The Damned Trilogy

by Alan Dean Foster

  In the first part of his second year on Kantaria, Caldaq lost Jaruselka.

  XXIX

  He had been supervising an assault on a Mazvec-held ridgeline which guarded the way to an important Kantarian city. He was in an aircar, the only sensible way to cover any distance on this impossible world, when a brace of floater-mounted Crigolit had slipped in behind while patrolling vehicles dueled overhead.

  It wasn’t even a planned attack which had caught them. Jaruselka had been riding in another aircar, supervising forward fire and safe from direct interdiction as her craft hugged a protective mountainside. The Crigolit floaters were as surprised as anyone when they stumbled unchallenged into the main part of the attacking force. They fired only to cover their retreat as they fled hastily toward the canyon from which they had emerged.

  An explosive projectile, fired wildly by a fleeing floater pilot who probably never sighted on his target, had struck the granite wall above Jaruselka’s aircar, blasting a huge gouge in the sheer cliff face. The car’s pilot didn’t have a chance to react and probably never knew what had happened. Countermeasures designed to defeat incoming projectiles and energy beams did not even react to the tons of falling rock which struck the vehicle and overwhelmed its stabilizers, sending it tumbling and crashing into the canyon below.

  Caldaq saw it over and over in his mind: the metal and plastic shredding, mixing with the disintegrating granite, until stone and ship together came to rest at the bottom of the contested gorge. Little remained intact of the vehicle or its inhabitants. For that he was inordinately grateful. It allowed him to remember his lifemate as she had been, not as this world had rendered her.

  Since then he had carried out his duties numbly, mechanically, fighting and watching others die amidst the unforgiving terrain and remorseless climate as they fought for a world whose inhabitants did not even understand why control of their modest culture should be so fiercely contested.

  As often as was permissible he requested transfer offworld. Cognizant of his combat skills, his superiors turned him down as regularly as he applied. It turned into a personal ritual, each application confirming his own unhappiness and the pain of his loss.

  There was nothing in this forlorn place worth Jaruselka’s death, he knew. Nothing worth the depression his soldiers suffered as a consequence of the rain and cold. It was reflected in their performance, as the Weave lost mountain after mountain, valley after valley including the one in which his lifemate had died. They were being pushed back toward the western shore, to the cliffs and fjords of the frigid Kantarian ocean.

  It was an agonizingly slow process, because for every several Amplitur successes the Weave might gain ground elsewhere. It sapped what remained of Caldaq’s determination and came dangerously near affecting his professionalism.

  We may have to concede them this world. It was a painful thought for a Massood officer to have to contemplate.

  But that was the nature of the ancient conflict. Advance and retreat, surrender and acquire: the tides of combat. They might lose Kantaria and gain a world elsewhere.

  He had come to realize that because of the nature of this world the Weave could not win here. Not only the odds but the planet itself was arrayed against them. Sooner or later he and the other senior field officers would find themselves recommending a complete pullout, thereby abandoning the unfortunate Kantarians to the inevitable genetic manipulations of the Amplitur. The poor natives were not mature enough to understand what was going to happen to them. A gentle, bewildered people would be forever transformed.

  Some things a soldier should not dwell upon, he thought emotionlessly. In any event, he would not be alive to witness it.

  Some day, some time in the future, the Weave would come back to Kantaria and liberate its people, in that far distant time when the Amplitur had been forcefully expelled from this portion of the galaxy. It was inevitable. But for now the burden of retreat would have to be entered into his family history, even though the loss was due to forces beyond the control of him or his colleagues.

  They could continue the fight for a long time, could hold out for perhaps another hundred years or so before they were pushed back to the western sea. But it wasn’t worth the sacrifice of energies best utilized elsewhere. Better to absorb a small defeat in hopes of gaining a greater victory on another world. He would accept that as he had accepted Jaruselka’s death.

  Except he had not yet succeeded in accepting that.

  Enough time had passed for it to be allowable for him to mate again. He had no interest even though he knew she would have wished it for him, even as he would have wished it for her had the circumstances been reversed. And he prayed he could make that reversal occur. But he could not undo what had happened. He could only concentrate on his command, which today seemed to be going the way of the rest of his life.

  It was raining hard; a steady, unrelenting downpour. As usual it would affect the enemy less than his own people. His command vehicle hovered at the south entrance to the valley, just beyond range of the battle raging ahead. He could see that a general pullback had already commenced as the Crigolit gunners poured heavy fire on his troops, even as they did their best to spare the village and fields which occupied the valley.

  The Massood fought back, once even regaining a portion of the valley’s eastern reaches. The valiant effort ended in disaster when a horde of Mazvec fell on the attackers and annihilated an entire squad. The subofficer in charge ordered the survivors to commence as orderly a retreat as possible.

  Another miserable plot of land surrendered, Caldaq thought tiredly. They were going to have to abandon this valley, these mountains, these people, to the Amplitur. It was not the first time circumstances had required him to oversee such an action. Repetition had numbed his sensibilities. Emotionless orders issued from the damned machine of his soul as he carried out his assignment by rote.

