The Complete Inheritance Trilogy: Star Strike, Galactic Corps, Semper Human. Ian Douglas
possessed an artificially generated gravity field, set to about three-quarters of a gravity—roughly equivalent to the gravity of Aurore. He was entering the monitor from an unusual angle, coming down through the overhead of one of the interior decks, and the local gravity field grabbed at him as he fell through the opening.
There’d been no good way to predict where he would come out, or what the local gravity would be like. Part of his brain registered the fall, and long hours of training took over. He twisted as he fell, landing catlike, if heavily, on his boots, his left arm already sweeping up and around to engage any targets that might present themselves. His helmet sensors gave him a 360-degree view in a side mental window, but he pivoted in any case to see for himself, checking both ways.
Several bodies of the ship’s crew lay on the deck both ahead and behind, within a passageway choked with an impenetrable fog of smoke and a near-total darkness relieved only by his battlesuit’s shoulder-mounted lights. Whether they’d been killed by external fire, by the blast as the SAP opened up, or by his flamer, there was no way of knowing.
Nor was it important. A Marine assault was built around one simple concept—the employment of extreme and sudden violence to overwhelm local defenses and secure the battle initiative.
And to keep the initiative, he needed to keep moving. If he stopped, if he went on the defensive, he would in minutes be isolated, surrounded, and killed. Two of the ship’s crew appeared from a side passage just ahead; he triggered his flamer and saw the two writhe and struggle and then wilt in the torchblast. Neither had been wearing armor, though both were carrying mag-pulse rifles. In another second, both were dead … probably irretrievables.
“Green one, one-two!” he shouted into his helmet pick-up. “On board! Request orienteering fix!”
“One moment,” the voice of the platoon AI said. Then a window opened in a corner of his mind, showing an animation of the corridor he was in now, and a flashing pointer showing which way he needed to go.
That way. Strange. His instincts and his implanted hardware both had been suggesting the other way … but he was feeling a bit disoriented both by the shock of landing and the drop into the Rommel’s local gravity.
But if Achilles said go that way, that was the way he would go. The animation also showed the ghosted-out shadows of other passageways around him, and moving green blips representing other Marines. The sight was deeply reassuring; he was alone in that corridor, but he could see other Marines appearing one after another in other, nearby compartments and passageways, all of them moving in the same general direction.
A monitor was a huge ship, a veritable city wrapped in thick cladding, and enclosing a maze of passageways and compartments designed to house several thousand crew members. A few hundred Marines—to say nothing of however many members of the 55th MARS had actually survived the passage from Samar—could not hope to kill or overpower the entire crew, especially when a number of those enemy personnel would be PE armored marines trained to combat just such an assault as this.
The Commonwealth battle-command AIs had already identified the key objectives within the Rommel, using available schematics and ship plans from Intelligence, as well as sounding information being gathered from robotic probes already burrowing into the ship’s thick hull. The combined information, transmitted back to Samar and the Lejeune, allowed Achilles and the AIs within the Combat Command Center to build up a coherent picture of the Romme’s interior, and to know exactly where each Marine was at the moment in relation to a list of possible objectives. A handful of Commonwealth Marines wandering around on their own would have been lost in moments, easy targets for the enemy’s counterattack. Under Achilles’ guidance, however, they could be sure they were moving as a unit, with common purpose.
Garroway’s primary objective was a command-and-control center buried in the Rommel’s core. To get there, he needed to follow this passageway for about 20 meters, then locate a maintenance shaft in the starboard bulkhead, a broad, open tunnel plunging into the monitor’s core.
“Here,” Achilles said in his mind, highlighting a section of the passageway’s bulkhead in red. “There is an access tube just beyond that partition.”
“Got it,” he said, and he turned his mag-pulse rifle on his right arm on the bulkhead, slamming a rapid-fire stream of slugs into the wall. Metal and ceramplast shredded, and then he could see through the hole and into a black emptiness beyond.
He used a personal drone to check the far side, tossing the fist-sized robot sensor through the hole and watching the feedback on a helmet display. The maintenance shaft was a broad but narrow space descending relative to the local gravity field. There was no artificial gravity, but his armor thrusters ought to get him where he needed to go.
Just behind him, the overhead suddenly bulged, then exploded as another SAP broke through. Garroway decided not to wait for a possible volley of friendly fire, but he tagged the opening with a small transponder that would show the bulkhead breach to anyone following him, then plunged through himself.
The shaft interior was in complete darkness, but his armor’s shoulder lights illuminated his surroundings in harsh, shifting patterns of white light and black shadow. A moment later, he became aware of other lights above him, as other Marines broke through into the shaft and began the descent into the monitor’s core.
He was no longer alone … a very good feeling indeed.
Kicking off from the entrance breach, he drifted down several meters—“down,” of course, being a relative term in the sudden falling emptiness of microgravity. He triggered his suit thrusters and moved more quickly, using his hands to guide himself along the piping and tightly tied bundles of fiber optics lining the shaft walls.
He moved through the shaft for what seemed like hours, though his implant timer insisted it was only three minutes. At last, though, Achilles highlighted an area of tunnel wall just ahead. “There,” the AI told him. “That will give you direct access to your objective.”
The tacsit feed continued to give him a ghosted overlay of what was behind the surrounding bulkheads. Pulling himself up short alongside the indicated section of the tunnel, he hung in emptiness for another few seconds until five more Marines reached him, snagging hold of conduits and coming to a halt at the designated level.
An armored form bumped against him, steadying itself on a conduit. The 660-armor’s surface Nanoflage made the figure almost ghostly in the tunnel’s gloom, but a transponder-relayed ID appeared on Garroway’s helmet display—Gunnery Sergeant Ramsey. Garroway felt an almost overwhelming sense of relief, so much so he could feel his knees trembling. He’d not wanted to go through that bulkhead alone.
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