Ram-Jack

Chapter Two

If I believed in luck, I'd have died or been caught long ago. If I was the only survivor of the battle group, it wasn't by luck, but by the fact that I'd been at the rear. I'd lingered back to be behind Coogan. Not for fear of alien bombardment, but because it put me in a killing position. No matter how this probe toward the encroaching aliens had turned out, Coogan would never return to his bunk aboard the Katrina.

A simple malfunction. A spark to his oxygen feeds. I'd been very careful to rig his systems. Murder. I love that word. Murder was easy, especially when we crawled over each other's Ram-Jacks all day long, disconnecting wires, soldering a defect into a ball joint. We intentionally sabotaged each other's machines, then actively diagnosed and repaired our own. All done in the interests of learning our 'toys' inside and out.

My bit of murder had been on a timer, doctored to look and act like a standard regulator valve.

With two and a half minutes of reserve power, my watch chimed. A spark of light lit in the dark void. It wasn't an explosion, just a flare that died out within moments. Coogan's cockpit must have been opened wide to the void.

The aliens would pay later for taking my kill.

I targeted the flare through my end over end spin. A reticle tracked it after it died out. With less than two minutes of reserve power, I jettisoned my Ram-Jack's remaining leg. Luck would have meant trusting in something intangible. Stefan Kell didn't play that game. I trusted only myself.

The explosive release of the leg altered my spin and propelled me. The target reticle grew with each tumble across my visor. I could ping for distance to the millimeter, but doing so would doubtless bring more stitching sprays of projectiles my way. I didn't need to ping; I could make out Coogan's Ram-Jack against the backdrop of stars now.

With forty-five seconds of power, I switched the camera view to my machine's hand. I let the arm spin up until Coogan's Ram-Jack steadied into view and spread the fingers wide. His machine spun as well, but appeared much more intact than mine. Where I had my thrusters intact however, Coogan's had a gaping hole. They'd center-punched the cockpit damn well. Bastard probably never knew what hit him.

Coogan wasn't a bastard. He'd been a stand-up guy. A very good pilot, and damn good on the combat mat. I wanted him dead because that's what I do. The thrill of murdering without being caught tasted sweetest when the target was the deadliest man around—other than myself, of course.

I'd discovered my nature during a junior karate competition. I don't even remember my competitor's name. Didn't matter. I'd cracked his nose hard, felt it give through my knee. He was out on his feet, but the kid had good balance. It hadn't even been a conscious thought at the time. I knew I'd just won, but I followed up with a sharp jab before he could begin to topple.

I'd slowed my follow-thru to the bridge of his nose. That had been a conscious thought, making it look like I hadn't hit him that hard.

I closed my machine's fist on Coogan's Ram-Jack. He'd have been my forty-ninth clean kill.

Our spins merged into a new tumble. With eighteen seconds of power, I gave his machine a slight turn and released. I snatched at his battery hatch-cover as it spun by and missed. Gritting my teeth, I let his Ram-Jack slowly spin again.

Once that reserve power died, there'd be no more moving the arm. My suit would be dead. My air and heat would stop. There's be no more Stefan Kell.

When Coogan's machine's back turned to me a second time, I grabbed the torn lip of gaping cockpit. I held just long enough to lock our spins then went for the battery again.

An automatic system began counting down my remaining power at the ten-second mark. I needed to kill whoever had designed that system. Without that droning recorded voice, I'd probably have another second or two of power.

I flipped the cover open and plucked out one of the batteries. They were made to be changed as quick and easy as the batteries of a remote control. Keep our boys flying in their toys.

With two seconds left, the battery clicked into place on my own machine.

"Unit 8448 on-line," said the recorded voice that had previously been counting down.

Power coursed through my cockpit.

There came a whoop over my com. "Lieutenant Kell, we're reading your Ram-Jack as on-line. Do not respond. Do not power up any combat systems. There are several bogeys moving through the debris field."

Easy to obey that. I had no combat systems. I did leave my engines powered down, however.

Would the aliens search my machine? It was only a torso with one arm attached, and not even the weapon arm.

I activated all my remaining cameras and watched. My spin was slower now, and lateral rather than longitudinal. With seventy-five percent of a full charge on my stolen battery, I could continue for over twenty-four hours. It only needed to power life support. I shut down the cameras to extend that time. The Katrina would tell me when I was in the clear, then I could limp back.

I shut my eyes and relaxed to the cool puff of freshly recycled air.