by Richard Fox
“Sirs and ma’ams, the gravity well from something this large skews the quantum—”
Valdar snapped the stick against the table.
“We can’t leave,” Geller said. “Or at least we can’t jump to Earth. The greater the distance, the more precise the jump has to be. The mass of the Crucible flaws the jump equation. If we try to jump out of here now, we’ll be ripped apart.”
“So we break anchor,” the chief engineer said. “Get clear of its influence and jump from there.”
“That would work, but we’ll have the Canticle with us soon,” Valdar said. “And it’ll be adrift in space with no engines.”
Ensign Geller cleared his throat. “The solution is for us to jump, with the Canticle, to the brown dwarf star located two point nine light-years from here. We recharge the jump engines there and jump back to Earth.”
“What if there’s a Xaros presence?” Utrecht asked.
“There are no habitable worlds. If the Xaros have been through, there shouldn’t be anything but a monitoring force. We can handle one or two drones,” Valdar said.
“It’ll be a skip and a jump back to Earth, no hop involved,” Geller said. He smiled, waiting for the laugher that never came.
“It won’t work,” Lafayette said. “Your theory is sound, but at the rate the Crucible is approaching … any jump would either tear us to pieces or drop us into deep space.”
“Is deep space that bad?” Ericcson asked. “Anywhere but here seems like an improvement.”
“The jump engines absorb dark matter to charge,” Levin said. “We jump into the middle of nowhere and we’re in trouble. We need to jump within the Nye-Sandburg dark-energy corona around a star or we’ll be sitting out there for years waiting to jump again.”
“Lafayette,” Valdar said, “how do we change the math?”
The Karigole tapped his metal fingertips together. “How much quadrium do we still have?”
“Five rail cannon shells, twenty shells for the point defense guns, nine gauss rifle shots,” Utrecht said. “I don’t know if the armor still have their one round each.”
“That will be more than enough. I’ll need every shell brought to my lab. It will take me three hours to build the bomb. Captain, I’ll need you to figure out a way to get myself and a small package onto the approaching Crucible…at this location, the command nodule. I’ll return immediately.” Lafayette’s hologram switched off.
“Did he say ‘bomb’?” Ericcson asked.
“He did,” Valdar said. “Ibarra turned his quadrium munition factory into a singularity bomb when we were running from the drones chasing us away from Earth. He must know how to make one too.”
“He’s going to make a black hole … on our ship?” Ericcson asked.
“Anyone have a better idea?” Valdar asked. None were offered. “Durand, let’s figure out how to get him where he needs to be.”
****
Hale stood on the Mule’s ramp, his boots and hand mag-locked to the ship. He scanned the ground below, looking for any sign of the civilians Torni had seen.
“You think they’re scared, sir?” Bailey asked from the upper turret.
“Makes sense. If they’re running from Usonvi, the last thing they heard from New Abhaile after they blew the rail lines was to stay put and wait for evac. They might think our Mule’s some sort of Xaros. Plus, they haven’t had the best of luck with aliens dropping out of the sky to say hello,” Hale said.
“Got ’em on thermals,” Orozco said. The cameras integrated into his bottom turret were far superior to Hale’s Mark One Eyeball. The gunner sent a feed to Hale, and he saw dozens of warm bodies hiding in a field of shrubs running up a hillside.
“Pilot, set us down at that clearing. Let’s see how many we’re dealing with,” Hale said. He heard the whine of landing gear descending and held on tight as the ship lowered to the ground.
It settled against a field of long grass, whipping from side to side in the ship’s exhaust.
“Cut it down to standby, don’t want to scare them off,” Hale said.
“A drone shows up and we’ll be sitting ducks for two minutes,” the pilot shot back.
“Then the sooner I get this over with, the better.” Hale locked his rifle against his back and stepped off the ramp with Torni, Yarrow and Standish right behind him. He kept his hands out and to his sides as he made his way to the underbrush where they’d seen the Dotok. The Mule’s engines died down to a low whine.
“Hello! I’m Lieutenant Hale!” he shouted. No response. “I’m from the Breitenfeld Ancient Pa’lon sent me to help!”
