Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle

by William C. Dietz

  “Of course,” the voices said in perfect unison. “We knew from the moment you arrived. You think of little else.”

  Harmon smiled at the rather accurate assessment of her mental processes. She was somewhat obsessive at times and the Say’lynt had said as much. “Then you understand my concerns.”

  “Yes,” the voices agreed, “we do. You question the motivation behind your orders, the practicality of transporting bodies such as ours, and the risk involved.”

  “Yes,” Harmon replied soberly, “I do.”

  “Then consider this,” the second voice said. “Millions of your kind have perished at the hands of the Hudathans. Even now your soldiers fight distant battles in behalf of the organization that you call the Confederacy. Why should we be exempt? We have visited their minds, we know the Hudathans would have killed us during the first war, if it hadn’t been for their desire to study us first. So we have every reason to fight, and as the one you call Chien-Chu pointed out, the ability to do so. You saw the wreckage?”

  Harmon nodded, realized how stupid it was, and thought her reply. “Yes, I saw the wreckage.”

  “Then you know what we are capable of,” the first voice said sternly.

  “But there are only three of you,” Harmon objected, “or were as of twenty years ago.”

  “Four,” an additional voice corrected her. “There are four of us. Three of what you would consider to be adults, plus Raft Four, who hasn’t matured yet. I will take care of Four. One and Two will fight the Hudathans.”

  The statement was made with such authority and with such certainty that Harmon knew the decision had been made. She cleared her throat, realized there was no reason to speak, and projected her thoughts. “All right . . . if that’s your decision . . . then so be it. By the authority vested in me, I hereby name Rafts One and Two as privates in the Confederacy’s Marine Corps, and order them to active duty. Orientation and basic training will take place during transshipment.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Raft One said respectfully,” but we took the liberty of absorbing all of Captain Ward’s military training, and will act accordingly. Semper Fi.”

  Harmon thought about what the ramrod-straight Marine Corps officer would say when he learned that his memories had been stolen for use by aliens, and grinned. “Well done, Private. Carry on.”

  The Nooni was little more than a dot at first, a fly speck against an otherwise unmarred sky, nearly lost in the vastness of the planet’s atmosphere. Bit by bit the ship grew larger, until it looked like what it was, and Harmon could hear the high-pitched whine of its main drive, along with the deeper rumble of the bolt-on propulsion units. They weren’t working very hard now, but soon would be, as both the Say’lynt and the water necessary to sustain them were brought aboard.

  Down, down, down the spaceship came until the huge globe hovered only fifty feet above the now-flattened water. The public relations specialist and his assistants had launched an airborne robo cam, which when combined with four different surface cameras, plus two remote-controlled subsurface units, would provide them with every possible angle on what promised to be the most exciting footage the mission had to provide. Harmon did her best to ignore them.

  The inflatable jet-powered work boat, one of four brought down via shuttle, moved up and down on the waves generated by the Nooni’s overpressure. Harmon, who had spent thousands of hours at the helm of small boats, barely noticed the motion. She turned the bow into the waves and kept her attention on the ship. She wore a mask pushed up onto her forehead and full scuba gear.

  High above, strapped into his command chair, and surrounded by the bridge crew, Naval Commander Tom Duncan fought to retain his composure. The Nooni had never been designed to hover for five minutes, much less the hour or so required to load the Say’lynt, and hundreds of things could go wrong. A sudden storm could develop, his primary control system could go belly up, or one of the bolt-on propulsion units could fail. And, with only fifty feet between the ship and the ocean, any one of those possibilities would result in almost certain disaster. Some or all of the crew might survive, but the ship would go down, leaving the mission in shambles. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead and he wiped it away. “Stand by to deploy the siphon.”

  A technician, her eyes glued to the screen in front of her, answered without looking his way. “The siphon is ready, sir. All systems green.”

