Trial by Fire - eARC

by Charles E Gannon

  Tygg, his sand-colored beret wet and rumpled close to his head, was at his left shoulder, his eyes steady, assessing. “Best if you come down to hear it, sir.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “And we can put Cruz on overwatch up here, give him the Remington. Don’t you think?” Tygg’s hand was already gently cupping the forestock of the long weapon. Trevor noticed that the Aussie’s eyes never blinked.

  Trevor nodded. “Yeah—I’m done.” Tygg nodded, looked away, as if suddenly embarrassed. Trevor started down the narrow stairs that led from the small fieldhouse’s observation cupola into its shattered atrium. Faces looked up at him, looked quickly away. His impulse was equally divided between a desire to hide his own face from them and to tell them to fuck off. Frozen into immobility between these two diametrically opposed urges, he managed to simply descend, silently, into their midst.

  “Reports,” he ordered.

  Ayala started. “Outer perimeter secure. Our biggest problem is locals wanting to get in and trash this place. It’s pretty ugly out there.”

  “What about the hunter-killer squads the Sloths sent out?”

  “Scattered reports. Lots of them are still active, but running out of steam. A lot more have been wiped out. Some tried to lift their own vehicles to make a run for orbit or elsewhere. We really don’t know. Our flyboys were too busy shooting them into small fluttering pieces.”

  Trevor nodded, turned to O’Garran. “Relief forces?”

  “According to the latest fiber-com update, ETA is now six minutes.”

  “Vertipads?”

  “Secured. Lieutenant Winfield and most of Commander Ayala’s SEALs are working as cadre with ex-military insurgents to maintain a dedicated overwatch on the ’pads.”

  Trevor was preparing to move on to Rulaine for the internal security report, heard O’Garran clear his throat. “Something else, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir. Although we’re expecting the SAS and First Air Cav to be the first wave in, according to my latest intel update, their landing has been redesignated as the arrival of a ‘high-security diplomatic mission,’ not a part of the general assault.”

  “Who’s leading this diplomatic mission?”

  “I have no word on that, sir. But the Confederation clearance classification is listed as 01A1B?”

  Jesus. “Sergeant, you are to send all your remaining forces to the vertipads. I want them deployed as two concentric perimeters, placements and range at Lieutenant Winfield’s discretion. And Sergeant O’Garran?”

  “Sir?”

  “You stay with us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bannor?”

  Rulaine swept an arm out over the esplanade. “Interior is all quiet. No sniping incidents, not even any thermal signatures that aren’t us or human workers. The undercover insurgents among the staff have made contact with us, confirm our suspicions that the only Hkh’Rkh left within these walls are the three we have captive and the dead.”

  “And the Arat Kur?”

  “Most are holed up in their billets or are back near Lieutenant Wu in their headquarters.”

  “Any resistance from the others?”

  “Not a peep. External reports tell the same story. The Arat Kur have ceased all offensive operations. Possibly due to illness.”

  Trevor swiveled back toward Rulaine. “Illness?”

  “Yes sir. Scattered intel suggests that here, and at their other cantonments, an increasing number of Arat Kur are acting sluggish, distracted.”

  Caine’s voice arose, was aimed into the rest of the crowd, not at Trevor. “Those of you with the infiltration teams or the fiber-com. Did you hear anything about plans to use a chemical weapon on the Arat Kur?”

  “No, sir.” Ayala shrugged. “Scuttlebutt is that no one was able to get any genetic samples of the Arat Kur.”

  Caine nodded. “Yeah, I believe it. All throughout the insurgency, the exos occasionally retreated, but they never left their dead behind for analysis. The one time I saw them retreat without all their bodies, they called in an air strike and burned the kempang down to bedrock.”

  “So the Roaches get sick. What of it?”

  “Maybe nothing, Trevor—but if a whole lot of them are succumbing to some kind of disease or malaise right now, it might not be coincidence.”

  “Trev.” It was Elena, her voice coming from behind, not much more than a whisper. “Caine is also the ambassador to the Arat Kur. If something’s going on, he should be back in their headquarters, staying in touch with what’s left of their leadership.”

  Trevor picked up his CoBro assault rifle. “Fine. We’ll escort you to Cockroach central. Tygg, Rulaine: on me.”

