Genellan: Planetfall

by Скотт Г. Джир

"Identification? Any trajectory estimate?" Runacres asked. "No, sir. Attempting to develop parallax triangulation." "Has Peregrine launched her EPL?" Runacres asked.

  "Apple's out of the bay. Approaching envelope. Retroburn imminent."

  "Keep me informed," Runacres ordered.

  "Aye, aye, Admiral."

  Runacres stared at the blank situation plots. He could ill afford to wait. His best strategy was to engage early, picking off attackers at long range.

  "Franklin, have Tasmania go active. Link to fleet tactical," Runacres ordered.

  "Aye, aye, Admiral," Wells replied. "Tasmania to go active immediately! Patch data to central operations. Tasmania go active, now!"

  Tasmania's search radars exploded into search mode. Electromagnetic pulses radiated omnidirectionally, reaching out for solid surfaces from which to rebound. The main situation plot glowed subtly, shifting through muted tones of magenta and blue as it tuned to the datalink.

  Suddenly, returning signals were processed; pinpricks of light appeared—radar contacts. Many contacts! Battle computers assessed and designated targets, immediately locating and classifying motherships and corvettes. A planet symbol illuminated, revealing the relative position of R-K Three, and two of the three picket corvettes stood out from the mass of bogies, registering friendly identification codes. The third corvette, Peregrine One, rounded the planet on its orbital track as Runacres watched.

  But the computer also generated multiple threat warnings, and target acquisition radars automatically powered up into standby— precomputing firing solutions. There were many, many targets, the nearest only three to four days away from engagement range, given present vectors.

  "Good God!" an unidentified voice gasped on the main battle net. Hundreds—thousands—of targets presented themselves on the large status screen—whole constellations of attacking interceptors and rockets, and no doubt decoys.

  "Enough praying. Defensive Condition One. Set modified General Quarters," Runacres ordered calmly. "Signal Battle Formation One One Delta. Clear all ships to go active. Let's start dividing these bogeys up, shall we?"

  "All ships going active," the tactical officer echoed. Alarm klaxons erupted into a discordant, nerve-grating wail.

  "Abort the landing. Order Peregrine One to recover EPL," Runacres commanded. "Group Leader, recall all corvettes. Launch the corvette screen to the attack axis."

  * * *

  A raw sun climbed above the river bluffs. Longo looked out the open hatch of his landing vehicle. There was no sign of the humans. He was furious! Everything was going wrong. And the orbiting alien vessels had suddenly departed—escaped. He had waited too long. Gorruk would be furious. Longo's primary objective—capturing and killing the aliens on Genellan—had become that much more important. The intelligence officer shivered in the damp morning air; he increased the temperature on his suit controls.

  "Colonel Longo!" a sentry shouted. "Aliens approach."

  Longo exhaled with relief. He returned to the opened hatch and stepped through it, recoiling at the cloying smell of wet ash, pervasive even through helmet filters. In the distance, across the wide expanse of dew-dampened cinders, two humans approached. Halfway across the clearing one stopped and waited, while the other kept coming. Both aliens were tall, and human. The female, Sharl, had not come back, nor had Et Silmarn. The absence of Et Silmarn did not bother the colonel; the requirement to replenish fuel in his breathing unit was the equivalent of a death sentence. Longo recognized Hudson.

  "Respects, Master Huhsawn!" Longo shouted, masking his distaste for the frail alien.

  "Greetings, most excellent Colonel," Hudson replied. "What news? Lieutenant Sharl is not with you."

  "Lieutenant Sharl apologizes, but she is injured," Hudson said. "She sprained her ankle trying to find our people. It is not serious and will take but a few days to mend."

  "A few days! Unfortunate. Can we help to convey her back to the modules?"

  "That is the least of our problems," the human said. "It has not gone well, most excellent Colonel. Half our number remains unaccounted for."

  "What are you saying, Huhsawn?"

  "We are anxious to obey your recommendations. It is cold here. Lieutenant Buccar—er…Lieutenant Sharl suggests you return to the orbiting ship instead of waiting in the cold. In two or three days we will be ready. If you equip us with a transmitter, we could give you status updates. Et Silmarn has experience with your radios and has volunteered to remain with us for that purpose. Of course he would need another breather canister."

