by David Adams
No sense half-arseing it. Time to go all in.
“How are you holding up, Summer?” Wolfe asked, somewhat expecting an answer that was at once manic, enthralled, and ever-so-slightly useless. “Report status on the Tehran and the Madrid.”
He got what he wanted.
“This is great.” Summer’s synthetic voice was an eerie almost-perfect copy of her biological one. “Both ships are heading towards the system’s L5 Lagrange point, with the Toralii and Kel-Voran clustered around them in a strike pattern. More locally, Dr. Saeed is standing by my datacore, and my minions are crawling over the ships right now. Having direct control of the constructs is pretty awesome. I just tell them what to do, and they do it. It’s like… having a million hands.”
“With constructs crewing our ships, sailors like us are going to be out of a job soon.” Wolfe didn’t mind that for a bit. Always better to lose equipment instead of people. “Just make sure you stay focused. The Alliance have taken the bait. We have to sell it to them.”
It hadn’t taken much—just the Madrid sending out a single radio communication. The kind of thing that might have slipped past a radio silence order.
The Forerunner would have detected it instantly, jumping away to relay its message.
Clearly, it had. Within ten minutes, forty-seven Toralii cruisers vessels had jumped in and adopted an attack position. Those ships, the most powerful warships the galaxy had ever known, crewed by the most elite sailors in the Toralii Alliance, were thrice bitten—or was that four times now?—stung with significant, humiliating defeats.
After ten hours of manoeuvring and travel, the Toralii Alliance almost had a firing solution. The time had crawled by. He hated the waiting, but the Toralii were cautious. They had planned their attack with overwhelming force, numbers, and the tactical advantage. A single Toralii cruiser had shown itself to be more than a match for three of the Human ships. The Kel-Voran could go toe-to-toe with them on a good day, and the Telvan Toralii had the same hardware as their Alliance brethren.
In the past, humanity had triumphed because of tactical advantage, surprise, or the overconfidence borne of being the biggest, baddest dog on the street for centuries.
Not today. This time, the Toralii were playing to win. But so were the Humans. “Are the Telvan ships ready to go?” Wolfe asked. He felt strange talking to Rowe through a radio; normally, he would hear de Lugo, Grégoire, or Liao… “They better be.”
“Yeah,” Rowe grumbled. Or at least Wolfe sensed a grumble in her voice. “Feels weird to be fighting alongside Toralii against Toralii. And not just one ship, either… lots of them. Like, a dozen ships.”
They had done so before and would do so again. De Lugo spoke up, as though reminding everyone he was there. “Stranger things have happened. Do you know of the Battle for Castle Itter?”
“No,” Rowe said.
“I don’t, either,” Wolfe said. It was a strange time for a history lesson, but until the Toralii actually sprung the attack, the Humans couldn’t do anything but talk. “Tell me about it.”
Talking seemed to help sooth de Lugo’s wounded pride. “In the final days of World War II, after Hitler put a gun to his head, the defenders of Castle Itter—a medieval castle re-purposed by the Nazis into a prison camp—smelled the way the wind of the war was going and abandoned their posts. However, the Seventeenth Panzergrenadier Division was sent to the castle to reoccupy it and execute the prisoners. The POWs were an interesting bunch: a French tennis star, two former French Prime Ministers, and a few minor celebrities.
“American forces from a nearby armoured division decided to intervene. They went looking for help… but the only assistance they could find was a Waffen SS officer who defected, the recently freed French POWs who had occupied the castle and helped themselves to the armoury, and a number of the Wehrmacht soldiers who volunteered to retake the castle. So they went with what they had.
“So, amongst others, the Wehrmacht fought against the Panzergrenadiers of the Waffen SS. Interestingly enough, that Panzergrenadier division was comprised heavily of French volunteers, making it the only time American and Nazi German soldiers fought side-by-side, against Frenchmen, no less. One of the strangest battles of the Second World War.”
Rowe laughed, and the loud, grating barking irritated Wolfe. If she was a robot, couldn’t she fix that?
“Nazis and Americans fighting side-by-side?” she asked.
