her ammunition, a precious resource that would quickly run out, but if she stopped, the Union soldier would come back around and open fire again himself.

  Her mind raced, images of the Marine, talks they’d had in their small hovel, the lessons he’d tried to give her in battle tactics. Andi had always been more interested in learning how to shoot and how to fight. Now, stuck in a stalemate along the corridor, she wished she’d paid more attention to small unit tactics.

  She ducked back as her rifle fired the last rounds in the magazine. She popped the clip as quickly as she could, and slammed another one in place, but she knew it wouldn’t be fast enough.

  She waited for the enemy to open fire again…but there was nothing. For an instant, she felt elation. Maybe she’d caught the Foudre Rouge napping. But she rejected that, almost immediately.

  Then she heard the sounds of boots on the deck outside.

  A fresh flow of adrenalin filled her with new energy, and even as she swung around, bringing her weapon to bear back in the corridor, she saw the Union soldiers, at least five or six of them, running toward her position. The closest one was no more than two meters away when she opened fire.

  Her first shot was on target, but it struck dead center on the man’s chest armor. She’d have bet the impact had hurt, but it hadn’t penetrated, hadn’t stopped the trooper’s advance.

  She had one last shot, even as the Foudre Rouge soldier brought his own rifle toward her. She knew the clone wasn’t going to miss, not at that range. She had two choices, and a fraction of a second to decide. Take that last shot…or duck back, and prepare to defend herself in the compartment.

  There was no time for thought, for analysis. It was a decision made on instinct, and almost reflexively, she fired again, this time aiming for the soldier’s shoulder, for the gap between the sections of his armor.

  The man lurched back, a spray of blood announcing that she’d scored a hit. The clone didn’t yell, didn’t show any signs of pain, but he fell onto the man behind him, sending a wave of disorder down the small column.

  Andi fired again, at the next soldier. Another hit, this time in the leg. She wasn’t sure if the shot had penetrated, or if the bullet ricocheted off the armor. The first trooper, now prone in front of her new target, blocked her view.

  She ducked back, though whether it had been a response to something she’d seen, or if instinct had just intervened, she didn’t know. But the corridor erupted into hypervelocity fire as two or three of the soldiers farther back opened up over the prone forms of their comrades.

  Andi turned quickly and looked at Gregor. He returned her gaze, a silent message. He was fine, ready to fight.

  She looked all around the room—again—but there was still no real cover. Finally, she moved to the wall next to the door, pressing her back hard against the polished white surface. She gestured for Gregor to do the same on the other side, though his bulk was harder to hide than her lean form.

  She set her rifle down—too unwieldy for the close range fighting she expected—and she drew her pistol. She took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds, just as she heard boots outside…one of the Foudre Rouge.

  The enemy was on the other side of the wall, ready to burst into the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Somewhere Inside Imperial Station

  Orbiting Zensoria, Osiron VI

  Year 301 AC

  Andi stood next to the doorway, her back pressed hard against the wall. She’d discarded her rifle, and she held her pistol in one hand and her knife in the other. Her heart was pounding, loud and hard, like a drum just inside her ears. She was struggling to keep her hands from shaking as she waited for the enemy she knew was coming.

  She stared at the open space, the doorway leading into the room. The Foudre Rouge were no Gut street toughs, no drug racket thugs. They were elite soldiers, trained since birth to fight. They wouldn’t make any stupid mistakes or give her any careless openings.

  That realization left her unsure what to do. There seemed no way to win the fight, to defeat the adversaries she was facing. All she could do was fight, with everything she had. That had always been enough…though she’d always known someday that rationale would fail her.

  She listened. Her ears had always been sensitive, able to pick up the faintest sounds, and the Union soldiers, however capable they were in combat, were clearly not trained for sneaking around quietly. She was sure the first Foudre Rouge trooper was right outside the door. She’d heard his boots on the deck outside, his breath as he stood just on the other side of the wall from her.

  There was nothing, though, no movement, no sign of anything coming through the door, not for a few seconds. The soldier knew she was there, of course. She’d shot one of his comrades. He understood she was a real threat.

  She waited, the tension stretching out the passing seconds, the tightness inside her intensifying, the sweat on her forehead sliding down her face. But she didn’t move, didn’t waver. She barely breathed, waiting for what she knew was coming.

  She looked across at Gregor, nodding slightly to her comrade. She wasn’t sure he understood her meaning. He wasn’t stupid, not by any means, but he wasn’t a tactical wizard either. The door was only wide enough for one soldier at a time, and whoever came through first could only focus attention on one side or another.

