by T. R. Harris
Adam danced away from the alien. “Ah, I have been informed by your combat leader that he will not honor our tradition of weapons exchange. Then I beg him to accept one small courtesy. Allow us the washing of blades—the purification—so we may meet our deaths with metal of sterility.”
The crowd began to chant.
Azon smiled. “Clever, Human,” he said softly. “Yes, I will grant you this. I did not feel the need for such handicap in the first place. We do not need tricks to defeat you.”
The Nuorean turned to his adoring crowd. “Yes, we will allow the purification of the metal before the contest begins.”
With guarded steps, all eight combatants approached the stagnant pool. The Nuorean submerged their swords up to the cross-guards and then presented the blades to the Humans. Not sure what to do, they stepped forward and used the cloth from their uniforms to dry the metal. The other three members of Adam’s team looked him, worried. They knew of the poison blades; they just didn’t know how helpful a quick dip in dirty water would be. Neither did Adam, for that matter, but it couldn’t hurt. It was better than the alternative.
“If you are done with your games, let us begin with mine,” said Azon.
The Nuorean set his fighters back at the center of the arena. Adam did the same.
His heart was racing, excited about the coming fight with the cocky alien. But he was also worried about the others, especially Sherri. She was fronting the shortest of the Nuoreans, but even then, this was a strong, extremely well-trained sword fighter. None of the Humans could say that, not even Adam Cain.
As he was ruminating about their current predicament, the contest began.
In unison—and without a word—the four aliens lifted their swords high above their heads, swung them behind their backs and stepped forward. The whole thing was beautifully choreographed and caught the Humans by surprise.
Fortunately, this first move was not an attack, but more ceremonial. The blades remained locked behind their heads as they marched forward. Adam and his people fell back, shuffling their feet in the thin topsoil, their own blades held out in front of them beckoning for the aliens to stay back. Then the aliens separated, forcing the four Humans to shift their defensive positions. Moments later, they were surrounded and standing nearly back-to-back with each other.
Adam had had enough of this. He lifted his sword and charged. Even with the weight-belt around his waist he was upon Azon in a flash. His sword whipped from left to right and back again several times in a flurry of clanging metal, as the Nuorean fought to achieve some kind of reprieve from Adam’s relentless attack. From behind came more meeting of metal on metal, as the battle was joined between all participants. Azon was retreating in practiced foot slides, expertly parrying each of Adam’s savage swings. The look on his face displayed calm, with just the trace of concern. He had not been expecting this.
But then Adam retreated. In fact, he turned and ran, in Sherri’s direction.
She had stumbled back and fallen, with probing stabs coming at her from the circling alien. Sherri was knocking each of the thrusts—barely—as she shifted her position in the dirt.
Adam was there in a second, feeling his muscles surge as he ran. He jumped, smashing a shoulder into the side of the unsuspecting Cadre fighter. The impact was incredible, sending the alien flying through the air before landing on the dusty ground and rolling into the filthy pond. Adam helped Sherri to her feet.
Azon hadn’t followed as Adam ran away. Instead he was studying the battlefield and the Human’s fighting techniques. Adam took the opportunity to check on Riyad and Copernicus.
His old Lebanese friend was holding his own against his Nuorean opponent. In fact, he seemed quite comfortable with the sword in his hand. In the barracks, he’d told Adam that his people still practiced with sharpened blades, a tradition going back a thousand years. Sure, he was out of practice, but his natural Human strength and coordination was making up for it. The weight-belt slowed him some in his movements, but it didn’t affect the muscles in his arms and shoulders. He was beating the Nuorean back with each thrust of his blade yet requiring the alien to parry a little more out of line with each response. This is known as the tactics of mistake in fencing, where an opponent is maneuvered out of position a little at a time and without their knowledge. Then you strike
And Riyad did, stepping into the defensive sphere of the Nuorean and impaling his blade completely through the chest of the alien. As the body slipped off Riyad’s blood-slick sword, Adam looked to the bullpen. Sure enough, another Cadre fighter was racing into the fray. So it wasn’t just four Nuoreans they had to defeat, but closer to a dozen.