“Yes,” Wolfe said, “and it’s interesting to me you call them Nazis. The Wehrmacht were a mixed bunch. Some were essentially arseholes, the same calibre you’ll find in any armed forces—social misfits given a rifle and an almost unlimited licence to inflict misery on others. Some were genuinely good people who were conscripted into a war they didn’t believe in but served in out of a sense of duty and honour. The truth, for most, was somewhere in the middle. They were people.”
“Of course,” said de Lugo, “it depends on who you ask, however. Many Wehrmacht units refused brutal orders—Hitler ordered his armies to burn down Paris as they retreated, yet his soldiers refused to, and so Paris was spared. But on the Eastern Front? Not so much. If you ask the Eastern Europeans, they are more inclined to view the Wehrmacht as much more evil, as the forces deployed to the Eastern Front were much more willing and eager to dispense butchery. They hated the Slavic people almost as much as they hated the Jews. The hatred the Red Army felt against the German people was legitimate. Eighty percent of all Soviet males born in 1923 died in World War II. That kind of blood can only be answered with blood.”
“Wait,” Rowe said, “so… the Toralii are Nazis?”
That woman. She could copy her brain to a robot, but she couldn’t divine a meaning from a metaphor.
“No,” said de Lugo, “I mean—”
An alarm sounded, and his radar screen lit up. The Toralii had fired. The chatter got put away instantly.
Lines of fire—high-heat plasma, contained by magnetic energies—leapt out from the gathered Toralii armada towards the Human fleet. Bright-white flecks flew out towards the Human ships. Nearly fifty ships’ worth of shots spit flame across the dark void of space.
War in the void was tedious. The shots would take minutes to reach their destinations, such was the great distances involved in space combat.
“Rowe,” Wolfe said. “They’re firing beyond effective range. You know the plan.”
“I know,” she said, sounding distracted. “I’m on it.”
The first wave of fire hit the Human ships from above. Clumps of white plasma seared the hull plating of the Tehran and the Madrid, burning glowing red holes in the ships’ weaker top armour. The two ships hadn’t charged their hull plating. If they had, all that heat would have been spread out and diffused, less damaging. Another wave of fire rolled in. The Alliance were focusing on the Human ships, to the exclusion of the rest of the fleet. It was obviously a deliberate ploy, which was risky, but it might pay off.
The two Human ships began to shift course. Their heat signatures spiked as they both charged their hull plating. That was perfect. They’d been damaged, but they were responding.
The Telvan ships had begun to fire back. Space was a criss-cross of white-hot streaks of plasma. A gout of flame burst from the Madrid’s stern. A flash of light leapt out like a tongue licking the void. Another wave of fire rolled in. And another.
“The Madrid is taking a hell of a pounding,” Rowe said. “Their hull plating didn’t fully charge.”
“Pinche puta,” de Lugo muttered darkly. “They swore to me they fixed it.”
It wasn’t going to matter for long. Wolfe was hardly surprised something like that had happened. The Madrid was always the lame duck of the fleet, ever since the Sydney had been destroyed. Something about both ships had seemed to attract mechanical faults.
The Toralii Alliance continued to fire, concentrating on the Madrid as though they could smell her weakness. He felt a pang of pity for de Lugo. The poor guy didn’t need to see his ship destroy
ed.
The Telvan were doing their part. Rowe was doing hers. It was time for them to do theirs.
“Summer,” Wolfe said, “send out another series of pulses from the Tehran. Make sure that the Toralii see them. High energy. Use their radio, as well. Light up that part of space like a Christmas tree. Try to disguise our presence as much as we can. It will buy us more time.”
“Aye aye,” Rowe said. Another set of radar pings went out.
Summer herself had proposed the idea. De Lugo’s plan had called for the ships to turn off their radars and other systems to avoid tipping off their jump to the Toralii fleet, but Rowe had pointed out, rightly, that when the fleet was active, the ships always had their radars scanning space like paranoid lunatics, trying to find hidden ambushes, always looking for threats. To not be looking would be highly suspicious.
Quiet was abnormal. If the Tehran was going to go out like the Madrid, it should be with a pretty show. With that done, it was time to go.