  Reinforcements were not an option. He’d known that before the fight had been joined. Several major battles were under way elsewhere and troops could not be spared from those sectors to bolster his efforts in this valley.

  Presently I must leave this world, he thought. His grief had kept him longer than any sense of duty, to the credit of his family if not his spirit. It was time to go. Another year here would not bring Jaruselka back any more than it would turn the tide against the Amplitur. It was past time.

  He studied the tridimensional projection which represented the immediate theater of conflict. Time to pull back; to another valley, another ridge. The geography of Kantaria was as bereft of hope as its people.

  Eventually there would be no more valleys to pull back to. Then they would have to flee in transport shuttles, running the dangerous gauntlet to an evacuation fleet darting in and out of Underspace, hoping to avoid the Amplitur attacks which would surely follow their flight. They would leave behind a miserable world populated by an abandoned, confused people. The Amplitur would at least resolve their confusion.

  Preparations for withdrawal were nearly complete when the subofficer came running into the command center. He was breathing hard and his body armor was scored from several near hits. His left ear was missing. Field hospitals on Kantaria were not equipped with such luxuries as regeneration facilities.

  “Honored Commander.”

  “What is it, soldier?” A transmitter dangled from the long slim fingers of Caldaq’s right hand.

  “We cannot get away.”

  “Explain yourself.” Caldaq’s calm arose from the not unwelcome possibility that his spirit might soon be reunited with that of his beloved.

  Jaruselka, Jaruselka; I am tired and I miss thee.

  “Monitoring has located a hitherto unsuspected Crigolit strike force in a canyon behind us. They apparently have surface-to-air weaponry with guidance to match. Given our present situation I …”

  “I am familiar with current conditions, soldier. Request a tactical strike from Support.”

  “Is there no other way, Honored Commander
? The enemy is close upon us. I fear it may be impossible to hit them from long range without suffering damage ourselves.”

  “If what you say is true then we have no choice.” Caldaq commented quietly, almost indifferently. “Without a strike they will pick us off one vehicle at a time. We cannot go forward because the enemy is advancing in strength and we cannot go anywhere else because our aircars will not surmount the peaks that surround this valley. It may be as you said that we cannot get out at all, but we can try. At least we will take many of the enemy with us.

  “I would like to know how they slipped through our defensive perimeter.”

  “It has been suggested, Honored Commander, that they may have been dug in there all along, only waiting for us to retreat in order to spring their ambush. Or they may have only just arrived in this sector. Some of the new floaters they ride are so fast and travel so close to the surface that they are almost impossible to detect by traditional means.”

  “I have heard of them,” said Caldaq tiredly.

  The subofficer watched his commander uneasily. Caldaq looked exhausted, drained. Finally the younger Massood felt moved to prompt his elder.

  “Sir? The strike?”

  “Yes. Call for it. Tell Support not to sacrifice firepower for precision.” He looked down to make sure his sidearm was in place. For years he’d worn it more for ceremony than anything else. Now he might actually have to use it.

  A check showed that it was fully powered. One could not take that for granted ever since the Amplitur had introduced into some battles a genetically engineered bacterium which found Weave power cells the perfect place to breed.

  “Inform all units, officer, to hold their positions for as long as they can. We will try to coordinate strike timing with Support. I will request a ten-minute pause at a time to be determined and communicated. During that time all units will attempt the downcanyon outrun. If we are lucky, the Crigolit will be concentrating on shielding themselves from the strike and some of us may be able to slip past before they have time to react.”

  The strike request was met with some hesitancy on the part of Support. Concurring in retreat was never easy. Caldaq loudly explained that the longer the strike was delayed, the less was the likelihood of any of the valley’s defenders escaping.

  The success of the enemy’s tactics did not embarrass him. In this hellish terrain it was hard to tell what one’s own troops were doing, let alone the enemy’s. Someone had made a mistake, but there was no time for recriminations. There was time only for flight.

  The command vehicle in which he rode was slower than most but more heavily armored. He did not care about himself, but he badly wanted to save those who had served under him. It would reflect well on the family.

  His craft would make a large and tempting target as it trundled down the canyon. Normally it would be screened and defended by slider outriders, but he had lost so many soldiers in the failed attempt to take the valley that the craft would be forced to proceed without benefit of escorting fire.

  It would be futile, he calmly decided, to try and disguise the command vehicle’s progress, which would show up on even primitive monitors. He would order off all nonessential personnel. They could double up on attack sliders and transport cars. If the command vehicle made the run first and headed directly for the Crigolit positions, the move might confuse the enemy. At the very least it would draw their initial response. Heavily shielded, it could deflect fire that would down a slider instantly. If the diversion was successful, it ought to open a brief escape window for the rest of his command.

  It might also be recognized for the ploy that it was. A thousand years of combat had given both sides a good idea of what tactics the other was likely to employ.

  He was being too hard on himself. There were only so many strategic variations possible in a given situation. As field commander it was incumbent on him to analyze and direct. If the diversion resulted in the escape of only a few more of his people than otherwise, it would be well worth the effort.

