The Fleet-Book Four Sworn Allies

by David Drake (ed)

  The colonel was staring down at the front of his tunic with a slightly astonished expression on his face. There was no pain, no anger, just a faint surprise. And in the middle of the tunic, in the middle of his chest, was a long thin metal spike.

  “That’s why—kept our heads down,” he said, quite calmly, biting the words off short to conserve what air was left to him. “Only one gun. Plenty spears. If close enough. Minerva was right. Primitive.” Cully grinned, and shrugged, and coughed a spray of blood all over the wall. “Effective too,” he said, and died.

  “Get the door closed, Roj!” snapped Minerva, her voice coming harshly from one of the wall repeaters. The vibration of its speaker sent little trickles of Colonel Cully running from the grille. Roj grimaced, and hit the button centuries too late. As the massive slab of metal hissed down its runners, he saw, in the far distance, a blink of white light maybe half a kilometer from the ground. The expanding fireball that was either a nuclear or an FAE came an instant later, but the door slid shut and secure long before blast or sound could reach him.

  The Fleet, and CASE WHITE, was here at last.

  Forty seconds later Minerva was clawing for altitude and orbit and the scores of friendly ships that were starting to fill the sky over Khalia. Roj tried to think of excuses all the way to orbit, then remembered the look on Cully’s dying face and gave the whole thing up as a waste of time. Because FIREFROST or not, the invasion was under way . . .

  37.78974CR1.5

  The Military as a subculture

  Every officer must be cognizant of the fact that by its sheer size and nature the Fleet, or any large military organization, constitutes its own culture. Often a culture with patterns of behavior and acceptance far removed from the society it protects. This was recognized by the prespace democraterians who, at the expense of effectiveness, insisted upon basing their military structure on levies that were never acculturated by a military society. This led to such forces as the French Levee in Masse and the American National Guard attempting to use men in situations requiring behavior patterns of which they were incapable. The unfortunate result of this misplaced policy, including the loss of two or more moons of Jupiter, the primary gas giant in the home system, is historically apparent. Given a culture that cannot accept its own actions, each individual will soon come to view itself as a separate culture, or revolutionary. Unfortunately there are few limits placed on behavior by this self-identity as is evidenced also on Hress when one Marine . . .

  37.7945CR3.6

  Few situations are more likely to create horror than any action involving a large number of civilians. A comparable situation can only be found when two opposed cultures clash. Inevitably neither survives intact, and often one is completely extinguished. Values that either side hold as basic are reexamined while the personnel involved are under extreme duress. Extremes of behavior are the rule, not the exception. These can range from psychotic violence to “going native.” The result is often surprising, and just as often renders even the most elite unit incapable of further combat until re-indoctrination.

  THE SPACE-TO-AIR craft circled high, and then began a dive at a sharp angle through atmosphere, positioning itself for maximum accuracy. Marine Sergeant Alvin Shillitoe, called Tarzan by his mates, peered into the video pickup slaved from the eye at the nose of the craft. There were no portholes in the capsule in which he and his company were contained.

  “On target, sir. Prepare for jettison.” The pilot’s electronically transmitted voice tingled shrilly in Shillitoe’s ear. The big Marine nodded brusquely, ignoring the lurching jolt that followed the announcement. Some of their equipment was so blackdusting old. Well, they weren’t wasting any of the new stuff on his men. The mission was slated as an easy one—a walkover.

  “Brace for separation,” he ordered. He put on his helmet and locked in the air-recirculation unit. The capsule was supposed to maintain atmosphere all the way down, but it never hurt to make sure that everyone made it there without going brain-dead from oxygen deprivation. Many of his Marines followed suit as Alvin began repeating key points from their ISA briefing.

  “We’re not going to have any real trouble securing the landing strip. Just get in, show our smiling faces, and take possession of the strip and any buildings that overlook it. It’s on the edge of the Weasel city where the brass are planning a secondary assault later in the schedule. No major military bases visible from orbit, so they say we have a chance of being ignored.” Alvin paused, glanced at the three new bloods added less than a week before, and his voice hardened. “Don’t count on it. They probably have plenty of weapons and high explosives. So do we, but these are civilians.