Adam looked to see how Copernicus was doing against his opponent. The spy was taking a different tact, using other skills he had. As he swung the sword with one hand, he was also actively engaging with other parts of his body, smashing his fist into the alien’s head, or lashing out with perfectly-executed martial arts kicks. Then once the advantage was his, he stepped in close and planted the sword’s metal pommel into the face of the Nuorean. Eyes rolled back in the creature’s head, but he didn’t get the chance to fall. Before he could, Copernicus twisted and brought the leading edge of the blade slicing through the unshielded neck of the alien. The head wasn’t completely severed; it didn’t need to be. Coop was already balanced and ready for the next Nuorean by the time he came running at him from the side of the arena.
Azon was still standing off to Adam’s right, watching the battle unfold, rather than participate. His lips had formed into a thin line, the edges curved up slightly.
Adam turned back to Sherri. Her Nuorean had climbed from the pond, sword still in hand and was fast approaching. Sherri slipped again and fell, her own heavy sword held out to her side. Adam ran to her rescue.
Before he could get there, the alien jumped, landing only a few feet away from Sherri. A look of terror filled her face as the Cadre warrior raised his sword to drive the tip down into her unguarded chest. But then she rolled toward her assailant, bringing her sword across her body at the same time, and planting it into the back of the Nuorean’s knee. He screamed and fell to his knees, dropping his sword while grasping at the bloody wound. Sherri was on her feet a moment later—and with only the slightest hesitation—lowered her blade edgewise onto the alien’s back. The metal cut through cloth and skin, sinking to a depth of three inches or more. The Nuorean fell on his face, still alive but not for long.
Adam arrived at Sherri’s side. “Relax, sweetheart,” she said. “I got this covered.”
And then another Cadre fighter dashed from the bullpen.
There were still a lot of damn aliens to kill, and no matter how much Adam was enjoying himself, he knew he had to put an end to this, soon. He looked at Azon and snarled. It never hurt to take out the leader.
He stepped forward, his eyes focused on the huge alien The Nuorean waited patiently for his arrival.
“Your team is fighting well, Adam Cain,” said Azon. “Yet time—and numbers—are on my side.”
He whirled around, bringing his blade in low and swift at Adam’s midsection. Adam sucked in his gut and parried, avoiding the tip of the alien’s weapon by a fraction of an inch. Azon came at him again, this time with more confidence and style.
“You lead from outside, Human,” Azon said. “Your strikes come after much preparation, hoping to use your superior strength to defeat my defense.” He stepped back and twirled his sword, bringing it down hard on Adam’s blade, causing him to stagger back from the impact. “You see. Speed need not come from exaggerated arcs. A simple twist of the wrist can have the same effect.”
The alien struck again. Adam spun around in time to block the edge, but then his own blade was forced back against his skin, opening up a wound along his back.
Azon smiled. “You bleed, Adam Cain, just like all of us. You are not special, not immortal. I will prove that to you today.”
He struck again from Adam’s left, then quickly again to
his right. Adam didn’t have time to balance himself for the second riposte and the alien’s blade opened a wide gash in Adam’s right forearm. Blood gushed from the cut.
Azon stepped away, smiling. Adam knew why.
His right hand was growing numb, with the strange tingling climbing up his injured arm.
“You believe I agreed to your silly purification ceremony because of the mood of the crowd. You were wrong. I agreed because it would make no difference. The toxin is fused with the metal, making it impervious to dirt or moisture.” Azon looked at the wound. “And you should know, there is also no counter to its effects in the arena.”
Adam transferred his sword to his left hand and wiped the blood from the cut on the leg of his uniform. He flexed his fingers, feeling them going stiff. He glared at the smiling alien. “Get it over with, you bastard!”