A Dotok stood up from the brush, a male in flowing robes and a turban made from silk.
“The Breitenfeld? It’s real?”
“You’re talking to a human.” Hale removed his helmet, and the Dotok recoiled with a sneer on his lips.
“Don’t take it personally, sir. They think I’m ugly too,” Torni said.
The turbaned Dotok came down the mountainside, a clipboard in one hand and a small book in the other.
“I am Chosen Nil’jo, leader of Usonvi and its inhabitants,” he said.
“What happened to Usonvi? Why’d you leave?”
“We saw the noorla pods coming through the atmosphere, and the scouts I sent out to investigate never came back. I left my lowers to defend the city and brought my higher ratings with me. We can make it to New Abhaile in another two days. The losses will be acceptable, so long as those lowers with me save their rations for their betters,” Nil’jo said.
“You…left people behind?” Hale asked.
“If they can delay the noorla for a bit to buy time for highers, a worthy exchange,” Nil’jo said. “How many can your ship carry? I have to prioritize.”
“All of them, just get them down here,” Hale said.
“My boy, there’s no way we can get three hundred and nine Dotok into that…thing,” Nil’jo said.
“Three hundred?”
Nil’jo pulled a whistle from his robes and blew three notes. Dotok arose from the scrub and came down the hill. More—many more—ran over the top of the hill.
“I’ll organize them for you. Twenty? Thirty, perhaps?” Nil’jo said.
“Hale, you got a second?” the pilot asked him.
Hale backed away, watching as the Dotok fell into ranks ten people wide. Each knew exactly what their assigned ranking was within Nil’jo’s hierarchy.
“You! Ti’ka! I saw you eat those preserves. Your parents lose ten rankings!” Nil’jo pointed a pen at a little boy and shooed him and his family back a row.
The pilot, a dark-skinned man with close-cropped hair, stood beside his Mule examining the landing struts.
“I’m Jorgen,” the pilot said. “I didn’t want the civvies to hear this, but there’s two ways I can fly back. Go the straight route over the mesas, which is faster, but I’ll have to pressurize the ship, which means I can’t take as many passengers. I won’t have the air for it. Other option is I go nap-of-the-earth, low and fast. I can keep the cabin unpressurized. They’ll be colder than sin, but they’ll be able to breathe.”
“How many can you take, each option?”
“Ten if I go the high route. As many as you can fit for the low route. If they were Marines with their own air tanks and O2 scrubbers, it would be different,” Jorgen said.
“Nothing is ever easy in the Corps, is it?”
“That’s why I joined the navy.”
“How long until you can come back with enough carry for the rest, say two hundred and seventy, plus four Marines?”
“There’s one hell of a dust storm coming in, remember? I can get a load back now. After that we’ve got to wait until the storm passes,” Jorgen said. “And hurry up—there’s a nuke set to blow.”
“Mr. Hale-Breitenfeld,” Nil’jo waved to Hale from the base of the ramp. “I’ve got the highest twenty-five ready to depart.”
Nil’jo’s choice evacuees were middle-aged and elderly Dotok, carrying bound books and thi
ck ledgers. They looked like scholars and accountants, all wearing robes that were once finery before a long trek through the wilderness.
The crowd of the less worthy were families. Women held squalling babies on their hips and tried to hold toddlers tight as they all looked at the Mule like it was their last chance for survival.
Which, Hale knew, it probably was.
He looked at the bureaucrats Nil’jo wanted to save and back at the less fortunate, who were somehow less worthy in their Chosen’s eyes. Anger welled up into his chest, and something snapped.
“No. We’re not taking any able-bodied adults who can keep walking,” Hale said.
“What?” Nil’jo looked at Hale like he’d sprouted a second head. “My list is complete and ranked accordingly. There’s no way I’ll let lowers get to safety so long as I—”
Hale’s hand shot out and wrapped around Nil’jo’s throat. The Chosen went silent with a gurgle.
