Deathtrap

by Craig Alanson

  The battle raged chaotically in space around the gas giant. Ships of the Mighty 98th coordinated their actions, though too many ships concentrated on the big hulls of the enemy, seeking glamorous kills. Dahmen got them straightened out and supporting each other effectively, while the Bosphuraq almost immediately abandoned any pretense of trying to coordinate with the Thuranin. Both fleets broke orbit and ran for safety, using their destroyers and light cruisers to protect the heavy battlewagons. With so many ships on each side, the battle became a knife fight, combatants drawing as close as eight thousand kilometers and hammering away at each other with directed-energy weapons and railguns. There was so much debris and ordnance flying around that missiles scored more hits than usual, slipping through the confused proximity defense systems that could not quickly discriminate hazardous flying debris from hazardous missiles.

  “Admiral!” Captain Dahmen called triumphantly from his station across the battleship’s bridge, thirty minutes after the battle began. “The Bosphuraq are signaling, they are offering to surrender.”

  “Ah,” Tashallo worked his lower mandibles side to side slowly. “It is truly unfortunate that battle damage has interfered with our communications. The message is no doubt garbled and unreadable.”

  “Sir?” Dahmen lifted an antenna from a button that was poised to send a general ceasefire message to the Jeraptha fleet.

  Tashallo tilted his head toward the other senior officer, who had not served in the 98th Fleet long enough to understand the admiral’s moods. “Captain, I do not remember ordering a ceasefire,” he gestured toward the tactical display tank, which showed vessels on both sides engaged in furious combat. Although technically, only the Jeraptha ships were in furious pursuit of the combined enemy force, while the scattered remnants of Thuranin and Bosphuraq formations were running as best they could, or clustering together to concentrate their defensive capabilities. Only the Jeraptha ships were attacking. Tashallo noticed with satisfaction that while the enemy force had been acting in a coordinated fashion when the battle began, now Thuranin ships were supporting only Thuranin ships, while the Bosphuraq were also protecting their own surviving vessels. As he watched, a pair of Bosphuraq light cruisers slid past a stricken Thuranin destroyer and made no attempt to intercept Jeraptha missiles that were homing in on the crippled spacecraft. Perhaps the Bosphuraq were saving their Proximity Defense Systems for their own needs, but Tashallo thought the birdbrains were just happy to see their little green so-called allies being slaughtered.

  Dahmen left his station to walk around the holo tank and speak privately with the admiral. “Sir, the enemy is crippled, but they can still hurt us,” he winced as the tactical display showed the loss of a Jeraptha destroyer which had been targeted by three enemy ships. Of the three ships that had concentrated their fire on the unlucky destroyer, the cruiser was itself in bad shape, with parts falling off as it flew a twisting course upward away from the planet, desperately trying to get to jump altitude. Attaining that altitude would be of no use if the damping fields of the Mighty 98th still enveloped the planet, but the alternative was remaining in low orbit and waiting to die. “There were a hundred thirty people on that destroyer,” Dahmen quietly prodded the admiral. “We can ensure that no enemy ship survives, but at what cost?”

  “Dahmen,” Tashallo replied just as quietly. “I have no intention of continuing the fight until the last enemy ship is a cloud of dust. However, I do have a purpose in not accepting the surrender of the Bosphuraq at this time. When this battle is over, we will allow a single enemy ship from each species to return home. I want those ships to report that their ‘allies’ did nothing to support them. I want this battle to not only be a tactical defeat for our enemies, I also want their losses at Nubrentia to drive a wedge between their alliance. Better, I want- Ah,” he broke away to stare intently at the holo tank. “Signal the All-In to pursue these two Bosphuraq ships,” he highlighted the targets in the tactical display.

  Dahmen examined the display. The heavy cruiser All-In was supporting two other ships in an attack on a Thuranin battlecruiser. Both sides were taking damage. “Sir?”

  Tashallo dipped one of his small antennas in a wink. “I will explain later. Execute my orders, if you please.”