  “We don’t want to use them if we don’t have to. Give them the order to lay down arms and leave, and you two sound like you mean it.”

  “Like they warn ours,” a voice grumbled. Shillitoe pretended he hadn’t heard anything.

  This last instruction was to Pirelli and Dr. Mack Dalle, who had studied Khalian customs and language. The tall, thin researcher looked out of place among the muscular, focused Marines, but he was more of a trooper than he looked. And more of one than he would have been comfortable admitting to himself. Pirelli was real smart, but he took too many chances. You had to give him a job and make him stick to it.

  “All we’ve gotta do is hold that strip for two hours max, which’Il give the big carriers long enough to find our beacon, confirm the all-clear, and start landing troops. If we’re assaulted, we neutralize enemy units. After that, our job is finished, unless we want to join in the assault on the city so you, can play more patty-cake with the Khalia.”

  A few of the Apes growled their consent. They’d taken casualties on Bull’s-Eye and were anxious to get some revenge.

  “They’re the same Weasels we’ve been fighting, chief.” One of the heavy weapons specialists who hadn’t bothered to seal up yet, Vic Zanatobi, piped up supportively. “Nothin’ new down there, just a lot of those hot-blooded fur grebles.” Zanatobi smoothed back his shock of blue hair and clapped the suit helmet onto his head. It was adorned next to the faceplate with the sideways smile of a brilliant yellow banana: the company badge. Yellow was for Admiral “Dynamite” Duane, but the design was their own: Tarzan’s Apes.

  “Technically speaking, we’re hairy mammals too, you know,” Mack offered cheerfully, putting on his own helmet and locking it down.

  “Yeah. Look out who you insulting,” Corporal Utun grunted from a few seats farther down, unsheathing her sword a few inches and slamming the hilt back into the scabbard. She showed her teeth in a friendly grimace before sealing her headgear. Her crony Jordan patted the muzzle of the plasma cannon secured at his feet and checked his safety straps. Wearing pressure suits, they had little mobility in atmosphere and full gravity. A collision could send a loose item ricocheting around the cabin, smashing and denting equipment, not to mention the damage to personnel.

  “Detaching.” The pilot’s voice was audible to everyone now through their helmet com units. There was a huge cracking noise on either side of the capsule, and a wild lurch. Shillitoe’s head snapped back sharply. The landing boosters were firing. Good. They must have released close to Khalia’s surface.

  The capsule hit with a thud and a hiss as it burned along the ground, sending jarring vibrations through their spines. As soon as the hatch blew open, the Marines sprang through, covering each other until they were all out, forming into a loose circle with backs against the hot metal sides of the landing craft.

  “Air’s good, chief,” Dockerty confirmed what they had been promised. “Nitrogen, O-two, lots of long-chain carbon trace molecules. Probably stinks, but it’s okay to breathe.” The chemical analysis scrolled up the screen on the upper right inside Tarzan’s helmet. On his left, blips representing each Ape were dispersing according to plan.

  “Keep sealed for now.”

  The capsule had seared an area across t
he far end of a primitive landing strip about two hundred meters long, which was flanked by stone buildings two or three stories high. Two of the structures had huge double doors that covered the entire side facing the strip.

  “Hangars.” Foxburg stated the obvious.

  Without warning, a hot red line etched itself in the earth at their feet.

  “Laser!”

  “Up there!” The company rolled out of sight of the tallest building on the strip. Its many windows and the set of stairs in the front suggested that it was the administration building, built by those unknown humans Marines had first encountered on Bull‘s-Eye. It was plain compared to the gaudy wooden shed like structures beyond the airfield. Weasels didn’t go for windows much, especially not big ones. Three more red flashes showed in the casement on the uppermost floor, and three streaks bubbled in the metal side of the capsule. By then, every Marine was out of sight or behind it.