“No. I prefer to let the poison run its course. It is quite slow…and painful.”
Adam gripped the sword tight in his left hand, gritting his teeth, ready to jump—
He stopped when an ear-piercing alarm sounded throughout the stadium, echoing off the towering walls. But it wasn’t only coming from inside. It was coming from everywhere.
The Cadre fighters stepped back from their opponents, looking to Azon for orders.
Adam could see throngs of Nuorean spectators rushing for the exits, as a voice bellowed through the loudspeakers, instructing them to get to their assigned shuttles. He looked at Azon, who still carried his confident grin.
“It must be your unfortunate fleet is attacking, Adam Cain.”
Adam stood up a little straighter, a ray of hope filling his mind.
Azon shook his head. “Change not your feelings, Human. The attack has been expected…and prepared for. Yes, we know of your influence beam, and more, we know how to counter it. Such weapons are ancient to the Nuor. The surprise your forces produced with the prior engagement was temporary. This time the surprise will be on you.”
Azon turned to his waiting troops, both in the arena and on the sidelines. “Kill the Humans in the lodges. Hurry, before the guards are recalled.”
Adam panicked. He turned to his own team. “Go, help them!”
Sherri took a step toward him. “What about you?” She noticed his bleeding arm, hanging limp at his side. Her expression conveyed the fear she felt.
“I’ll be all right. Just let me take care of this asshole first and then I’ll be along. Now go. Get to the others before the Cadre.”
Azon didn’t make any effort to stop them. Sherri, Riyad and Coop ran off toward the entrance ramp to the arena, as the Cadre force left the stadium from the other side. Adam faced the Nuorean and smiled.
“Now it’s just you and me.”
87
The USF Neil Armstrong was located in the back third of the advancing fleet, just crossing the parallel with the planet Silea. Qidos was four light-years ahead, and already they were encountering the leading edge of the huge alien fleet. Flash cannon were firing and the enemy was retreating.
Admiral Nathan Smith was hoping they would. If they did, then it was a pretty good indicator they hadn’t found a counter to the suppressor beam. But with their next move, that belief was put to question. The enemy fleet began to spread out. This could be either strategic or defensive. If they believed the allies only had one beam platform, they could preserve their force by placing their units beyond the spread of the beam. These units could then sweep in from the flanks and hopefully take out the weapon.
Or they could just be lining up for a counterattack, ready to activate their nullifiers on command.
But there was one thing Smith was pretty sure the aliens weren’t expecting. He had three beam platforms in his fleet.
Admiral Smith scanned the threat board at the forward section of the bridge. It was a chaotic mess of red and white lines, along with green and blue dots. To the untrained eye it would mean nothing. To the Admiral, it meant he was in some deep shit.
The enemy had so many ships that herding them all into the range of the beam platforms was impossible without committing half his fleet to the battle. Even if he took it a step at a time—suppressing part of the enemy fleet before moving to the next—there was still a problem. He had to maintain the beam on the suppressed ships until they could be destroyed, and if he only affected half the alien fleet at a time, that left five thousand enemy ships still in the battle. It would take his entire fleet to fight them off, leaving no units available to destroy the suppressed Nuorean vessels. His only option was to bring in all his units and have them engage as many of the enemy as possible, drawing the alien fleet into the relatively narrow spread of the beam platforms.
He couldn’t wait any longer. He looked to the Weapons Officer and nodded. The lieutenant at the station turned back to his panel. Smith could see the man’s shoulders rise and fall…and then he engaged the platforms.
Through the storm of plasma balls filling the battlefield, it was hard to tell if the beams were having an effect. It took several moments for the bolts currently flashing through space to reach their targets before any difference could be seen. Then the crew on the bridge of the Neil Armstrong let out a collective cheer.
Enemy fire had ceased, at least from those units within the beam spreads.