  Duncan took one last look at the control boards. Once the siphon had been deployed, and a Say’lynt had entered it, there would be no turning back. They would succeed or crash . . . simple as that. His throat felt dry and he swallowed some saliva. “Deploy the siphon.”

  Harmon heard the words at the same moment the technician did and watched with a growing sense of suspense as a circular hatch irised open and a large, nearly transparent tube appeared. It was at least six feet in diameter and pleated like an accordion. She had sat next to Duncan during countless virtual-reality simulations but nothing could have prepared her for the real thing. The way the Nooni hung there, suspended between sky and water, the nearly deafening noises as engines fought to keep the ship aloft, and the size of the tube that splashed into the water below. The technician’s voice accompanied the spray. She sounded relieved. “Siphon deployed, sir.”

  “Excellent. Captain Harmon, the siphon has been deployed. Please ask the marines to board as quickly as they can.”

  Harmon grinned at the reference to “marines,” knew that the Say’lynt had “heard” the order, but passed it along as a matter of form. She did her best to imitate Ward’s gruff-voiced style. “All right, you know the drill, let’s do it by the numbers.”

  A considerable amount of thought had gone into what was to happen next. Although Say’lynt intelligence was broadly distributed across thousands of brain nodes, some were more critical than others, and tended to be grouped within the same hundred square miles of ocean. These would be boarded first, since they were analogous to the human brain, and therefore critical to survival. Maneuvering them into the proper position had taken six days of hard work.

  Due to the fact that the Rafts had only limited means of self-propulsion, and normally relied on the wind and currents to take them from one place to another, Harmon and her makeshift staff had used the work boats to tow the alien brain nodes to the pickup zone, which was no small task, since in spite of the fact that each Raft weighed hundreds of tons, they were still rather fragile, and it was difficult to pull on them without doing damage.

  But, after a series of near disasters, much maneuvering, and a good deal of profanity, the task was accomplished. The most critical parts of Raft One were in the pickup zone and ready to embark. The Say’lynt was cheerful as always and a lot more composed than Harmon was.

  “Raft One, ready to embark, ma’am.”

  Harmon spoke into the small boom mike. “The marines are ready to board. Start the pumps.”

  High above, on the Nooni’s bridge, a technician touched a button. A pair of powerful pumps started to work, salt water was sucked up through the massive siphon, and Raft One went with it. Harmon held her breath at first, fearful that something would go terribly wrong, but all of the careful preparation paid off, as mile after mile of the Say’lynt disappeared up and into the ship’s bio tank. It even became boring after a while, as seconds stretched into minutes, and minutes accumulated towards an hour.

  Things went well until all of Raft One was in the tank, and Raft Two was in the process of coming aboard. Duncan knew a problem had developed when the sound of the main drive rose an octave and the entire ship started to vibrate. “What the hell was that?”

  “That was bolt-on number three, sir,” a tech replied calmly. “It just went down. The NAVCOM compensated by demanding more power from the main drive, but it’s beginning to overheat, and the loss of number three threw everything out of balance. The vibration is stressing the hull, and what with the extra weight, we could have some stress fractures.”

  Duncan looked at the
elapsed time, saw that it would take another fifteen minutes to load the rest of Raft Two, and knew what had to be done. But the decision belonged to his CO, and for better or for worse, that was Captain Cynthia Harmon. The vibration had increased. A thousand unseen pieces of metal started to rattle. A coffee cup crashed to the deck. The XO fought to keep his voice level. “Captain . . . this is Duncan. I recommend that we abort . . . repeat . . . abort the embarkation procedure.”

  Harmon felt something heavy fall into her stomach. They had a contingency plan for this kind of situation, but it was far from pleasant, and could imperil the mission. More than a mile out from the pickup zone the Say’lynt had been pushed, pulled, and prodded between a pair of bottom-mounted pylons. The purpose of this evolution was to concentrate their long white filaments and loosely strung nodes into a tightly packed mass that would enter into the siphon as easily as possible. One of the side effects of this strategy, however, was to concentrate the alien flesh in a manner that would allow a second party to cut it in half, thereby saving the sentient’s control nodules, but sacrificing its extremities, including parts of its mind.