  Wholenest flagship Greatvein, Earth orbit

  Tuxae kept his claws very still as R’sudkaat approached. “Yes, what is it now, Tuxae Hu’urs?”

  “Esteemed Fleetmaster, I have a message from Darzhee Kut.”

  “A message to me? From him? Very well. What is it?”

  “Delegate Kut sends his compliments and informs you that the Final Directive has been rescinded.”

  For a long moment, R’sudkaat did not move. Then he started forward, claws half raised. “Rescind the Final Directive? And since when is Kut titled Delegate?”

  “Since Hu’urs Khraam sang his last note, some minutes ago.”

  R’sudkaat rocked back as though struck between the eyes, which roved in the direction of H’toor Qooiiz’s empty seat, as if searching for some rock-sibling who would sing a different song than this, would negate and drown out the dirge that Tuxae sang. “This cannot be.”

  “So I thought also, but it is true. The ground staff has verified his death, as well as Hu’urs Khraam’s conferral of the title Delegate Pro Tem upon Darzhee Kut.”

  R’sudkaat was very still. Then: “Preposterous. Hu’urs Khraam would never put the fleet under the direction of Kut. Magma and rotting meat: he is but an Ee’ar!”

  Tuxae kept his antennae and claws very still and elected not to point out that he, too, was of the Ee’ar caste. “So he is. But now he is our Delegate in this place, as well. And he orders that we rescind the Final Directive.”

  R’sudkaat looked at Tuxae closely, who heard the sifting-sand sound of his commander’s lenses compressing with the intensity of their focusing. “No,” R’sudkaat hummed slowly. “No. I will not do so. Kut’s order shows that he is not our Delegate, but rather that he is a tool of the humans.”

  “R’sudkaat, with respect, you must comply.”

  “I will not take orders from an upstart Ee’ar.”

  “I am afraid you must.”

  R’sudkaat raised a claw high, haughty. “You have slipped into sun-time, Tuxae Skhaas, if you think I will abandon our orders and our mission on the word of a Ee’ar. And now I must instruct you to relinquish your post. Until such time as a Nestmoot can be held to determine your complicity in this attempt to subvert the orders and due authority of this fleet, you are relieved of your duties.”

  “With respect, R’sudkaat, it is I who must now relieve you of your duties.”

  R’sudkaat’s antenna wiggled, but there was no mirth in his voice. “Tuxae Skhaas, your audacity is singular. Comply or I will summon Enforcers.”

  “You need not. They are already here. Turn around.”

  R’sudkaat did so, discovered H’toor Qooiiz and six Enforcers standing two meters behind him. “Please come with us,” H’toor Qooiiz asked softly.

  Stunned, R’sudkaat scanned the bridge: expressionless eyes stared back at him. He turned quickly back toward Tuxae Skhaas. “Have you all gone mad? Have you forgotten the songs of our mothers and their great-grandmothers before them, back unto the rebirth of the Homenest? These are humans—humans! The great despoilers. If they take us captive, they will have access to our best technology, our drives, our weapons. We will be enabling them to cut another swath of terror through the stars. They will invade Homenest, take hostages, experiment upon us, torture us, make labor slaves out of the en
tirety of our race!”

  “They are more likely to do so if, in destroying ourselves, we destroy their boarding teams as well. As might begin happening any moment. We have word that the ships of our counterattacking fleet are even now being commandeered by human troops.”

  “But—”

  “With respect, Fleetmaster R’sudkaat, I cannot have this discussion at this time. We must try to send this instruction to Orbitmaster Edkor Taak’s flagship. Please accompany the Enforcers. H’toor Qooiiz, please remain with me.”

  “Orders, Shipmaster Tuxae Skhaas?” H’toor Qooiiz’s voice was a melody of liquid laughter.

  “Given the approach of the humans, my first orders will probably be my last.”

  “Then they had best be good ones.”

  “Truly spoken. Can we reach the Orbitmaster’s command ship with this radio?”

  “We can try.” H’toor Qooiiz’s response was unconvincing, but after fifteen seconds of waiting, the channel crackled and cleared. Orbitmaster Edkor Taak responded personally. He was unsurprised by the news of Hu’urs Khraam’s death, was startled by the naming of an Ee’ar to the position of Delegate, and fell into a long silence upon hearing that the Final Directive was rescinded. Then, in a slow voice, Orbitmaster Taak announced, “Before complying, I will speak to this Darzhee Kut myself.”