“Signal the Beijing,” Wolfe said, “and relay to the Knight and the Rubens. The Toralii Fleet have engaged the distraction. Prepare to jump to New Evarel L1 Lagrange Point. Destroy anything nearby and immediately launch strike craft. They have the location of the detention centre; have the marines ready for a snatch and grab.”
He took out his jump key and inserted it into his console. The gravity shut off, and his feet lifted off the deck.
On his command monitor, the Madrid drifted to one side, sickly and obviously in distress. The ship buckled and snapped in half, an internal explosion breaking its back and rupturing its hull, spewing a white cloud of oxygen into the nothingness, which was quickly consumed by flame. Debris spun out as the wreckage spread, two halves of the ship drifting apart.
“Sorry,” Wolfe said, over his shoulder. “These are the times that try men’s souls.”
“Just jump the ship,” de Lugo said, his tone bitter as he put in the other key.
Then, together, they turned them to the right.
Communications Room
Zar’krun
Liao wiped the blood off her lips, bringing her sword tip up. “How? How did the Humans win?”
Kest’s upper lip curled back. [“Does it matter?”]
It mattered to her. “Tell me. Perhaps I can use it to help negotiate a truce between our people. If there is some weakness in the Toralii fleet, the Kel-Voran might use it against you. We can help. We can—”
[“Paper is never binding.”] Kest inhaled, adopting his fighting stance once more. [“There can be no truce.”]
This time, Liao took the initiative. She lunged forward with her blade, prosthetic arm whirring as it stabbed. Kest batted her blade aside easily, and she overbalanced. Kest stepped into her reach, slashing her across her left arm, drawing a razor-thin red line across her shoulder. The wound was not nearly as bad as the previous injury, and some trace of the chemicals that had restored her remained.
She allowed her momentum to carry her forward, driving her right shoulder into him, pushing Kest over backwards. Liao fell over him, slamming her fist into his gut twice in quick succession. His claws raked down her back, and she kicked and thrashed.
She had claws of her own. Her prosthetic fingers dug into Kest’s chest, drawing triple lines of purple on his black fur. The injury seemed only to enrage him. Their blades forgotten, Kest kicked and clawed at her, hissing and spitting, his tail lashing the air.
[“You will die a thousand times before your end!”] Kest bit her forearm, sharp teeth puncturing her muscle and digging in deep.
It hurt, but Liao took the opportunity to punch him in the throat with her spare hand. Gagging, Kest slumped back, tail jerking between his legs.
Liao propped herself up on her knees and swung her metal fist. The ball of steel collided with his temple, and then again, hitting roughly where a Human’s solar plexus was. Twice. Three times. The impacts staggered him, then Kest kicked her off and away.
No Human could have withstood such swings from solid metal. Toralii seemed to be made of sterner stuff.
Desperate to press her advantage, Liao swung again, but Kest caught the blow in his open hand, gripping her prosthetic. Her shoulder ached as she fought him. The motors and pistons whined; a faint hum came from her arm as the backup power source activated.
[“You strike like a child.”] He squeezed her prosthetic with his hand. The metal creaked and groaned, and she felt the pressure—yet it didn’t give. [“A thieving child who wears technology that does not belong to her.”]
Liao tugged, trying to free her hand. It didn’t budge. Her steel arm didn’t feel pain in same way her flesh one did; it hurt, but only in a distant, detached way. She felt the pressure more than anything.
Kest’s bloody claws reached out for her, twitching. [“I’ll rip out your eyes, you horrible little—”]
Adrenaline surged. Liao leapt forward, slamming her forehead into Kest’s face; the two of them fell back, each landing face-up on the deck.
She rolled onto her chest, pushing herself up. Kest swung his legs, back twisting weirdly as he leapt back onto his feet.
Liao rolled away as claws swished past her face. Too close for comfort.
Distance. She needed distance. Liao rolled again as Kest leapt upon her, his claws leading the way. She held her prosthetic out to protect herself, digging her claws into his flesh.
Kest bit her again. She shrieked and bit back, sinking her teeth into his arm. The two thrashed and kicked, until finally Kest’s greater strength won out. He dug his claws into her biological shoulder, throwing her away.