  They stall, thought Longo. He stared silently at the puny alien.

  "Unfortunate," he growled finally, barely containing his fury. "It is not a trivial matter to return to orbit—fuel considerations, and other things. Why not bring those that have been recovered to the landers?" Perhaps Gol 'berg would be in that group.

  "But we need every available person to help search," Hudson rejoined.

  "We wait one more day, Huhsawn. Inform Et Silmarn that I wish him to return," Longo snarled. "Immediately." All pretense at diplomacy evaporated.

  Hudson bowed slightly, turned, and walked away.

  * * *

  The next morning arrived clear and cold. Behind the walls of the settlement MacArthur inhaled the crisp air. It was going to be a beautiful day, and warm. He grimaced at the thought. It was going to get damned warm, but not from the sun! He had been surprised and impressed by Buccari's orders to set up the ambush. He never dreamed she would fire the first shots, but their survival hinged on taking the initiative away from the better-armed aliens. There was no turning back.

  The Marine, standing alone in front of the lodge, kept an intent eye on Tonto. The cliff dweller was perched in the highest tree on the peninsula, with a clear view of all approaches to the settlement. Suddenly he screeched—it was the signal; Kones were on the beach and headed toward the settlement. MacArthur whistled an acknowledgment. He jogged to the guard tower closest to the kones' point of approach. Petit and Chastain peeked down at him.

  "One more time. When I start shooting, you guys take two shots each! To kill!" he said emphatically. "Two well-aimed single shots. No bursts. Shoot quick and get the hell out of here! Go straight for the back gate. No heroes! You got me?" Both men nodded and MacArthur turned away.

  "Mac!" Chastain shouted. MacArthur stopped abruptly and looked back.

  "No heroes, Mac," Chastain pleaded.

  MacArthur tightened his lips but said nothing. He sprinted toward the guard tower farther up the hill. O'Toole and Gordon watched him approach. MacArthur gave them the same instructions and then dashed back to the lodge. He stomped up the tall wooden stairs, crossed the porch, and went through the doors.

  It was cold and dark inside; no fires had burned in its fireplaces for three nights. He scaled the ladder to the loft. It was brighter there; three rifle ports penetrated the logs, and the sun's rays angled sharply through the freshly hewn openings. Buccari, Hudson, and Shannon waited for him, their somber features bottom-lit by the brilliant patches of sunlight. Their attic perch afforded a clear field of fire over the palisade. Buccari poked a carbine through a port.

  "Bugs are on the way, Lieutenant," MacArthur reported. He looked through one of the ports. The tops of the alien landersreflected dully in the distance. The air was sharp and clear, and a fresh breeze was rising—a beautiful day. Tonto screamed and flapped from the tree, catching a thermal and soaring upward.

  "They're in the woods," MacArthur said. "Time to go to work."

  "Sharl! I'm going down to the gate with MacArthur," Hudson said.

  "Yeah, the best pistol shot in the world couldn't hit anything from here," Shannon agreed.

  "Okay. Be careful," Buccari said, keeping her face to the rifle port.

  "You be careful, too, Lieutenant," MacArthur said. "Once they start hitting this tinderbox with lasers you'll wish you had changed places with us. Don't wait around."

  Buccari turned her head and smiled bravely, without joy b
ut with obvious emotion. MacArthur took a deep breath and headed for the ladder with Hudson following. The men descended, dashed outside, and sprinted across the common toward the main gate, each carrying their heavy-caliber pistol in front of them. They positioned themselves behind the partially open gate doors and sighted through the hinge openings—and waited. With short-ranged pistols, it was up to them to take the first shots.

  They would also start the retreat, leading everyone through the rear sally gate, to a rendezvous in the thick woods, a kilometer in the hills, where Et Silmarn and the heavily burdened horses were waiting. Tatum and Wilson had taken everyone else into the mountains, to one of Tatum' s hunting camps, a cave at the top of the valley. Buccari's objective was to delay the kones long enough to get the slower moving women and children clear of danger.