  That meant one of them would have to scramble, do whatever it took to stay alive…and the other would have to strike.

  Her stomach tensed, like some giant invisible hand had grabbed it and squeezed hard. She could feel the enemy, sense the air moving as the soldier pushed forward slowly, cautiously. She had an urge to leap out and attack, to try to catch the Foudre Rouge as he was coming through. But she knew she had to stay in place. A desperate, hurriedly-aimed attack was as likely as to result in a shot bouncing ineffectually from the soldier’s armor. Her pistol didn’t have the hitting power of an assault rifle, and she’d seen the Foudre Rouge protective gear turn away shots from the heavier weapons.

  Her shot—or Gregor’s—had to be precise, targeted at one of the enemy’s weak spots.

  Or they were both dead.

  She brought up her arm, slowly, as quietly as she could, preparing herself for the fight relentlessly approaching. She did what she could to push away the fear, the voice inside telling her this could be her last fight. She knew that was true, perhaps even probable, but she ignored it anyway.

  Then, suddenly, the seeming slow motion all around her erupted into rapid action. The Foudre Rouge soldier moved forward, his assault rifle extended out in front of him. He seemed to be coming straight in—which would have been perfect—but then he turned suddenly, bringing his weapon to bear.

  On Gregor.

  The giant lurched hard to the side, leaving a spray of blood from his still-untreated shoulder wound as he did. He was fast—for himself at least—but not fast enough. The enemy soldier’s rifle came around, tracking Gregor’s movement, fixing on the giant’s chest.

  Two shots, in rapid succession.

  But they weren’t the high-pitched whine of the Foudre Rouge assault rifles.

  Andi stood, out a few centimeters from the wall now, her eyes fixed in a cold stare on her victim. The Union soldier lurched back, as both of Andi’s shots struck him, in the vulnerable spot where his breastplate met his heavily-padded legs.

  She’d fired from absurdly close range, not more than ten centimeters, but she still wasn’t sure, at first, if she managed to really injure the soldier or if the impacts of the shots had merely caused pain and distracted him.

  Then, she saw the blood. Not a trickle, nor a small patch slowly expanding, but great gouts pouring out from where her bullets had struck.

  The soldier was turning around, bringing his weapon to bear on her…but he never made it. He dropped to one knee, even as he let one hand slip from his rifle to reach back where he’d been shot. The left leg of his uniform was soaked through with blood.

  Andi was already moving, trying to position herself away from the shot she expected, even as she aimed the pistol again. Her eyes darted quickly to the door, to the next Foudre Rouge, already coming through. She felt an urge to try to shoot at the second soldier, but the Marine had been clear in his teachings about the need to prioritize threats. The Foudre Rouge coming through was a deadly danger, but the one already in the room, wounded as he was, was the deadlier threat.

  Her eyes moved all over his form, looking for another weak spot, someplace she could fire again, even as he raised his own rifle toward her, one handed.

  Then she heard a loud crack, and the trooper fell forward, landing right next to her with a sickening thud. She hadn’t placed the sound, not at first. It wasn’t a gunshot, it was…something else. But it was only when the trooper hit the ground that she saw Gregor standing there, holding his rifle like a club.

  The giant had slammed the butt of his weapon down hard, right at the bottom of the soldier’s helmet. Andi knew how strong her comrade was, and she imagined the trooper’s neck had snapped like a dry twig under that deadly impact.

  She felt a rush of exhilaration, and even relief, but she knew it was misplaced. The battle was far from over, and she could see at least two more of the Union soldiers coming through, pushing into the room.

  She was away from the wall now, out in the open. Things were going to get ugly, and fast.

  She dove across the room, the quick change of direction an attempt to throw off the enemy, to create half a second of confusion. She hit the ground, and managed an almost perfect combat roll—something else the Marine had taught her. She came back up into a prone position, her pistol out in front of her. She fired, three times in rapid succession. Two of the shots ricocheted off the target’s armor. The last one drew blood, but she quickly realized it was just a flesh wound.

  Then, she saw a blur, Gregor launching himself across the room, slamming into the lead Foudre Rouge trooper. She saw them both move across the room and fall hard, and she winced at the pain she knew her wounded comrade must have felt.

  But there was no time for such things. There was another soldier, already in the room. She looked up, her eyes focusing on the enemy’s assault rifle, just as he aimed it at her.

  She was done. She knew it. There was nowhere to go, no cover, no way out. She’d fought well, but she’d lost.