  “They know we’re here. Shed the suits. We’re going to need to move fast. Utun, cover Jordan. Jordan, take out those two hangars. Shout a lot so they vacate before you blow the buildings, but if they don’t get out, that’s their tough luck. Spread out. Pirelli, Doc, tell ‘em to vacate that big place. I don’t want ‘em firing down on us the whole time. Do it!” The Marines in concrete gray uniforms and the medic in white sprang into position.

  Pirelli and Utun wriggled out of the enveloping suits worn over their ground-attack gear and threw themselves to the ground at opposite edges of the capsule, returning fire toward the sniper. The silent laser shots left red-hot, hissing stripes on the casement as the unseen gunner leaped for cover, screaming.

  “We only winged ‘em. Dammit, they’re so fast.” Pirelli grunted.

  “Attention, you in the tall building!” Mack shouted in Khalian. The language was not easy for humans to pronounce, especially at high volume. The hissing and growling took most of the lining out of one’s throat. “Vacate the structure at once, or we will destroy it.’”

  Jeers and defiant howls rang across the empty airstrip. Utun laid down covering fire for Jordan as he snaked across the open with the heavy plasma cannon on his back. When he was clear, she ran across to him, etching a pattern of hot lines on the building’s face with her laser rifle. Jordan took aim on the hangar next to the administration building and fired.

  The charge hit directly in the center of the hangar doors. All of the Apes gave it a three-count and covered their heads with their arms. Mack dropped his gun and stuck his fingers in his ears just as the building leaped into the air with a volcanic roar and disintegrated. The blast knocked the medic backward onto his rear.

  In the window of the administration center, the sniper took advantage of the Apes’ covering pose to shoot at them again. The shot drilled a tiny hole through Viedre’s alloy-tipped boot. He screamed and hit the dirt. This time when the sniper exposed himself, Ellis and Dockerty both scored on him. The Weasel lurched and fell, gun and all, out the window.

  Small, furry forms appeared in the doorway, dodging irregularly to avoid becoming targets themselves, and scurried down the ramp. None of them were carrying weapons. By their personal ornamentation, the Marines judged them to be Priests. Shillitoe ordered the gunners to ignore them.

  “They’re going to get help,” Pirelli warned the sergeant.

  “Let ‘em. Reports said there were no troops within a hundred klicks. The Khalia, moving at speed, vanished into the shrubbery.

  Mack flipped over onto his belly and made his way over to Viedre on elbows and knees. He flattened himself to the ground behind the wounded Marine and drew his diagnostikit around.

  “It’s already cauterized,” he assured the wounded Ape, “but I’ll numb it. See me later so I can examine that foot when we have time. And don’t kick anything.”

  “Krim, why did I have to be wounded first?” Viedre puffed, holding his leg and grimacing. The heavy equipment pack he wore made it hard to sit up. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “Why am I down here instead of back on the Elizabeth Blackwell doing research?” Mack groused companionably. He took a quick reading to make sure Viedre wasn’t going to go into shock, but his suit’s trauma drugs hadn’t even kicked in. The hole was clean, and it would stop hurting on its own in a few hours.

  “Man, isn’t this a nice little vacation from your boring old job?”

  “If it is a job anymore. I’m spending so little time there, it’s dwindling to a hobby.”

  The sergeant’s bark interrupted them. “Rest time’s over. I want all this area including the admin building and the strip secure. Jordan!”

  “Sarge?”

  “Blast that other hangar: Are you waiting for Hawk Talon to come out of it? Move it!”

  From inside the capsule, the Marines offloaded the flat, round beacon, a unit with its own powerful but short-life power source. Foxburg took charge of the paint sprayer and ran a huge, irregular oval around the area the Apes intended to hold. Before the preparations were complete, Utun let out a screaming war cry.

  “Sarge!” The big, golden-skinned woman was on her belly in the dust, firing her laser rifle at hundreds of Khalians, large and small, who appeared suddenly, swarming over the rubble from the destroyed hangar. These were obviously not soldiers. Many of them were old and moved more stiffly than the other Khalians they had ever fought, and many were very small, only half as tall as the adults.

