by John Ringo
“I’ll hit the high points, though,” the general continued. “The major high-point, from your point of view, is that they want your head on a platter. To quote: Item Sixteen, the severed head of the Tir Dal Ron on a silver platter. In no metaphorical sense. End quote.”
“I see,” the Tir replied. “And their other demands?”
“Well, the first item is going to be hard to comply with,” General Wesley said, still trying not to grin. “They want General O’Neal turned over. Unharmed.”
“If only we knew where he was, I’d be glad to give him to them,” the Tir said, calmly. “Because Admiral Hartono is moving Second Fleet into orbital trajectories. He is about to bomb Heinlein Base back into a crater. That would take care of General O’Neal. It will be expensive but, I think, necessary.”
“Yes, about that, sir,” General Wesley said, clearing his throat. “You are aware that the majority of the in-system fighters are based on the moon? Our information indicates that the majority of the pilots of those fighters are included in the mutiny. There are over four hundred fighters, sir. That would be a difficult correlation of forces for the Admiral.”
“Those fighters are never going to leave the surface, General,” the Tir said, grinning toothily. “Trust me on that.”
* * *
“Okay, try it again.”
Paul Kilzer wasn’t the happiest guy in the world. He could have been about anywhere but up on the moon trying to hot-wire space fighters. He had a number of patents to his name and was, as well as anyone could be with the Darhel control of credit, reasonably well off. He could be on a beach in Maui.
But over the years, on again off again, he had had this… “thing” with Colonel Leblanc. Oh, sure, she’d kicked him in the balls once. Okay, over the ensuing decades more than once. But like a couple of variable stars in locked orbit, they just couldn’t seem to get away from each other. They’d blow up, rock back, wander around and then drift back together again. It was like hell, but fierier.
“This plan is doomed,” his Buckley intoned. Despite tweaking the software a thousand times, he just could not get that damned pessimistic function shut down. It was coded so deep in the AI that any time you had to use a Buckley at high function, it just popped up. “Would you like a list of ways that we’re all going to die? And I do mean horribly. Rapid decompression is a very bad way to die, even for a Buckley. We don’t take vacuum well.”
“Just see if the bypass keys you into the system,” Paul said.
“Oh, I’m in the system, genius,” the AI snapped. “I’m all over this stinking system. But that doesn’t mean I know how to fly this thing! I told you this would happen! But you didn’t listen, you never listen. No matter how many times I tell you it won’t work… ”
“And did you bring up the auto-configuration?” Paul asked, wearily.
“Just like the last time, dumbass,” the Buckley replied. “And I still can’t even get the fucking fusion engines online. Hellooo! I’ve only got so much processor space! I can’t be the only processor on this damned thing! I have no fucking clue how the AIDs do it. Not if they’re the sole processor. This thing wants me to control the engines and the navigational system and the flight-control system and the damned communications. Don’t even get me started on combat controls. I’ve just about got the processing for one of those. Dumbass.”
“How much more processing power do you need?” Kilzer asked.
“Well, more or less one of us for each of the major systems and a main one, that would be me, to control all the rest,” the Buckley replied. “Not that that would work, either, fucktard.”
“Why not?” Paul asked. Besides being pessimistic, his Buckley had become increasingly insulting lately. He wasn’t sure why.
“You ever tried to get multiple Buckleys to coordinate?” the device whined. “It’s worse than herding cats. We’re individuals, asshole, and we don’t just take freeking orders. But every freeking one of these damned systems requires an AI. So you’re going to need a shit-load of Buckleys and you’re going to have to get all of them to agree on what to do. And, personally, if you’re talking about sending me into battle you can blow that for a game of soldiers, retard. Some genius you are.”
“Damn,” Paul said, reaching into his trenchcoat. “Let me check my notes.”
* * *
“You said you could get it to work, Paul,” Glennis said.
The base was secure and so was the base weaponry. But everything was based on AIDs. Since they knew damned well they couldn’t trust the things, they had to get around them. And her resident genius was telling her that was impossible.