  She heard the sounds of the shots, the strange, high-pitched whine of the hyper-velocity projectiles, and she caught the burnt ozone smell from the weapon.

  She was dead, she knew it. She was at most two meters from the Foudre Rouge. The soldier couldn’t possibly have missed from that range, and at the speed of those deadly chunks of metal, they would tear her body to bloody chunks.

  But she was still there. No pain, nothing.

  Just the Union soldier falling, landing face down in front of her, his head surrounded by a rapidly expanding pool of blood.

  And the captain standing behind, his rifle in his hands, and his eyes shifting from his clearly dead target to the inside of the room, and his two crew members there.

  It was the second time a friend had saved Andi’s life.

  * * *

  “What the hell is going on? They were receiving us before.” Gavereaux sat on Embuscade’s bridge, and he slammed his balled fist down on the armrest of his chair. The Foudre Rouge soldiers had to have reached Nightrunner at least an hour before. Most of the others had to be deep inside the station. He just couldn’t understand why he wasn’t hearing from anyone.

  Should he blast the ship to plasma? Even if his people had not successfully taken the ship, any crew members there should have responded. Nightrunner’s crew had yielded before. Were they up to something now? Should he wait, send more soldiers…open fire?

  Firing would require returning to Clipper. He’d taken the small shuttle over to Embuscade when he’d lost his comm link with the Foudre Rouge gunship. He’d wanted to closely supervise the effort to secure the station, and he’d left explicit orders for Clipper to do nothing unless Nightrunner broke free of its docking and made a run for it.

  In that event, he’d been clear. Destroy them.

  “Sir, we’re picking up strange energy readings coming from the station. It’s likely that is the source of the jamming. I can’t tell much…the scanners are hardly more operational than the comm.”

  “I don’t understand. We were able to communicate, between Clipper and Embuscade and Clipper and Nightrunner. Now, nothing.” The station’s resistance to any comm or scanning signals had been frustrating enough, but the active jamming outside the confines of the great construct was driving Gavereaux to the edge.

  “Perhaps something set off a set of defensive protocols, sir…and activated the jamming.”

  Gavereaux shook his head. He was frustrated, incredibly so. But he was beginning to realize something else. The degree to which the station was operable was nothing short of astonishing. He’d known this mission offered him the chance at tremendous personal gain, but now his mind began to race. The value of the tech in the station was beyond appraisal, almost beyond imagining. Once the research teams got there and really started figuring the thing out, the change would come quickly. The Union would not only close the science gap with the hated Confederation, it would massively surpass its rival, and every other nation on the Rim.

  It might take five years, even ten, to adapt the technology, and to build enough advanced weapons, but with the secrets inside that station, the Union would likely conquer the Confederation outright, and then the rest of the Rim. Its dominance would be complete, its forces unstoppable.

  And he would be at the seat of power, the hero who had brought back the technology of the old empire.

  It was heady stuff, and thoughts of such things kept distracting him. He had the resources to deal with a crew of rogue Badlands prospectors, he was sure of that. But he was still nervous. Captain Lorillard was a capable man, one who could be dangerous. He didn’t really see how Nightrunner’s pack of misfits could deal with twenty Foudre Rouge, plus the rest of his people, but he knew he’d feel better when he’d captured them all. Or put them down.

  They had to die, of course, all of them, at least eventually. He couldn’t allow even a chance someone could get back to Dannith with word of what they’d found. But until he had a better idea of what was actually inside the massive station, he wanted a few of them alive. They’d been inside longer, and he wanted to know what they had found.

  He waited another few minutes, growing even more frustrated as he listened to another call to Nightrunner go unanswered. He moved back and forth, restless, anxious. Unsure what to do.

  He couldn’t just sit there, not any longer. That left two choices.

  Open fire, blast Nightrunner to plasma. Which means shuttling back to Clipper with the order…

  Or send more Foudre Rouge to Nightrunner, with orders to return and report in person on the status of the prospectors’ ship. He only had four of the soldiers left after the two he’d already dispatched to Nightrunner and the teams he had sent into the station. If he ordered another pair in, his reserves would be down to two.

  He thought about it, even as another attempt to contact Nightrunner resulted in nothing but static. He almost decided to head back to Clipper—or to send someone else—and order the lasers to open fire. That would kill two of his soldiers, of course, assuming they actually were in Nightrunner and just cut off by the jamming. But Foudre Rouge were expendable—they were created to be expended—and certainly a few of the clone soldiers were no concern at all in a mission as crucial as this one.