  An eternity passed. Suddenly Tonto screamed. MacArthur peeked through the hinge opening and observed movement in the underbrush. He froze. Konish soldiers, giants deployed at wide intervals, appeared at the edge of the clearing—a mountain range of aliens. Broad, hulking forms broke from the spring foliage and advanced before the stockade, laser-blasters and short-barreled cannon at the ready, burgundy-uniformed officers following in their wake.

  Once clear of the trees, the line of behemoths halted; three scouts crawled cautiously across the expanse of open ground toward the main gate, sweeping the area with IR detectors. Their commander moved forward until he was even with the front rank. He pointed uphill and three giant soldiers trotted out to the flank, while the rest of the titans slowly converged on the gate. MacArthur worried the kones would outflank the ambush. Fifty paces short of the stockade a scout shouted an alarm and halted, pointing his heat detector at the gate. The others brought weapons to bear. The phalanx of kones, already down on all fours, dropped their ponderous bodies to the ground.

  "On three," MacArthur whispered. "One.. two. three!"

  Hudson fired through the narrow crack of the gate hinge while MacArthur stepped into the gate opening, crouching low and firing three times. They were so close. A konish scout twitched in his sights as his bullets impacted.

  Laser-blasters belched singing pulses through the gate, spewing like incandescent water hoses toward MacArthur's crouching form. Blue lightning beams reverberated across the short distance and exploded against the wooden structure. Konish infantry cannon, firing in machine-gun bursts, joined the barrage, their explosive shells thumping into the wood and reducing the stockade to flying splinters; but MacArthur was already clear, rolling away from the exposed door. The blasts from the lasers and cannons did not hit Hudson, but the explosive force of their discharge against the doors caused both gates to burst into flame and swing violently. The ponderous gate became a flaming fly-swatter, crushing Hudson against the wall of the fort and enveloping him in a blossoming conflagration.

  Sprinting across the open field, MacArthur realized there was no hope for the officer. Over the bedlam of konish fire, he heard humans firing—the loud, cracking explosions of assault rifles and the higher pitched snaps from Lieutenant Buccari's carbine. He counted at least five carbine reports alone—too many shots! They were still firing from the lodge as answering laser pulses and cannon rounds sang overhead. MacArthur could see the effect of the konish barrage, raking and exploding against wood and stone. He glanced over his shoulder. The guard towers were gone! The stockade walls that had supported them were engulfed in a licking yellow inferno, but four Marines were on the ground sprinting his way. As he passed the main lodge, the roof exploded in flames with laser beams and artillery shell explosions fueling the fire like so many bellows gusts. Burning chunks of wood sailed through the air, sizzling and clattering to the ground. He stopped, frozen with grief.

  Chastain dashed up and yanked MacArthur's arm, forcibly pulling him into a run. MacArthur ran dumbly for twenty more strides and then stopped to look back at the lodge, his stomach knotted and his head spinning. A shutter in the rock wall burst open. Ugly black smoke billowed forth as two fast-moving figures clambered through the opening and hit the ground running. Adrenaline flushed MacArthur' s body. His entire being soared with exhilaration. He turned and sprinted along with the others until they made the rear gate. All made it, except for Ensign Hudson.

  * * *

  Longo gained the stockade in time to see humans running out the rear gate. His soldiers fired at their backs, but their power packs had been drained by the assault barrage. None of the infantry cannon hit the mark. He cantered through tumbling smoke, past the burning gates and into the compound. He surveyed the gutted lodge, noting with satisfaction that nothing could have survived the roaring flames consuming its structure. A subaltern trotted up to him.

  "Four of our soldiers are dead or dying, Colonel. Six are wounded—two seriously," the subaltern reported. "All blaster units need to be recharged. We are vulnerable."

  "At least it is warm for a change," Longo muttered. All around him the settlement roared with the flames of destruction. These aliens were turning out to be considerable adversaries. He had badly underestimated them. "Did we do any damage?" he asked.

  "Yes, Colonel," the subaltern reported. "One is gravely injured at the gate. It will probably die. The one called Huhsawn."

  Longo smiled. "Ah! A small victory," said Longo, "but a victory, nevertheless. Have the blaster soldiers form up and return to the landers. Recharge the blaster packs and bring them back as soon as you can. Order reinforcements down, armed with cannon and small bore. We have enough blasters. Take the alien back to the lander and see what can be done to keep it alive. A hostage may prove useful."

