Mech 3: The Empress by B. V. Larson

was still disabled. He adjusted and readjusted the controls, vainly. This would be far better with sound.
    The six entrances to the lifeboat pods on the starboard side of Gladius snapped open at once. The crewmen with flamethrowers trotted forward and let loose with flares of brilliant flame. Garth cheered appreciatively, and realized why there was no sound. He’d never turned the volume up on the video input. A moment later, sound boomed from every monitor. The skalds could scarcely ignore the battle now!
    Events moved rapidly. After hosing the lifeboats with cleansing flame, the crewmen began to advance into the compartments. Garth watched tensely.
    The first hint that something was amiss came from off-camera. An odd, keening sound arose. The crewmen onscreen seemed scarcely aware of it initially, but the cries were quickly joined by a dozen similar outbursts.
    Next, a blaze of automatic weapons fire erupted—not in the lifeboat compartments, but out amongst the stacked cargo containers in the hold.
    Garth fought the controls, finally managing to alter the angle of the camera so he could see what the fuss was about. A female crewman ran into view, clutching her helmet tightly to her head. Was she wearing a tail of some kind? No, it had to be something else. Squinting and zooming in, Garth realized she wasn’t wearing a helmet at all. There was something—something on her head. He realized with a cold shiver that it was a shrade. The enemy creatures were dropping them among the crew.
    Matters became uncertain after that. More and more crewmen, people who’d been at the rear ranks with the least effective armament, rushed forward and often fell flopping onto the deck. Some were shot by their nervous comrades. More than one was burned like a flopping, staggering creature from a holovid by the overzealous members of the flamethrower squads when they came too close for comfort.
    “They’re behind us, out in the hold! Forget the lifepods! Turn and take cover,” the Captain ordered. His was a booming voice, full of confidence.
    The group did so, but the assaults stopped. Uncertain, the group hugged hexagonal cargo cases and peered in every direction at once.
    Gunfire then rose up in a wild booming fusilade. Garth worked the camera controls, eyes bulging and looking everywhere at once. Who was firing? Every crewman he saw seemed to be ducking and cowering behind equipment.
    Then they sprinted forward. A company of killbeasts. They fired as they advanced. Crewmen who dared to fire back were quickly cut down by more accurate fire, but they did managed to stop a number of the enemy. When the killbeast charge finally reached the crew’s ragged line, they set about slaughtering everyone they came in contact with, shooting them at point-blank range or kicking out with their bladed feet to maim and decapitate. More flamethrowers blazed, burning down screaming crewmen as often as silent, impossibly vital killbeasts.
    In less than a minute, the charge had been broken. There were just too many crewmen, they outnumbered the aliens at least three to one. These humans had met with the aliens before, and were not as likely to panic as they might have been in the past. They knew the score: this was do or die. There was little hope that one could run away, so they did not bother. They fought until every killbeast lay still on the deck or was left draped over the cargo containers.
    A ragged cheer went up from their ranks, a cry that was echoed by Garth himself. Spittle flew from his lips, but he paid no heed. He wished for a drink, and lamented that none was to be found here in the maintenance cabinets.
    “See?” he shouted into the microphone. “We’ve won! We’ve beaten them back. Do you not feel like sick cowards now, Tulk?”
    There was no reply from the saloons and lounges. This didn’t trouble Garth. He knew they had seen the spectacle. He hoped they knew shame, but he doubted Tulk were capable of that emotion. Rather than