  Soon he would be with Jaruselka on the other plane of existence. Whatever that was. If it existed. It would not be a bad thing to die issuing orders intended to save others. At least he would not perish outside, in the unending rain.

  His call for volunteers to crew the command craft was rapidly oversubscribed. They made what preparations they could in the limited time available. There was little time for farewells. Directives went out over those portions of the field communications system which had not yet been damaged by invasive Amplitur bacteria.

  Support poured explosives on enemy positions ahead and to the rear. No words were spoken inside the command craft as the skeleton crew dwelt on final thoughts. Chronometers counted down.

  Soon it was time to move.

  The lumbering vehicle rose above the tops of the sheltering trees and pivoted westward, all shields and weaponry activated. The canyon was dark with swirling clouds of granite dust and the debris of pulverized vegetation. That would not be enough to shield them from enemy detectors, Caldaq knew. But the release of energy which would commence as soon as the command craft was engaged by Crigolit forces would help to screen the sliders carrying his surviving troops as they bolted for safety.

  “Any reaction?” he inquired.

  “No, sir.” A single composed subofficer was doing her best to evaluate detection and surveillance reports that were normally monitored by three specialists.

  Caldaq was not surprised. The report had said that the Crigolit force was well dug in. They would be in no hurry to emerge until they were certain the bombardment had ceased.

  They never saw where the first missile came from.

  It struck rear left, taking out a main thruster and cutting their maneuverability by nearly a third. Smoking and listing to one side, the command craft began to curve across the valley.

  Caldaq hung onto his chair. “Adjust right rear thruster to compensate.”

  “Sir, that will slow us considerably,” said the technician in charge.

  “At maximum thrust this machine is already too slow. Do it!”

  The subofficer gestured acknowledgment but said nothing as he struggled to comply.

  We must look strange to the enemy, hovering here in plain sight, hardly moving, he thought. It might confuse them more effectively than the most exquisite maneuver. Indeed, the anticipated response was not forthcoming. Instead, a long pause was followed by a single, surgically placed missile which struck the command craft amidships.

  It was sufficient to knock out all but a single remaining thruster. Deprived of support and forward motion the skid began a slow descent. Through the acrid smoke that filled the room he saw that they would probably land hard but intact, unless they took another hit on the way down. Habit rather than desire made him check to insure that his harness was tight. The ground was coming up fast.

  Granted time to think, he realized that there must be Amplitur among the ambushing force. Crigolit or Mazvec would simply have obliterated the wounded command vehicle, whereas the Amplitur would try where possible to preserve life. Survivors could be evacuated from Kantaria for “education.”

  His fingers caressed the sidearm. He would not be a candidate for their schools. He knew about such places, where the Amplitur would work on you until you weren’t sure what you were fighting for, or even who you were. Only that you were, had to be, must be, a servant of the Purpose. Caldaq held no illusions about his ability to resist that kind of persuasion. One did not resist lightning, earthquake, or Amplitur intrusion. Mentally, he was no stronger than anyone else.

  Following successful “treatment” the Amplitur would slip the reeducated back onto their homeworlds, there to sow dissension and confusion. An altered Massood could do more damage to the war effort than the most powerful particle weapon.

  Dimly he was aware that the subofficer for piloting was screaming at him through the flames and rush of air. “I apologize to my family, sir! I did the best I …!”

  His v
oice was stilled by whatever also took away the light …

  The ringing in his head remained when consciousness returned. A mocking, sadistic providence had left him bruised and battered but otherwise alive.

  Coughing and fighting for air, he slapped three times at his harness release before it let him go. Without the straps to hold him in his seat he fell to the floor. There he rested a luxurious minute before struggling to his feet.

  It was impossible to see anything through the boiling smoke. Better to make his way outside, if possible, and let his vision clear. Then he could think about helping others.

  Memory guided him to an exterior door. Not surprisingly, the electronics did not respond and he had to cycle the lock manually. He fell through the resultant gap, sucking in huge lungfuls of moist, uncontaminated air.

  No Crigolit or Mazvec troops saw him exit. Perhaps the command craft had come down in a relatively inaccessible area. More likely the enemy was on its way and simply had not yet reached the crash site.

  Staggering toward the thickest stand of trees, he nearly tripped over the smoking body of his third-in-command. The subofficer was still alive, breathing shallowly. Caldaq dug up clumps of spongy moss and massaged the soldier with the saturated vegetation. Only when the jumpsuit had stopped smoldering did Caldaq heave the subofficer onto his shoulders and start for the woods.

  As he did so a voice speaking perfect Massood ordered him to halt.

  The woods were dense, dark, full of possible hiding places, and oh so near. He could not balance the moaning subofficer and draw his sidearm at the same time. As he took another step something like a sharp blade cut him in the side. Looking down he saw a tiny, steaming black hole in his uniform, just beneath the fifteenth rib. There would be a matching hole in his back.

  As he stumbled onward he sought to analyze the wound with perfect objectivity. What vital organs, blood vessels, or nerves lay in the vicinity of the shot, and relationally, how long was he likely to be able to keep going? The problem was no less intriguing for the fact that it was of more than theoretical concern.