the past, and Perceval was meant to have complete command of her ship. That anyone could work this—under her very nose—was unsettling.
Though not as unsettling as the darts whizzing past Perceval’s faceplate. Something was going to have to be done about that.
Perceval might be Captain now, but she had been raised a knight. Nobody wandered into her bridge and made off with a priceless relic.
She slapped one hand against the top of the niche, armored fingers curling into the bulkhead, denting metal and cracking carbon. “Three,” she said into her com, certain Caitlin would count and move with her.
And move they did. Perceval came around the corner on the tether of her arm, a spray of smart darts from her gun hand leading. At the top of her swing she released her hold on the bulkhead and arced into the air. She landed in a crouch, stuck it—or her armor stuck it for her—and came up pelting forward, whooping inside her helmet until she made her own ears ring. Caitlin’s footsteps banged through the deck behind her—soundless in vacuum, but Perceval could feel each impact through the plating, and she let the shock waves lift her up and hurl her forward, adding impetus to her own charge.
They were two, and Nova was with them. Tristen and his troops were coming. But they were Conns, and nothing was going to stand before them.
Perceval felt the impacts on her armor as it deflected the intruders’ darts from its corona and its carbon-ceramic surface. None struck where they could harm her, though; her armor was as state-of-the-art as these people’s countermeasures. They’d have to hit square to hurt, and every ounce of her armor’s tech and ability were devoted to making sure that did not happen.
The gray-suited five already had the Bible and its case through the rent they’d ripped in the corridor wall; Perceval could see it being hauled away with cables and tug drones. Only two were firing at her and Caitlin, crouched behind EM shields that offered a modicum of soft cover. The other three, engaged in moving their prize, did not even glance over their shoulders.
Perceval came in among them not so much like a fox among the chickens as like a wolf among enemy wolves. Her armor’s corona—as much an extension of Nova as not—struck the EM shields and sparked, raining dead nanotech in a velvety dust. Perceval leaned forward, knowing she was a target and hoping the crackle of crisping electronics was sufficient protection from more darts. Her armor traded dart launchers for ceramic blades.
“Shifting resources,” Nova said. “One moment more—”
And then Perceval’s mother came up behind her and pushed.
With the addition of Caitlin’s mass and armor to her own, they were through. Perceval’s blades sliced the first intruder’s armor deftly—two incapacitating cuts and a coup de grâce between the eyes and out the back of the helm. This one might come back as the silent dead, if her colony were up to regenerating the damage, but she would never inhabit herself again.
Caitlin did not engage the second rearguard. Nor had Perceval expected her to. While Perceval spun back to catch a blow meant to decapitate—she felt it ring through her armor to the shoulder, despite the reactive colloidal padding—Caitlin unshipped herself and her unblade, diving into the bosom of the Enemy after the ones who had fled.
What happened next, Perceval did not see, but she could hear her mother’s harsh breathing over the thumps and shudders of her own combat. The gray knight—and Perceval had no doubt after one passage of arms that this one was indeed a knight—rained blows down upon her with the will of an Angel, until Perceval was fighting for her life. She let herself be beaten back, step by step, taking her opponent’s measure and letting her armor have the rearguard.
The one she fought was good, but Perceval thought she was better—though there was only one way to be absolutely sure.
“Captain,” Nova said in tones of urgency. “Your mother requires assistance.”
By the strength of her arm and the strength of her armor, Perceval swung and feinted high. She let momentum turn her, bringing that arm down for a parry that let the enemy’s left-hand blade slide past her midriff so close it left a bright span on her armor. The spin extended Perceval’s left arm, and while the blade on her gauntlet was not so sharp as an unblade, it cracked the enemy’s armor and sternum with a moment’s resistance.
A jerk,