“And I was sure I would,” Paul said, grimacing. “But I had no clue how hard it was going to be. The only work-around that might work is a disaster. Have you ever heard nine Buckleys arguing about how to fly a space-fighter? The pilot was not amused, especially when the fighter started telling him how to fly. Then the fusion control got all sulky and the weapons started to warm up without orders… ”
“Paul, sensors show that about half of Second Fleet is headed this way,” Glennis said in what she thought was a reasonable tone. “And we’ve got defensive weaponry that won’t work without AIDs and fighters that won’t work without AIDs and you told me, the last time we were on vacation, that you could get around the AIDs.”
“Yeah, I know,” Paul said, dreamily. “You didn’t hit me for a week.”
“Well if I have to come down there, getting a nuke dropped on you from orbit is going to be the least of your worries,” Glennis snapped. “While I’ll miss having something convenient and painful to kick, you won’t like going through the rest of your short life without gonads! Figure it out!”
* * *
“General Wesley, incoming call from Colonel Paul.”
General Wesley looked at the system projection and grimaced. Every single Fleet Strike base except Ft. Fredericksburg was in rebellion. None of them had fallen as quickly and cleanly as Heinlein Base but all of them were on fire. In the case of the training base in South Dakota, literally.
He was fully expecting this message to be the confirmation that Titan Base had fallen. Which would mean another base wiped out by Fleet. At this rate Fleet Strike was going to cease to exist in a few days. At which point, given that he’d already spent everything including his honor keeping it alive, he might as well eat a pistol.
“Go, Elvin.”
“Sir,” his Chief of Staff said. “We… Sir, Daga Nine has fallen.”
General Wesley quickly tried to recall which base Daga Nine was then blinked rapidly.
“The Darhel core world?” he gasped. “To mutineers?”
“No, sir,” Colonel Paul said. “This is from a Fleet communique. An unknown force attacked by surprise. One courier managed to warp out. He reported that as of his system exit, all ground forces had been destroyed or surrendered and all the communications satellites were destroyed, some of them apparently from cloaked ships already in-system before the attack. The attack was two and a half months ago. We’re just getting the word.”
“Where the hell was First Fleet?” The “premier” unit of Fleet was, naturally, guarding the Darhel Core Worlds. Remarkably enough, it had mostly real ships and units unlike Second, Third, Fourth and Fifth.
“First Fleet forces in-system were chopped up, according to reports, by an attack from the planet side,” Colonel Paul said. “They apparently never stood a chance. The bits of reports we got indicated that whoever attacked destroyed them without taking a single loss and with much smaller ships. The real question is Third. Reports had just reached Daga Nine that it had been destroyed as well. Presumably by the same force.”
“Oh,” Wesley said, dropping his head into his hands. “Joy.”
* * *
“General, you must get your forces under control,” the Tir said. “This new race… Daga Nine was a core world. They threaten Gratoola! The capitol of the Confederation! This cannot be borne. You must defend… ”
/> “I must?” Wesley said, mildly. “I must? I must do what? We humans must save your sorry asses again? Where’s your God damned Fleet you put in your pocket and held like a souvenir? Half of First Fleet appears to be gone. All of Third. Fifth, who we will discuss in a moment, was apparently heading into the area after getting word there was a ruckus. But we haven’t heard from Admiral Suntoro, who we will also discuss in a moment, for, what? Three months? I somehow doubt that he is gallivanting around the galaxy whooping it up after DESTROYING MY FUCKING CORPS!”
“You will not speak to me in that tone, General,” the Tir said, dangerously.
“Or what?” Wesley snapped. “Or you’ll have Admiral Hartono drop a rock on me from orbit? Listen you chicken-shit weasel, you were the one that ordered the 11th destroyed and killed over twenty thousand of my troops! You were the one that ordered me to hang Michael O’Neal. You were the one that screwed up the Fleet to the point that half the ships on the books don’t really exist and the ones that are left absolutely suck! You fucking Darhel are the ones that have consistently screwed us humans to keep us under your thumbs and now you want us to pull your questionable rocks out of the fire again? Well SCREW YOU.”