  Valerie had reported that the Say’lynt had at least some ability to regenerate their more distal body parts, but the extent of this ability wasn’t clear or the effect it would have on the sentient itself. What about shock? Loss of cognitive function? There was no way to know. But to hesitate, to push the ship too far, could mean death for everyone aboard. This was not the sort of decision that a marine biologist normally had to face, and Harmon wondered if she was qualified.

  All those thoughts flashed through Harmon’s mind in a fraction of a second and were followed by a voice inside her head. “You are qualified. Do what has to be done.”

  Harmon was surprised at the strength of her voice. “That’s affirmative, Commander . . . hang in there as long as you can. Let’s go, Delta Team . . . you know what to do.”

  Harmon pulled her mask down over her face, bit down on her mouthpiece, and tested the regulator. The air was there and she hit the water feetfirst. It took two minutes to swim the distance between the still-anchored work boat and the fibrous mass that was Raft Two’s highly compacted body. It was moving right to left as the siphon sucked it up. The scientist turned to the right and kicked. The international orange pylons came steadily closer. The other three members of the special function team did likewise. A self-propelled underwater camera tracked their movements. The plan was to amputate as far back as they could, using the pylons as a marker.

  The scientist felt for and found the power baton holstered along her right thigh. It came on at the touch of a button and projected a three-foot cutting beam. Water boiled all around the bar of blue-white energy. Harmon felt the resulting warmth sweep back along the length of her arm. Safety was an important concern so they had agreed that only two members of the team would cut while the other two acted as backups and kept an eye on the big picture.

  Harmon had designated herself as one of the two cutters. She swam into position, checked to make sure that she could see cutter number two on the far side of the undulating biomass, and gave the necessary order. “Okay, Neely, remember to move with the cut . . . and keep an eye on me. One amputation is more than enough for today.”

  Neely, a hard-eyed medical tech, said, “Aye, aye, ma‘am,” and brought his baton down in a two-handed grip. Stretched as they were between the siphon and the weight of the Say’lynt’s body the filaments seemed to leap away from each other. Harmon duplicated the rating’s move and saw the same thing happen on her side. A milky-looking substance shot out of the severed ends, a horrible scream filled Harmon’s mind, and she saw Neely grab his ears. The more distal brain nodes were dying and broadcasting their pain.

  Harmon wanted to tell the med tech that the sound hadn’t come through his ears, and that it was imperative that he retrieve the slowly falling baton and finish the job, but there was no time. Propelling herself forward, and moving sideways with the incision, Harmon cut again and again. More and more of the milky white fluid entered the sea until the scientist couldn’t see what she was doing and all semblance of method was gone.

  Harmon was hacking now, using the baton like a primitive ax, bringing it down time after time, as long, drawn-out screams filled her mind and radio babble assaulted her ears. But there was no time to tell Delta team what to do, only to act, and hope for the best.

  Duncan held on to the command chair with both hands. Out of balance, underpowered, and with an ever-growing amount of weight to cope with, the Nooni was in the process of shaking herself apart. The main drive, stressed to the very limits of its emergency limiters, was severly overheated. Klaxons, buzzers, and beepers sounded all around. He had never felt so helpless, so powerless, as he did right now. All he could do was wait, hope that the inexperienced scientist could save his ship, and pray. “Yea, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we fear no evil . . .”

  The last strands broke before Harmon could cut them. The ends whipped around, wrapped her in a network of fibers, and pulled her towards the siphon. The scientist realized the danger, flailed about her, and became even more entangled. The baton! She could cut her way out! But the baton was gone, lost during the initial whiplash, and as distant as Earth itself. Harmon felt for her diving knife, found it, and had just started to cut her way out when she heard a rumbling noise. Water swirled, something pulled at her, and the knife fell away. The siphon!