  * * *

  Brappa sailed overhead, lifted by hot updrafts. He slipped against the press of the thermals and surveyed the activity. The battle had been brief, but every settlement building was in flames. A column of loping bear people hurried along the beach in the direction of their ships. A clutch of wounded soldiers straggled more slowly. Bear people still in the settlement were taking positions along the palisade's remaining back wall. Two huge soldiers slipped through the sally gate and were tentatively crossing the stretch of cleared land.

  Brappa lifted his gaze uphill. The long-legs had arrived at their rendezvous point and were retreating in good order. Brappa could see the heavily laden horses and the broad figure of a bear-person. Brappa wondered at the wisdom of accepting the bear-person into their ranks, and of taking the horses. All would be easy to track.

  Long-leg death-sticks cracked. Brappa observed puffs of smoke at the edge of the forest. One of the bear people went down, and a blend of thunderous explosions sounded as the bear people unleashed a volley of return fire. Trees disintegrated in crackling flames and explosions, but Brappa caught sight of two long-legs sprinting and dodging through the incinerated boughs. He was not surprised to recognize Brave-crazy-one and Short-one-who-leads.

  * * *

  Tatum helplessly observed the black pall of smoke above the settlement. Intervening ridges blocked his view, and he could only guess at the magnitude of destruction. Tatum slid from the steep ridge of the glacial moraine and returned to the cave. A single large entrance and two narrow clefts provided access to its multiple chambers. He climbed over the boulders obscuring the main entrance. A rivulet of glacier melt ran nearby. The nearest arm of the imposing blue-green glacier was only three hundred meters away—an icy chill testifying to its proximity. The glacier's physical splendor was reflected on the surface of the moraine lake, whose silty emerald waters meandered beneath and past the boulder-shrouded cave entrance, narrowing and draining into the lake valley below. The cascades of the upper falls were just below the hunting camp, and the noise of the falling water thundered in the background.

  "What did you see, Sandy?" Dawson asked. Worry pinched her features. "Is it still burning?" She moved back from the cave entrance.

  "Still burning," Tatum fretted. "It's been over four hours." After a few paces the ceiling lifted high enough to where even Tatum could stand, but he sat down heavily next
to Goldberg and took Honey into his lap. Everyone stayed close for warmth. Tatum would not let them start a fire until darkness could obscure the smoke.

  "What should we do?" Fenstermacher asked. Lee and her infant lay next to him, both covered in furs and fast asleep.

  "Sit and wait," Tatum replied. "We're on our own."

  "What happens if the bugs win?" Fenstermacher asked.

  "No way!" Tatum shot back. "We'll tear them to pieces."

  "How can you say that?" Fenstermacher asked. "The big uglies have the firepower. Wonder why Buccari decided to fight?"

  "Because the fleet's back, and judging from what happened, it's a good thing she did," Wilson said. "As long as we're not captured, we can still be rescued."

  "How long?" Dawson said. "How much longer can we hold out?"

  "This is our planet," the taciturn Tookmanian suddenly interjected. "The kones don't know it, but it's ours. It's—it's our moral right."

  "Moral right, Tooks?" Fenstermacher huffed. "Stick to your sewing!"

  "Morality has nothing to do with it," Wilson said. "It's called survival."

  "In the long run they are the same," Tookmanian replied, staring blankly at the opposite wall. Silence fell over the haggard survivors.

  * * *

  Buccari worked the soreness from her back and the burning ache from her old injury; it felt as if she had sand in her shoulder socket. Her hair was singed and brittle from laser strikes, her cheek blistered. But most of all, she mourned Hudson.

  "Tonto says we took out maybe six or seven of them," MacArthur said. "That leaves only fifteen or sixteen. That's a pretty good day."

  "So much for the element of surprise," Buccari said. "The rest will be a lot harder to hit." She looked around at the cold, tired faces. The silvery moon was three-quarters full, giving everyone a sinister and shadowy visage. She puzzled over their next step. "Ammo status?" Shannon demanded.

  "Two hundred eight rounds standard—thirty pistol," O'Toole answered.

  "Phew!" MacArthur replied. "Get ready to fix bayonets." "Can't we steal some of their weapons?" O'Toole asked.