  “He is no longer in my radio range; perhaps he is in yours.”

  “We have no radios remaining other than this one, and we are too far from…planet…to exchange…or messages.”

  “Orbitmaster Taak, I believe we have little time to—”

  H’toor Qooiiz clicked a negation, looked up at him. “He has passed out of the range of this radio.”

  Mobile Command Center “Trojan Ghost One,” over southern Java, Earth

  “Any word from RTF 1?”

  “Boardings are underway, Mr. Downing. About forty percent of the opposing fleet’s ships have been taken by Joint Spec Ops forces. No sign of resistance whatsoever, even though some of the Roach boats are starting to get their computers back online.”

  “Their belt fleet?”

  “They were at longer range. Judging from Admiral Schubert’s last report, he’s anticipating first rendezvous in about two hours. And it’s about thirty minutes before our ground-launched teams reach the ships in orbit around Earth.”

  “Are we anticipating any problem if either of those enemy formations get their systems running?”

  “Not really, sir. We already have their hulls ringed with missiles and ordnance that caught up to them, retroboosted, and is now station-keeping with them in lethal proximity. If they so much as frown at us, they’re ash. Nothing but good news for us, sir.”

  Downing looked over at Alnduul, who had not spoken for ten minutes, whose head had inclined to stare down at the Jakartan metroplex that was rushing up at them. There’s always risk, he had told the Dornaani. That was another way of saying that, in war, the news is never “all good.” Downing stared at his watch for the third time in the past thirty seconds, wondered why he was so anxious, why he felt it to be so desperately necessary to link up with the Arat Kur leadership, why he couldn’t think past the one thought that was pushing all others aside. Land this thing, damn it; land it now.

  Presidential Palace, Jakarta, Earth

  “Any word?” asked Darzhee Kut when he was sure no humans were close enough to hear.

  “About the fleet or Riordan?”

  “Either. Both.”

  “Nothing on the fleet,” answered Urzueth Ragh. “None of our ships are in radio range any longer. The human Wu is unwilling to share much information, but I believe that Riordan was already on his way when I asked.”

  The first good news in an hour. But Urzueth did not seem encouraged. “What distresses you?”

  “On this day, what does not? But just this moment, I was reflecting that even if your countermand of the Final Directive reaches our ships, their masters may not elect to follow the orders of an unknown Delegate.”

  Darzhee Kut bobbed once. “Yes, but at least they cannot scuttle their ships immediately. Not until they restore full computer control.”

  “Darzhee Kut, why do you place this importance upon their computers?”

  “Because the instructed means of scuttling is to sabotage the antimatter or fusion containment fields.”

  Urzueth Ragh angled to look at him sideways. “Rock-sibling, Shipmasters have other means at their disposal.”

  Darzhee Kut felt his intestine twitch. “What do you mean?”

  “Darzhee Kut, surely you have not forgotten that the humans are not the only ones who possess nuclear ordnance—”

  Mobile Command Center “Trojan Ghost One,” over southern Java, Earth

  “Oh, Christ—Mr. Downing!”

  The bump of the VTOL’s hasty landing coincided with a panicked, almost electric pulse that jumped so hard through Downing that he felt pain at the rear of his skull. But there was relief, too. The bad news had finally arrived. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir—the Arat Kur are destroying their ships.”

  So. Not as harmless as they seemed. “How many?”

  “I don’t know, sir. It’s going on right now—six, seven, eight.”

  “How?”

  “Nukes, sir.”

  “And our boarding teams?”

  The lieutenant turned very pale very quickly. “Our—?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant. What about our boarding teams?”

  Flagship USS Lincoln, Sierra Echelon, RTF 1, cislunar space

  Ruth Altasso turned to Ira. Lateral lines, straight and stacked like the slats of a washboard, stretched across her forehead. “Admiral, Commander Dugan on tac comm one. Urgent.”

  Damned straight it’s urgent. His teams are on those hulls. “Put him through. What’s the count, Ruth?”

  “Nine scuttled so far, sir. Dugan is online.”

  “Lincoln actual. Go.”

  “Admiral—”

  “I know what’s happening, Tom. Don’t waste time with a sitrep.”