“I don’t have time to give your culture its proper respect. We’re going off the human list. It goes something like this: Women and children first! Sergeant Torni, bring families up here, anyone that can’t keep walking. Wounded, elderly. Standish,” Hale continued, pointing to the bureaucrats with the hand that wasn’t strangling Nil’jo, “any of them decide they don’t like my plan and try to get on board, you have my permission to beat the hell out of them until they feel otherwise.”
“Sir, one thing,” Standish said.
“What!”
“He can’t breathe, sir. I don’t think purple is a good color for a Dotok,” Standish said.
Hale shoved the Chosen into the dirt, where he hacked and coughed, trying to find the breath to protest.
Torni took Yarrow and Bailey to the waiting Dotok and pulled mothers with children from the group and pushed them toward the Mule. The few husbands and fathers didn’t protest as their families got a lifeline to safety.
Almost sixty women with small children waited at the base of the ramp as Jorgen and Orozco helped get them inside.
“Orozco,” Hale said, “get in the dorsal turret. New Abhaile will need your Gustav more than I will out here.”
“Sir…no, I can—”
“Now, sergeant. That’s an order,” Hale said.
Orozco hesitated, then gave the lieutenant a quick salute. He pushed his way through the civilians and opened the turret hatch.
“I’m full.” Jorgen made a cutting motion across his neck.
“Get them back,” Hale said. His Marines raised their weapons across their chests and kept the civilians off the ramp as it rose. Wails rose from the crowd as it sealed shut. The Mule took to the air on anti-grav thrusters, sending a blast of air through the crowd.
The Dotok cried as they watched it soar away.
“Jorgen,” Hale said into the IR before the Mule could get out of range, “there’s a mesa to the northeast. Meet us there as soon as you can bring back enough lift for everyone.”
“Roger, Hale. You’ve got my word,” Jorgen said.
“Listen to me,” Hale said to the Dotok. “We’re all getting out of here. Every single one of you. My Marines and I are here to protect you, to guide you to where more of those ships will return and bring you to the Canticle of Reason. Understand?”
The crying subsided.
“You made it this far. You can make it the rest of the way, but we have to leave now.” Hale pointed to the northeast. “Follow us.”
He tapped Torni on the shoulder. “You and Standish take the rear. Bailey and I will guide the column. Let me know if we’ve got any stragglers,” Hale said.
“On it, sir,” she said.
Hale found Nil’jo on the ground, trying to pick up sheets of paper that had come loose from his book. The Chosen squeaked and tried to run away as Hale approached. Hale grabbed him by the back of his robes.
“You listen to me,” Hale said, balling his hands with Nil’jo’s robes. “Every one of you is getting out of here. You fight me on this and I will squeeze your pencil neck until your head pops clean off. You get me?”
Nil’jo looked from side to side.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
“You understand me?’
“Yes. Yes, no problem. Everyone gets out.” He raised his clipboard. “I’ve got a list right here of—” Hale knocked the clipboard out of his hand. “Who needs a list if everyone’s on it?” Hale let him go and unlocked his rifle from his back. He ran to the front of the column of refugees and matched pace with Bailey.
“Damn, sir,” she said.
“What?”
“I like angry Hale. Just don’t actually pop that bludger’s head off. There’d be paperwork and that might cut into my drinking time,” she said.
Hale looked to the sky and saw a slight haze rising in the distance.
“There’s your dust storm. I made it through a couple out in the bush, not sure how bad they are here,” Bailey said.
“We’ll find out, won’t we?”
Ahead of the column, low hills with short, thorny bushes were all he could see as the terrain rose higher and higher into a mountain range. They had hours to go until they reached the mesa.
“What gives, sir? Why angry Hale all of a sudden?”
“You know who my godfather is, Bailey?”
“No clue.
“Captain Valdar, and I’ll tell you why. Back during the Second Pacific War, my father was a lance corporal with 5th Marines, based out of Okinawa. The Japanese and the whole American Pacific Fleet got caught with their pants down when the Chinese popped an EMP over Tokyo. The Chinese landed an entire corps worth of troops on the island and the fight was on. Marines and the Japanese army never had a chance, but they held out for twenty days waiting for help. On the last day, the Chinese broke through and chased the defenders into the sea.