  It in fact did not please Captain Dahmen to order a heavy cruiser to break off attacking an enemy capital ship. He was intrigued by both the admiral’s playful mood, and by trying to understand what the crafty senior officer could be thinking. He sent the order.

  Silently, the battleship captain and the admiral watched as the All-In hesitated long enough to launch a half-dozen railguns at the battlecruiser, then turned and burned hard for its new designated targets. The pair of enemy ships, both cruisers, were being harassed by three Jeraptha destroyers, and it appeared to Dahmen the enemy had little chance of reaching jump distance. Why, then, had the admiral ordered a heavy cruiser into the fight?

  A minute later, he had the answer. As the two Bosphuraq cruisers raced for jump altitude, they changed course to fly near a Thuranin heavy cruiser that was struggling to recover from damage to its normal-space propulsion system. The cyborg crew had bypassed systems to regain seventy percent thrust, and the heavy cruiser was making progress.

  As they flew past, both Bosphuraq ships targeted the Thuranin propulsion module, ripping holes in it and leaving that ship temporarily drifting. They hoped their action would save themselves by providing an easier target for their Jeraptha ship pursuing them.

  Tashallo clacked his claws together in delight. “That is what I hoped for, Dahmen! Signal the All-In to finish off that Thuranin ship. Let one of the Bosphuraq cruisers get to jump altitude. One only, please, let’s not be too generous, hmm?”

  Dahmen hung his head sheepishly. “You are playing the long game, Admiral. Not just taking back Nubrentia and crippling the enemy’s ability to exploit their gains in this part of the sector. You want the Bosphuraq and Thuranin at each other’s throats.”

  Tashallo drew back his head in mock surprise. “Why, Captain, I am hurt. You accuse me of deviousness worthy of our enemy.”

  “Our enemy is not that smart,” Dahmen chuckled. “Ho! I see your plan has yielded results already.” Two Thuranin ships and a single Bosphuraq, heavily engaged with Jeraptha opponents, had suddenly became two ships, as the Thuranin concentrated their fire on the Bosphuraq and its shields collapsed. The Bosphuraq light cruiser exploded.

  “Now, Dahmen,” Tashallo leaned back in his couch with satisfaction. “Two things. First, signal the Bosphuraq and Thuranin that our terms for surrender require an immediate and unconditional ceasefire.”

  Dahmen bowed his head. “With pleasure, Sir. The second thing?”

  “In my quarters is a bottle of forty-year-old burgoze. Send someone to fetch it.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Oh, and Dahmen?”

  “Sir?”

  “Bring two glasses.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Admiral Tashallo was a hero again after the Battle of Nubrentia. He had proved his doubters wrong and won a truly staggering pile of money in wagers. When the Mighty 98th returned to its home base, Tashallo found a team of Inquisitors there but they posed no threat to him, nor did they have any questions for him. All they had for the famous admiral was admiration. And a bottle of extremely rare seventy-year-old burgoze.

  The admiral accepted the bottle graciously, and did not comment that the bottle did not appear to be quite full, and that he could smell aged burgoze on the breath of the chief Inquisitor.

  The team of Inquisitors was there to assure that the crews of the 98th knew that the possible existence of pop-up defenses on other Jeraptha worlds was a secret, and anyone who spoke about what they had seen at Nubrentia would be subject to severe punishment.

  Of course, this unusual action by the Inquisitor’s office was taken as tacit confirmation that there were pop-up defenses installed on other Jeraptha planets, and that prompted a flurry of wagering about which planets might
be protected by such an ancient and therefore unexpected defense capability.

  The Home Fleet became furious about the very public wagering activity, and sent a sternly-worded complaint to the Central Wagering Office to invalidate any such wagers, and clamped a veil of secrecy over the existing wagers. The Thuranin Intelligence Directorate of course soon learned of the wagers, and warned their ships to be wary of a potentially devastating new tactic by their hated enemy the Jeraptha.

  In turn, the Home Fleet Intelligence Branch learned of the Thuranin warning and chuckled heartily to themselves, for they knew there were no other pop-up defense devices anywhere in Jeraptha space. They also knew that the Fleet Office of Technology stated that if such pop-up devices needed to be constructed, they were fucked, for no one alive had any idea how the damned things were built so long ago.

