Angles of Attack (Frontlines #3)(40)

“If we don’t go back to Fomalhaut, thirty thousand people are going to die,” I say. “They’re waiting for us to get back and tell them the way home. It’s what we came back for. We’re the scouting mission for a twenty-ship task force. They can’t make the transition blind without our intel. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“If you go back to Fomalhaut, billions are going to die,” Agent Green replies. “You’d never make it anyway. It’s amazing that you made it all the way here to begin with.” He pushes the chair back from the table and looks at Major Carter. “Let’s gather our things and get off this bucket. Call the SPs in to take Sergeant Grayson into custody for now.”

I don’t know why, but they will not let us leave, and they sure as hell won’t let me get off the ship and talk to Halley or anyone else. For some reason, they want to keep us all quiet. If they replace the command crew and take the ship, we all risked our lives for nothing, and Sergeant Fallon and everyone on New Svalbard are going to be dead in a few months.

I look at Agent Green, who returns my glance with a slight, self-assured smile that makes me instantly furious. Whatever his priorities are, he couldn’t care less that my friends are going to die if he gets his way. If I am about to get locked in a brig for the rest of humanity’s final chapter, I’ll at least get a last lick in, to wipe that smirk off this bureaucrat’s face. It’s not like I have much to lose anymore.

The bubble of barely contained rage that has been floating just below the surface of my consciousness pops, and I let the anger take over. I seize my PDP and throw it at Agent Green. He sees it coming and raises his data pad to deflect my throw, but he’s just a fraction of a second too late. The hard polymer shell of my loaner PDP hits him in the face, right on the bridge of his nose. He yelps and drops his data pad, which lands on the table with a dull clatter.

The major is already out of his seat when I lunge across the table. I grab the front of his uniform tunic and pull hard. He pulls back with force to resist getting pulled across the table. I give it half a second and then turn the pull into a push, letting go of his uniform and shoving him against the chest with both hands. He flies back and stumbles to the floor. The serving counter is too close behind him for clearance, and he crashes into it, arms and legs flailing.

“SP detail to the NCO mess,” Agent Green shouts. The blood is pouring freely from his nose. He backs away when I come around the table. When I am close enough for contact, he hauls off and shoots a surprisingly competent left straight against my cheekbone. I am so full of anger and adrenaline that I barely register the hit. I return the favor with a left straight of my own, which he blocks with his lower arm. Then I follow up with a right cross, and I put all my weight and force behind it. My fist hits him on the nose, almost exactly in the same spot my PDP nailed him just a moment ago. He collapses with a strangled-sounding little grunt.

Behind me, I hear the unmistakable sound of a pistol’s slide cycling and slamming home. I turn around to see Major Carter pointing a gun at me from his slightly crumpled position on the floor. He is aiming with one hand. The muzzle of the pistol wavers more than just a little, but at this range, he doesn’t have to be good, just lucky, and there are thirty rounds in his magazine.

“Move another centimeter,” he says. “Please.”

I freeze in place and hold my hands away from my body. Then I turn sideways, very slowly, until I offer him the smallest possible target.

“You are a logistics guy,” I say. “Carrying with an empty chamber.”

Behind us, the entrance hatch of the NCO mess slams open, and four civilian SPs pile into the room, PDWs at low ready. To my right, Special Agent Green sits up with a groan. He has his hand over his face, and there’s blood seeping out from between his fingers.

“Put this asshole in cuffs,” he says, his voice muffled.

With five guns pointed at me, I do my best to impersonate a piece of furniture. The SPs surround me, and one of them aims his PDW at my head.

“Hands behind your back. You make a move, I’ll hose you down.”

I do as instructed and put my hands behind my back. Immediately, someone else grabs me by the uniform and yanks me back roughly. Then I feel the hard plastic of a set of flex cuffs closing around my wrists.

Agent Green gets up from the deck and steadies himself. He wipes the blood out of his face with the back of his hand. The front of his loaner overalls is stained with red splotches. The high collar of his suit underneath has blood spatters on it as well. He looks at me with narrow eyes. Then he walks up to where the SPs are tightening the cuffs and patting me down. Without a word, he hauls off and punches me in the face, a solid right cross that cracks into my cheekbone and makes me see stars. My knees buckle, but the SPs on either side of me keep me from falling down. Agent Green takes a step back and observes me as I sway. The side of my face is numb, but I know that the numbness will turn into throbbing pain in a few moments.

“Toughest guy on the block, huh?” I say.

He doesn’t even try to make his next shot a surprise. It’s a hard punch thrown wide from the shoulder, and his fist slams into the bridge of my nose, right in the spot where I hit him just a few moments ago. This time, my vision goes red, then black. The sudden sharp pain between my eyes tells me that my nose is broken. I fall backwards, and the SPs just let go of my arms and let me crash to the deck. Warm blood runs down my upper lip and then into my mouth, and I cough. Agent Green has a good, solid punch for a bureaucrat.