  Harmon had no more than had the thought when she was inside the tube and being lifted up and into the Nooni’s bio tank. She tumbled head over heels, bounced off the sides of the tube, and was sucked into the ship.

  Duncan read the sensors, got confirmation from what was left of Delta team, and ordered full power. The Nooni shuddered as the weight of the siphon fell away, lurched sideways as the NAVCOM did its best to compensate for the malfunctioning bolt-on, and groaned as the now-screaming thrusters fought to push it upwards. Inch by inch, foot by foot, the Nooni and her crew fought their way up through the resisting air, rejoicing as it grew thinner, and heaving a final sigh of relief as she broke out into the emptiness of space. They had made it.

  Meanwhile, down in the bio tank, a much-battered Captain Cynthia Harmon floated on her back, and gazed upwards into a steel gray bulkhead. Raft One was humming what it called the “Healing Song,” while Two lay quiescent towards the bottom of the tank. Both had assured her that Two would live and regain full functionality. The scientist thought about that which might lie ahead and wondered if it was worth it. For better or worse, two additional marines had been recruited to the cause, and would soon join the battle.

  No, Harmon decided, make that three more beings, since she would add her 130 pounds to the fray. She thought of Valerie and found sadness, but none of the anguish that had been there before, or the anger that had so often accompanied it. At least one battle had been won.

  21

  He who will win must know the enemy better than he knows himself.

  Naa proverb

  Author and date unknown

  With the Hudathan Fleet, off the Planet Prospect II, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  War Commander Niman Poseen-Ka sat in the semidarkened command center. It was oval in shape and could accommodate up to fifteen officers in the alcoves around the central holo tank. But they were where they should be, out leading their troopers to victory. Or so the Hudathan hoped. Although his fleet had racked up some impressive victories, the action on Jericho being an excellent example, there had been reverses as well, like the disaster at Rork’s Drift, where an entire task force had been destroyed. The Confederacy was fighting, and in many cases, fighting well. He looked up at the view screen. It was empty save for the distant image of a brown-blue planet and a scattering of stars.

  Poseen-Ka shifted his considerable weight into a more comfortable position and stared out into the void. The Inthulu System lay helpless before him. It had taken less than five standard days to destroy its once-powerful fl
eet along with the weapons platforms that orbited the two populated planets. Not because of any lack of skill on the part of the defenders, or a paucity of courage, but because they had been outnumbered three to one. Still some danger remained. There was little doubt that the humans had sent message torps to their high command. That meant the odds were excellent that a Confederacy battle group was on its way. However, intelligence had assured him that it would be more than a week before any such force arrived. At this point his flagship, the Hand of Hudatha, could sterilize Prospect I and II by itself should he give the orders to do so, but he hadn’t. Why?

  Perhaps the five fates were angry with him. Perhaps he’d been too successful, too proud, and this was their way of punishing him. Or maybe they were upset with Grand Marshal Hisep Rula-Ka, who had ridden a long streak of good luck. Until a strange fate that had befallen him.

  It still wasn’t clear what had happened, how Rula-Ka’s personal gig had been taken by a human destroyer, but it had, and his onetime protégé turned commanding officer was in enemy hands. Fortunately the humans didn’t realize who they had captured, or they would have demanded a lot more than the Inthulu System’s two inhabitable planets as ransom.

  Not that such efforts would avail them much, since the Triad would expect Poseen-Ka to abandon his senior officer, assume his duties, and lay waste to the entire system by last meal the same day. And he should have done so by now.

  So why hadn’t he? His excuses were feeble. Yes, Rula-Ka had been his onetime protégé, but so had many others, and the war commander knew he would sacrifice any of them in an instant. True, Rula-Ka had freed him from Worber’s World, but that had been incidental to a larger plan that met racial needs. Even the restoration of his rank and reputation had served a larger purpose, not the least of which was to create a figure on whom failure could be blamed should that become necessary. So why the hesitancy to act?