  So, Admiral Tashallo had ten days of fun being toasted by old friends and people who suddenly wanted to be his friend. He accepted invitations from the former and ignored the latter.

  After ten days, when he returned to his flagship, Captain Dahmen noticed the admiral was back to being listless and depressed. After the shocking victory at Nubrentia, absolutely no one would accept a wager against the admiral. He could place bets through a proxy, but what was the fun of winning if the loser didn’t know who they had bet against?

  “Ah, Dahmen,” Tashallo said as he frowned at his glass of finely aged burgoze, “I am back to where I started. Is there nothing new or interesting in this galaxy?”

  Captain Dahmen groaned to himself, anticipating a long evening of making one attempt after another to cheer up his commanding officer. Then he remembered an odd item in that morning’s intelligence briefing. “Actually, Admiral,” he said slowly as he swirled the very, very fine burgoze in his own glass. “There is something new. Our fuzzy friends the Ruhar have a new concept. Have you heard of the Alien Legion?”

  “No,” Tashallo sat up with mild interest. “What is it?”

  Dahmen explained, and Tashallo’s mild interest became mild amusement. “The Ruhar will surely never entrust humans and their pet Kristang with a military mission,” he lay back in his couch. “Too bad. That would be interesting. It would make for interesting wagers.”

  Dahmen smiled to himself behind his glass. He had found a subject that would at least keep the admiral’s attention for a few weeks. “Ah, Sir. But the Ruhar are planning to deploy their Alien Legion in harm’s way. Have you ever heard of a world called ‘Feznako’?”

  Before departing for his unusual new assignment, Commodore Jet-au-Bes Kekrando had been forced to attend several parties in his honor, and to host one small gathering in return. The stated purpose of the festivities was to celebrate his recent promotion. He knew the real reason people wanted to meet him was to gawk in ghoulish fascination; the dead man had come back to life. And to wonder amongst themselves how long his reprieve would last. The clan leadership needed him again, so he would be allowed to live until he was no longer useful. Too many powerful people would benefit from his death, too many wheels had been set in motion to be stopped by something trivial like the prospect of a minor victory at an unimportant star system.

  The afternoon before he was scheduled to depart, he needed time alone to think, to consider what future he had left, to reflect on a long career. He sat in his study with a bottle of his favorite spirits, and called for the only person he could talk openly with.

  “Major Ma,” he bowed slightly as his human slave strode into the room, her head held high.

  “Commodore,” Ma bowed slightly, very slightly in return. The bowing had become a game between the two of them. At first, Kekrando’s gesture was for the purpose of mocking a defeated adversary, but lately Ma sensed a genuine if reluctant respect. For her part, her bow was an act of defiance toward a hated enemy. “Congratulations on your promotion.”

  “My restoration, you mean,” Kekrando took a sip from his glass, then nudged a second bottle that rested on the table. “You will not join me?” That was another of their games. He had originally kept three of the human ‘Keepers’ when the remnants of his defeated battlegroup retreated from Pradassis, but he had lost interest in the two males, who had been too dimwitted to interest him. So, he had given one away as a gift, and sold the other. Ma remained because she had been defiant from the beginning, not blindly fanatical like the few other Keepers he had met. His purpose in keeping her in his household was not for prestige, nor for cruel sport. He had been defeated at Pradassis by a group of primitive humans, and he wished to understand them. He needed to understand them, to understand why what should have been an easy victory had turned so unexpectedly, so astonishingly, into a crushing defeat. So, he had spent a shocking amount of money to acquire a bottle of ‘baijiu’, an alcoholic spirit from Ma’s native homeland of ‘China’. Kekrando still thought of the Earth governmental divisions called ‘countries’ as clans, despite Ma’s frequent attempts to correct him.

  “Thank you,” Ma stood stiffly. “No.”