  A few of them had laser rifles, from which they returned the Marines’ fire, but most had spears and polearms, unmistakably homemade from the local bamboo, and farming implements. Utun kept firing until she was engulfed by the wave of Khalians.

  “Halt!” Tarzan’s echoing bellow made them pause briefly, but the mob continued to advance on the Marines, flowing around Utun, who was no longer moving. Jordan shouldered his way through them and stood over the body of his friend, knocking away spears and claws with the empty plasma cannon.

  “Doc, she’s hit!” Jordan yelled. “Come here quick!”

  “She’ll last!” Shillitoe thundered. “Defend yourself. Doc, get under cover.” Then he yelled over the unit intercoms, “Drive the locals out of the perimeter.”

  Mack seized his medical supplies and fled for the far side of the administration building. He had spotted an open-faced enclosure attached to the main structure beside the ramp. It was probably the airstrip’s garbage dump, or worse yet, the outdoor toilet, but it was out of sight.

  * * *

  “Drive them back! Fire at their feet,” Tarzan boomed, his command suit amplifying his voice as he moved back toward the mob of Khalians. His company closed in around him, forming a semicircle that hemmed in the Khalia and forced them, on pain of scorched fur and claws, back past the painted circle. They were a ragged assortment, teeth and claws flashing in multicolored fur; snarling as they went, without even the minimal order or discipline that had been present in their soldiers.

  As the last one was forced over the line, Pirelli announced to them in their own language, “Do not pass this circle again.” To underscore his order, he squeezed off short bursts from his laser rifle to etch the line deeper into the packed dirt. “Or it’s death to you.”

  His speech was ignored. The mob broke left and right around the line of Marines and flooded into the enclosure. Screaming and waving spears and digging mattocks, a knot of them made for the beacon. Five Marines dashed after them, intending to head them off before they could damage the unit. The Khalia’s short little legs didn’t carry them very fast, but they could turn and maneuver at the speed of thought.

  Dockerty shot one after another until his rifle was beaten out of his hands by a big Khalian with a polearm. Another Khalian jabbed him with its spear before he swept his sword out of the scabbard and slashed at it. His pack and long flak vest served him as shields, protecting his back and chest. Those still left vulnerable his arms and legs. He stabbed and parried the light ba
mboo poles until he was side by side with Ellis.

  “You face north, I’ll face south,” Ellis panted, turning so that their left arms were between them. “Where did all these long rats come from?”

  “It’s the whole goddamn village. I swear the babies are back there with, their rattles.”

  There was a whistling noise. A dart hit Ellis in the side of the face and clung to the flesh by its point until the Marine pawed it away with the wrist of his sword arm. Blood poured out of the gash. “Yeow, shit!”

  “Is it poisoned?” Dockerty demanded.

  “Don’t think so. Doesn’t feel like it. Just hurts.” Ellis worked the side of his jaw carefully and winced. “Black holes take them, they’ve got throwing sticks or something.” Another dart whistled between them, but missed, falling at their feet. Dockerty ground it into the dirt with his boot and backhanded a Khalian who was trying to batter him with a digging stick. The Weasel snarled and sprang for his neck to bite him. Ellis raised the rifle clasped against his left side and burned a hole between the Khalian’s eyes. It fell against the back of Dockerty’s legs.

  “Fire for effect! Back! Drive them back!” Shillitoe bellowed.

  Viedre and Marks pursued a trio of Khalians armed with bulky-looking laser pistols up the ramps of the administration building. Their heavy packs made it impossible to keep up with the Weasels. The Marines followed them all the way to the top floor of the building, where the Khalia were leaning out of the windows, firing their lasers down at the rest of the company. Marks shot one and shoved the second one away from the window with his elbow, rolling it against the wall. When it stumbled to the floor, Marks tried to stomp its throat with his boot heel, but the Weasel curled away from his blow and fled on all fours. Marks chased it down the ramp.