“But this race,” the Darhel said in a tone of desperation. “It has taken not only colonies and Indowy worlds. It threatens the most important worlds in the Federation. It threatens Earth itself! Have you no care for the threat to humanity? To the damage this will do to the Galactic economy?”
“The only threat to humanity I see is you,” Wesley snapped, pointing his finger at the screen. “I see you, you alien prick! You extra-terrestrial monstrosity. You lawyerous, slanderous, villainous asshole! You want to point fingers, I’m pointing them right at you, you cancerous boil on the face of the Galaxy. After you’ve fucked the situation up beyond redemption, what in the FUCK do you expect ME to do about it? I can’t even control my own troops because of you, you, fucking YOU!”
“I see,” the Tir said, sitting back and interlacing his taloned fingers. “Then what must we do?”
“Well,” Wesley said, sighing, “first and foremost we have to find someone to lead this charade that the troops actually will trust. Sure as shit isn’t me. Go figure. I can only think of one guy. And right now, I don’t see him being amenable to reason. Even if we can find him.”
* * *
“So, Kyle,” Mike said. “Got a question for you.”
Mike had, over the last few days, determined that he had four handlers. Kyle, Sean, Pat and Roger. He assumed all of them were false names, but he was also polite enough to not ask. But there was something bothering him.
“Whatcha got, sir?” Kyle asked, laying down a four of hearts.
“Something’s been bugging the shit out of me,” Mike said, laying a jack of hearts on the four. Playing two handed spades sucked but it was the only game in town. “I could swear I’ve met you somewhere. Ditto the rest of the guys. I can tell you’re not rejuvs, so it wasn’t from that many decades ago. You’re, what, twenty-four?”
“Twenty-two,” Kyle said, laying a queen of hearts down. “Close, though.”
“My memory’s kinda full, but I’m pretty sure I’d remember a guy as big as you,” Mike said laying down an eight. “Only guy I can think of is dead. Big as you, same sort of build, black hair though. Same fucking eyes, too. But I’m pretty sure Tommy never had any kids and that would be… well that would be a hell of a coincidence.”
“Couldn’t say, sir,” Kyle said, laying down the five of spades.
“Interesting way of putting it, Kyle,” Mike said, dropping another jack.
“Rest of them are mine, sir,” Kyle said, laying down a handful of spades.
“Bastard,” Mike said, chuckling. He realized that was the first time he’d actually laughed in a long time. “You’re still a point behind.”
“Cards are turning my way,” Kyle said, shuffling. He looked up, though, as Sean entered the room. “You’re not on for a couple of hours.”
“There’s a situation,” Sean said.
“And he’s another one,” Mike said, looking at his other handler. “Swear to fucking God I’ve met you before. What is it?”
“Moonbase is in mutiny,” Sean said. “Mutineers have taken all the facilities. They’re apparently calling on Fleet Strike command to release the General unharmed.”
“Hell, if you guys hadn’t grabbed me I’d be dead already,” Mike said, frowning. “What do they think they’re going to accomplish? All the damned systems are keyed to the AIDs.”
“I guess they’re just generally pissed, sir,” Sean replied. “And there are ways around an AID. I don’t know if they know them, though.”
“You guys do, though, right?” Mike said.
“It’s not easy, sir,” Kyle replied. “Clean AIDs are hard to come by. And Buckleys aren’t the same.”
“Keep those things far away from me,” Mike said. “I know where the AI came from. And I refuse to have anything to do with the flaky bastard. Besides, I dropped a skyscraper on his head so he hates me. What’s the Bane Sidhe doing about it?”
“We don’t have a lot of resources on the moon,” Sean said. “I was just told that to tell you. Basically, we’d love to help. But unless we can get some assets from… elsewhere there’s not much we can do.”