She flew then rolled over the hard metal deck to soften the fall. Her prosthetic took most of the impact. She ended her tumble facedown, blood flowing from three punctures on her upper arm. She struggled to find her balance, fighting to stand.
The roar of an explosion shook the building, vibrating the floor. Aftershocks rippled through its walls. The lights went out, plunging her into utter darkness for the split second it took for dull purple emergency lighting to kick in, bathing the whole room in strange hues.
The Humans were almost upon her. All she had to do was hold out.
Kest, as if hearing something she could not, glanced at elevator. Liao could almost sense the gears turning over in his head. Kill Liao and risk being caught—or escape.
For a moment, Liao genuinely thought he would run, but the temptation for vengeance was seemingly too much for him. Bloody and bruised, claws outstretched, Kest advanced on her, panting eagerly. Blood, black in the dim light, trickled from both sides of his mouth. He reached down and grabbed her by the throat, yanking her off the hard ground, her shoes dangling in the air.
[“Captain Liao, I’ve changed my mind,”] Kest said, closing her windpipe. [“Once is enough.”] She felt the sharp pricks of his claws tracing the curves of her throat, feeling the pulse within. [“You should have known how this kind of thing ends. Alliance, Telvan… this is something all my kind have in common.”] Thin lines of blood appeared on her throat. [“The Toralii fight; the Toralii win.”]
Ka-boom. A chunk of the ceiling fell in, unseen, and a cloud of billowing smoke followed. Liao stared into Kest’s eyes, his desire to draw out her death palpable.
She kicked and punched. Nothing seemed to affect him. Her legs went limp. Then her arms, as the lack of oxygen drained her. She fought for air that didn’t come.
The snap of a gunshot rang in her ears. A round screamed as it bounced off her metal shoulder before embedding itself on the far wall.
A bulky figure appeared, barely visible in the gloom, partially illuminated by light from the hole in the ceiling. The figure dangled from thick rope, weapon in hand.
“Scheiße!” the woman shouted, lining up her weapon again. Another shot. Purple blood sprayed onto Liao’s face.
Kest slumped to a knee then, groaning pitifully, slid over to one side, clutching his abdomen. Liao tried to call out, but only a ragged squeak escaped.
Oberleutnant zur S
ee Hanna Keller pulled off her night vision goggles and clicked on a flashlight attached to her weapon. Her hands were shaking. She seemed rattled. “Captain Liao!”
“Nice shot,” Liao gasped, rubbing her bruised throat, forcing air down it and into her lungs. She glared down at Kest. “Shoot him again.”
To her credit, Keller obeyed almost immediately. Three times, once in the face, turning Kest’s head into a bloody pulp.
No coming back from that. No med-drone spider thing could fix that kind of injury.
“Sorry about that first shot,” Keller said, the words flying out of her mouth in a surprised yelp. “I couldn’t tell which one was which. It was dark, and the smoke was playing havoc with my NVGs, I couldn’t tell—”
“It’s okay,” Liao said, coughing wetly. “You got him.”
Keller hesitated, her voice uncharacteristically strained as she stepped closer and took stock of the situation. “Actually,” she said, her voice tinged with embarrassment, “I think I was aiming for you the second time, as well, Captain. I just… missed.”
Fifty-fifty chance. Those seemed like such good odds after everything that had happened. “Well… thank heavens your aim isn’t so good.” She held out her blood-splattered metal hand. “Good to see you, Oberleutnant.”
“Believe me,” said Keller, taking Liao’s hand and giving it a firm squeeze, “the pleasure is all mine. We gave up a lot to find you and the others.”
Liao felt a stabbing in her gut that was more than the residual effects of the blade that had been through it. “Gave up?”
Keller’s eyes flicked away from her. “We lost the Madrid,” she said, the words almost a confession of guilt. “And the Tehran. They’re gone.”
The Tehran. The blood froze in her veins. Her chest clenched as though a giant had grabbed hold of her heart and was speedily crushing the life from it. James! Panic surged through her like a lightning bolt. “W-wait, the Tehran, but—”
Keller’s eyes widened. The implication was not lost on her. “Everyone got off okay. It was evacuated. Summer Rowe was piloting it. The crew of both ships are safe. They were decoys… we split the fleet.”