  “Okay.” A long pause. When Tom Dugan spoke again, he sounded more like a green second looey than a seventeen-year veteran with the Teams. “Ira, what do I do?”

  Good God, now SEALs are asking me what to do? “Secure the prisoners. Isolate them from all systems.”

  “Impossible, Admiral. On most hulls, I’ve only got two squads of boarders. That’s twenty-two troops for hulls that are often more than two hundred thousand kiloliters in volume. And my men don’t have intel on floor plans, standard complement, or command circuitry. My guys are working blind, and from what I can tell, they can’t figure out how the Arat Kur are blowing their ships. I was in contact with Joe DeBolt when the smallish hull he took went up. His squads had corralled all the Roach bastards. Nobody threw a self-destruct switch or anything like that.” Dugan stopped for a moment, then resumed. “Orders?”

  Ira clenched his molars. I know what you want me to say. And, God forgive me, you’re right, because we just don’t know how they’re doing it. Hell, if they set this up as a worst-case contingency, they might not even need access to their ships’ systems—

  Ira discovered that Altasso was looking at him. “Skipper, for all we know, the Arat Kur could have implanted themselves with remote triggers.”

  Ira closed his eyes. Great God, does she read minds, too?

  “Sir.” It was Dugan again, tense. “Orders?”

  “Are your men still buttoned up?”

  “All suits are still sealed, sir.”

  “Do they have control over internal systems? Such as bulkhead doors?”

  “In most cases, yes sir.”

  Eyes still closed, Ira felt himself creating generations of hatred and mistrust as he allowed the next order to ride out of his mouth on the crest of one long sigh. “Remove the Arat Kur from their ships. Immediately.”

  Silence. “‘Remove’? Sir, don’t you mean—?”

  “Commander, I know what I mean and what I said
. Have your teams secure themselves to interior fixtures with lanyards. Then open the airlocks. Then open the bulkhead doors. All of them.”

  Presidential Palace, Jakarta, Earth

  Darzhee Kut noticed the small human soldiers guarding the ruined headquarters crouch cautiously, then snap upward into a respectful, oddly erect and rigid stance. A superior approaching? Riordan, perhaps?

  Larger humans with long, wicked-looking rifles swarmed through the door, followed by Trevor Corcoran.

  Who had changed. Darzhee Kut had his claw half raised in greeting, but brought it down: he was suddenly fearful, more fearful than he had ever been around the Hkh’Rkh. He did not know humans well, but everything he had learned told him that there was death in Trevor Corcoran’s eye. Not hatred, not outraged pride, not fury. Just cold, passionless, implacable death. Death for Darzhee Kut, for Arat Kur, for all exos—maybe for anyone. Darzhee shivered back into his carapace. That was Trevor Corcoran’s face, but that was no longer Trevor Corcoran.

  But arriving behind Corcoran was Riordan, his head turning, seeking, insistent, pushing past the human warriors into the room, over the body of the Hkh’Rkh that had guarded and then attacked him, still seeking—and stopped, staring in the direction opposite Darzhee Kut. His head and eyes were aimed straight at the silent, faintly fuming tank of Apt-Counsel-of-Lenses. Riordan’s eager, ready expression bled away. For a moment—just a moment—Darzhee Kut thought his eyes were going to match Trevor’s own.

  “Caine Riordan!” As Riordan turned his head in the direction of Darzhee Kut’s call, some measure of engagement came back to his eyes. “Caine Riordan, we need—”

  “Radios. Yes, we’ve heard about the ships. And your soldiers, are they also—?”

  “Yes. It is a perverse contingency plan discussed by some of our leaders,” Darzhee Kut lied. “But I believe we can stop my forces from following them—many of them, at least. But I have no way to reach them. I need radios—”

  But Caine was already turning away, shouting to the other humans—

  * * *

  Caine faced Trevor. “Darzhee Kut is now in charge here and trying to ensure that the rest of Arat Kur surrender goes smoothly. He needs a long-range radio in order to communicate with his people, and tell them it’s safe to cooperate with us.” Caine saw Elena enter the room, felt a flash of misgiving at having her here, shouted over Darzhee Kut’s continuing, and somewhat shrill, entreaties. “And we’ll need to patch him through to his ships if he’s going to stop them from being scuttled.”