“My old man took a shot to the gut. Couple of his buddies dragged him to a rusted-out scow of a ship that an ensign named Isaac Valdar had commandeered. Valdar waits until the last American is onboard, he shoves off under fire and has got a straight shot into the Pacific Ocean.
“Then, a pretty little Okinawan girl comes running for the ship. Her parents were high up in the Japanese government, and the Chinese had them all marked on their black lists for execution. She gets to the ship or she’s a dead woman. She jumps in the water and starts swimming for the ship.
“Valdar cuts the engines, goes out on the deck and tosses the girl a ladder to help her up. Chinese sniper hits him in the leg and he needs a tourniquet to keep from bleeding out. Good thing the girl he saved was a nurse. She patched him up and kept my father alive until they got picked up by the navy. The nurse and my father fell for each other and got married. Hence, me.
“Valdar risked everything to save one more life, and because of that…I’m here. If I can save more, I will. Who knows what’ll come of it.”
Bailey nodded, smacking her gum as she digested the story.
“Me mum and pa met at a bar,” she said.
CHAPTER 11
Lafayette ran through the landing zone, his cybernetic feet and legs carrying him at a pace his old body of flesh and blood could never have hoped to match. He leaped over a pallet of ammunition coming off a Destrier and earned several choice human insults he’d have to cross reference with MacDougall for their proper meaning.
He skidded around an idling Mule and found Elias waiting at the end of the ramp, a lump canvas sack at the suit’s feet.
“Elias, I see you’re ready to go. Thank you for volunteering for this mission,” Lafayette said.
“Valdar ordered us back to the Breitenfeld. Consider us volun-told,” Elias pointed to the sack, which had an unctuous odor so strong that Lafayette lowered the sensitivity of his nasal sensors. “You will make us shields.”
“I…don’t follow,” Lafayette said.
Elias described how the banshee armor proved resistant to the Xaros disintegration beams.
“That’s fascinating. I once experimented with armor c
apable of nullifying the Xaros beams,” Lafayette waved a hand over his cybernetic body. “My invention was…found wanting. Am I to understand that you’ve got dead banshees in that sack?”
“We stripped off armor plates,” Elias said.
“That’s rather morbid yet a real time saver for me,” Lafayette said. “I have to build a bomb, but then I’ll make you and Kallen your shields. For science. Imagine if it works,” he rubbed his metal hands together, “and we survive this mission to tell everyone!”
****
Dr. Accorso, wearing a full surgical gown beneath a flack vest, waved his hands beneath a sterile field generator and slapped on a pair of gloves. Shor wore a set of Dotok surgical gear: tight wraps of magenta cloth around her body and scrubs and a mask over her mouth, sent over from the Burning Blade.
“Ready to make history?” Accorso asked.
“Let’s get this over with,” she said.
Accorso held his sterile hands in the air and backed into the surgical ward. The banshee lay on a ramp that had once been attached to a Mule, its limbs splayed out and fastened with double lengths of carbon-fiber cable used to lift Eagles off the flight deck. A vice held its head parallel to the ramp.
Wires snaked out from beneath armor plates, leading into Dotok medical equipment. A pair of crewmen holding gauss carbines and piston hammers watched from along the bulkhead.
Accorso squinted at the readings and shrugged his shoulders.
“Is the patient sedated?” he asked.
“I pumped her full of enough sedatives to kill a dozen adults. Whatever is in her head is overloading her lymphatic system. The sedative drip I’ve got her on is on par with what her system can negate. Let’s get going before she goes into organ shutdown or breaks loose,” Shor said.
“She?”
“Our females have different blood types from the males. She’s a she.”
“Interesting.” Accorso picked up a set of pneumatic jaws the flight crews used to pry open cockpits of wrecked ships. “No time for finesse, I’m afraid.” He jammed the wedge end of the jaws against the base of the banshee’s skull and pressed a button. The jaws widened, separating armor plates with a sickening crack.