Smith checked the numbers. Almost three quarters of the Nuorean fleet was within the spread. The other quarter was still firing, but when allied forces broke off from attacking the bulk of the alien fleet to concentrate on them, the will to fight quickly evaporated. They began to retreat.
Admiral Smith looked down at the small box resting on the arm of his command chair. It was the trigger for the nuclear torpedoes. It looked like it wouldn’t be needed.
“Captain Drake,” the admiral called out. “Send in your units. Make it quick. Blast every last one of those dormant ships back to the hell they came from.”
“Aye sir!”
The enemy fleet was scattered across a quarter of the Fringe, and the allied ships began a methodical weave within it, sending plasma bolts into defenseless hulls and causing tremendous explosions. Fifty, then a hundred Nuoreans ships disappeared from the threat board, followed by another hundred. The phrase ‘shooting fish in a barrel’ came to the admiral’s mind, replaced immediately by another: ‘Thank God!’
Unfortunately, the celebration was premature and misplaced.
With thousands of his ships ensconced with the Nuorean fleet, it came as a shock when the supposedly defenseless ships opened fire. It came nearly in unison, the enemy ships waiting patiently until the allies were within point-blank range. A third of Smith’s fleet disappeared, while the rest began a pitched battle for survival, resembling hand-to-hand combat between starships. There was no organization, no lines of defense. Ships on both sides were being obliterated at an astonishing rate, yet with the enemy still holding a two-to-one numerical advantage.
The bridge crew was frantically going about their duties, but the senior staff would occasionally cast a furtive glance the admiral’s way. They knew of the weapon of last resort. The question was would Smith choose to use it.
First-Lead Sanelis (314) watched the readouts with an even temperament—at least outwardly. Inside he was ecstatic. The forces of the Kac had once again fallen for superior Nuorean tactics. In fact, it was even better than anticipated. His decision to let a few hundred of his ships be destroyed by the prowlers had given the enemy even more confidence that their plan had worked. After all, if the Nuorean did have a counter to the influence beam, would not a sensible commander employ it before allowing his ships to be needlessly destroyed?
The keyword was needlessly. To Sanelis, the loss of the ships and crews was a necessity to bring about the greatest victory.
“Master, we have been able to detect the enemy’s lead vessel.”
“It is still intact?”
“Yes. Their remaining forces are clustered around it.”
“Command the fleet. Close on that position. Do not let a
ny ships escape. Squeeze them tight, Lead-Player. It is not often we get such easy victories. Let us make this one count.”
“They’re coming, Admiral,” said Commander Edward Guthrie. His voice conveyed a solemn sense of resignation.
“Very well, Commander. Let me know when they’re within optimal range.”
Admiral Nathan Smith fingered the small control box. It was linked to the CW comm and would send out a signal that could reach halfway across the galaxy in a matter of milliseconds. It was an amazing feat for such a small device.
It wasn’t necessary to sacrifice his entire fleet. He could disperse the fleet, allowing some units to live to fight another day. Yet by any military standard, it was considered a victory when you could defeat an enemy twice your size, with both forces eliminated and unable to continue the fight. This was the decision Nathan Smith was about to make.
He flicked open the cover over the keypad within the small box. His commanders back on Earth had made the code simple to remember. He punched it in: 666.
Twenty-four light-years away, a series of massive generators spun up. These weren’t normal gravity generators used for propulsion. Instead, they were stronger, more concentrated. They tore at the fabric of space and time, opening a hole that revealed another universe only the width of a helium atom away from the Milky Way. The ship slipped into this otherworld, and then quickly repeated the process. It all happened in less than thirty seconds.
The object appeared three hundred thousand miles off the starboard quarter on the contact board of the Neil Armstrong. Programming the location had been simple for Admiral Smith; just send it to his location.
Once the ship stabilized in the universe of the Milky Way, it immediately opened forty launch ports. Almost before they were clear, long cylinders erupted from the openings, streaking off in all directions using miniaturized gravity-drives. Within two minutes they had reached operational distance.