“Can you get me in contact with them?” Mike asked.
“That’s why I’m here, sir.”
* * *
“General?” Colonel Leblanc said, blinking in surprise. “We just captured the Penal Facility and were less than pleased to find you weren’t there. According to the guards we interrogated, you’d escaped. Since I didn’t believe them I’m afraid some of them didn’t survive the interrogation.”
“Not going to get any sympathy from me,” Mike said, working his dip to the other side of his mouth. “They’re not, that is. And, yes, I’m alive.”
“With all due respect, sir, I’m not sure I can believe that,” the colonel said. “There are too many ways to spoof this system.”
“Agreed,” Mike said, grimacing. “What’s your status, in general?”
“Again, sir… ” the colonel replied. “Not sure I can give you any information, given that I’m not sure it’s you.”
“Well, I can’t exactly get to your location to verify my identity,” Mike said. “But I hope like hell you’ve got a plan to keep Fleet from bombing the hell out of you.”
“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, sir,” Glennis said, smiling confidently. “You can believe I have that under control.”
“Good,” Mike said, nodding. “No more said. I’ve recently come into information about a group that may be able to assist you, though. Right now they’re having a hard time getting any support to you, but if Fleet holds off for a bit we may change that. Play for time, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir,” Leblanc said, frowning in puzzlement.
“Yes, I could be some Fleet officer telling you that,” Mike said, grinning. “So put that in your playbook. But if someone comes along offering you some support, consider it carefully.”
* * *
“It’s under interdiction!” Stewart said. “You have got to be kidding me!”
“Unless they get some clean AIDs they can’t use the fighters or the space cannons,” Cally said, reasonably. “Don’t tell me that you can’t smuggle one damned ship onto the moon. It’s right there!”
“There Is A Fleet Blockading It,” Stewart said slowly and distinctly. “No, I cannot get a fucking gnat onto the moon at present.”
“What about using one of the Fleet ships?” Cally asked.
“You think Fleet is just going to let one of their ships land?” Stewart said, grabbing his head in frustration. “Listen to me, Cally. Cannot Get A Ship Onto The Moon. Period. Is that clear enough for you?”
“What if it’s invisible?”
* * *
“There is insufficient time,” the mentat replied.
Michelle had given Cally a me
thod to reestablish contact with whatever mentat had helped them before. Since she couldn’t find a Himmit, they never seemed to be around when you needed them, and Stewart was certain there was no way to get a ship to the moon, the mentat was the only remaining choice.
“That assumes I was willing to help,” the mentat continued. “This internal squabble is of no matter to the mentat. It will be resolved when the mutinous forces are reduced.”
“We’re talking about pretty much all there is left of Fleet Strike,” Cally said. “Doesn’t that matter?”
“Compared to what is occuring on Daga Nine?” the voice whispered over the radio. “No, it does not matter.”
“What’s happening on Daga Nine that’s so important?” Cally snapped. “We’re talking about thousands of lives!”
“The population of Daga Nine was seventeen billion as of the last census,” the mentat replied. “As of this morning, relative time, it had reduced by four point two percent with an error of plus or minus one point three percent. And the trend is accelerating.”
“What?”
* * *
“Report.”
General Etugul was a Kotha, one of the elite warriors of the Hedren Tyranny. Scion of an ancient family of generals, he was one of the Chosen, those sent to this new galaxy to bring the power and glory of the Hedren Archons to these new races.
Over seven feet tall, his blueish gray epidermis crossed with colormophs of honors, rank and family standing, the general stood upon eight dual-use tentacles. Any of them could be used as a secondary set of arms or for locomotion. Two additional tentacles were used for fine-motor skills. But any and all of the ten could wield a weapon in a pinch. Six eyes, two red and the other four purple, waved above a powerful beak. The beak was used only for eating and occasionally rending a foe limb from limb. The general spoke through two whistling jets mounted below his rapacious maw.