  That had become another game. Kekrando offered her the bottle as a small comfort from her home, and she refused to drink with her enemy. The two male slaves he had owned previously would not have hesitated to accept the offer of a drink, and that is one reason why he tired of them so quickly.

  “Some other day, then?” Kekrando picked up the bottle of baijiu and put it back in the cabinet, where his household staff knew not to touch it.

  “Someday,” Ma bowed again, this time with a ghost of a smile crossing her lips. “I will drink to toast your death.”

  That, too, was one of their games.

  “My death has been delayed. I am sorry to disappoint you.”

  “That will only make your inevitable death all the more sweet.” Ma’s smile broadened. “Your household staff told me about your restoration to active service. They thought hearing about your success would taunt me. They were wrong.”

  Kekrando paused, the glass halfway to his mouth. “You would not celebrate my death in battle?”

  “I would prefer to kill you myself.” The smile was gone now.

  “I might prefer that,” Kekrando took another sip.

  “You would?” Ma asked with genuine surprise. Their game had never gone in that direction before.

  “Yes. It would be good to know that my death gave pleasure to someone I respect, rather than the greedy relatives fighting over my wealth.”

  Ma nodded, unsure what to say. They both knew it was very unlikely she would ever be able to kill her owner. Though she had free run of most of the estate, she wore a shock collar that could incapacitate or even kill her. There was no way to get the collar off, and the watch-like device the Commodore wore on his wrist controlled the collar. They also both knew she had no incentive to kill him, other than fleeting personal satisfaction. The household staff resented the apparent affection their employer held for his human curiosity, and many of the Commodore’s relatives and visitors found her lack of subservience to be intolerable. She was a primitive human. She was a female, yet she had held authority over human males as a mid-level military officer. Everyone except Jet-au-Bes Kekrando himself thought Major Ma was a terrible example to Kristang females. It was true that she took every opportunity to treat the females in the household staff, including those who shared the Commodore’s bed, with the respect they did not get from any of the males in the staff, or anyone who visited the estate. After an awkward pause while Kekrando stared wistfully out the window to the expansive gardens of his estate, she ventured a question. “You respect me? I am a slave.”

  “You are a slave, because there is no other position for you in our society,” he said with what Ma thought was regret. “Your species are clients of my people, and the actions of your Expeditionary Force on Pradassis were at first incompetent, then treasonous.”

  “Yet, you respect me? Why?” She knew it was a weakness to admit she wanted something from the alien who kept her as a slave, a pet, a curiosity. Kekrando could use her need to know a
gainst her, but she did not think the former admiral would be so petty. No, he seemed to want her to understand him, as he sought to understand her.

  “You are different from the others.”

  “The others? Humans?”

  “No. The other Keepers. I have very limited experience with humans who are not Keepers of the Faith,” he said the name with disgust. “You are different in your temperament, your clear thinking, and your motivations.”

  Unintentionally, she softened from the stiff stance she always maintained in the Commodore’s presence. Her shoulders slumped ever so slightly, and her back was no longer ramrod straight. “How so?”

  “The other two who were here, and the other Keepers I met during our retreat from Pradassis,” he could finally mention that humiliating action without hating himself. “They still stupidly believed that my people are your allies.” He looked up at her sharply. “You know better, you know the truth. Your fellow Keepers are too stupid or too stubborn to accept the truth. You are different. You know my people see humans as slaves. You know the White Wind clan has conquered your homeworld by now, enslaved your people and are ravaging your planet. Yet, you joined the Keepers and left Pradassis.”

  “Yes.”

  “I believe I know why, and that is why I respect you.”

  She waited silently for her owner to continue.

  He took another sip, set the glass down, and pushed it away from him. “You are realistic. You know that Kristang must control your homeworld. You know the Ruhar cannot and will not help Earth, so your only hope of helping the people of your clan-”

  “My country,” she corrected. “China. I am still an officer of the People’s Liberation Army.”

  He waved a hand to dismiss the meaningless distinction. “Your only hope to serve China is to serve your new masters. It is a faint hope, yet more realistic than the fools you left Pradassis with. You know it is a vanishingly faint hope, yet you cling to it.”