“Less than a minute.”
“Transport, can you get a lock?” Trisk asked.
“No, Sir. The explosion damaged his transport beacon.”
“Who’s close? Captain Wyle, what’s your status?”
“Six new Hive fighters detected, heading straight for him.”
“Cut them off.” That was Trist.
“On it,” Captain Wyle said.
“No.” I groaned as Wyle then ordered the Fourth Battle Wing on a suicide run with the approaching Hive fighters.
“Damn it! Get him the fuck out of there. Now!” Trist’s bellow made my head ache.
The warning alarms of my body sensors were beeping, as if I didn’t fucking know my blood pressure was dangerously high and my heart rate was too fucking fast.
“Let me take a medical cruiser.” That was Rav.
“No time. Wyle, get a traction beam on him.”
“His suit might disintegrate under the stress.” Rav again.
“It’s that or let the Hive have him,” Trist argued.
I decided to chime in on that one. “Fuck that,” I hissed. “Wyle, do it.” I’d rather explode into a million tiny pieces than end up part of the Hive’s cyborg collective.
“Yes, Sir.”
The energy of Captain Wyle’s traction beam hit me like a brick wall, the force slamming my forehead into my helmet. Hard.
Stars danced before my eyes and I couldn’t stop the scream of agony as it felt like my entire left leg was being ripped off at the knee. Explosions sounded all around, I used counting them as a means to hold on to consciousness.
When I reached five, everything went black.
* * *
Doctor Conrav Zakar, Battleship Zakar, Medical Station
“Is he dead?” The new medical officer’s voice trembled and I didn’t have time to ask his name. Nor did I care.
“Shut the fuck up and help me get him out of his flight suit.” The standard Coalition flight suit was made of nearly indestructible black armor, generated by our ship’s spontaneous matter generators, or MGs, as we called them. I used a laser scalpel to cut away one sleeve before the young officer’s next suggestion slammed me back to reality.
“Why don’t we put him on the MG pad and ask the ship to get rid of it?”
Genius. Didn’t mean I had to like the little shit. “Let’s move him.”
I grabbed my cousin and best friend beneath the shoulders and lifted with all my Prillon warrior’s strength. I could have carried him myself, but my assistant stepped forward and lifted Grigg under his knees.
He wasn’t dying now. He’d done his fucking job out there in battle and it was my turn to do mine. It wasn’t the time to realize if he hadn’t left his command post, I’d be celebrating with the others instead of bringing him back from the fucking brink. Stupid, hardheaded fucker.
We moved him as carefully as we could to pitch-black pad where the faint green grid-lines of the MG’s scanning sensors quickly went to work examining Grigg’s armor, so we could remove it in stages. The outer layer of Grigg’s armor had so many micro-cuts it looked fuzzy, instead of smooth and hard. Blood dripped from his left boot to hit the floor with a spattering sound that made me grind my teeth. His helmet had been warped to the point that I could not release the locks and remove it. The helmet’s visor was shattered, a thousand tiny cracks obscuring my view of Grigg’s face.
If the bio monitors hadn’t insisted he was still alive in there, his heart still beating, I would never have believed anyone inside this destroyed armor had survived.
I placed my hand on the activation panel and ordered the ship to remove Grigg’s armor. Impatient, I didn’t look away as the faint green light glowed around his body.