Yellow Eyes-ARC

by John Ringo

  "Okay, sir. I understand. We've got some indirect fire capability of our own, but the ammunition for that is limited, and I doubt you've got anything we could use in lieu."

  Boot don't spatter, echoed in Connors' mind as he set his troops up for the assault. The biggest single thing I've got going is that the Posleen probably don't know we're here and likely don't have much of a clue of what we are capable.

  "AID, map."

  Okay . . . into the river and move upstream to the crossing point . . . send one platoon. The other two demonstrate on this side. A five-second barrage by weapons and then the platoon in the water charges.

  Oughta work. Connors issued the orders and the platoons fanned out, one of them—the first—diving into the water and moving upstream. The fire from the high ground opposite was weak and scattered, really not enough to worry about.

  When he judged the time right, Connors ordered Weapons Platoon to fire. The high ground erupted in smoke and flame as several hundred 60mm shells landed atop it. The First Platoon, feeling the vibrations in the water broke out and charged due west.

  The First Platoon leader swept across the objective quickly, then reported, "Captain, there's one, repeat one, cosslain here with a three millimeter railgun. And he's deader than chivalry. Nothing else."

  That was worrisome but Connors could not quite put his finger on why. He tried to report it to Suarez and found he couldn't get through to the colonel's Earth-tech radio. Instead he sent a messenger and proceeded to follow the plan, sweeping south along the river's west bank to seize the bridge that Suarez really needed.

  There was little resistance on the way or even at the bridge. Connors sent another messenger to advise Suarez that the way west was open.

  "The trick," Binastarion said to Riinistarka, hovering next to his father on his own tenar, "is to convince the threshkreen that we are as confused as they seem to be. That requires that obvious objectives and key terrain be given up without a fight, but that delayed counterattacks to retake them be put in at a time that is most inconvenient to us. And with significant losses to the threshkreen. Only in this way will they not suspect a trap. The technique is called, 'Odiferous bait,' my son."

  "Father," the junior Kessentai said, "I don't understand. When you told us the tale of Stinghal, he left no such guards and didn't throw away any of the people in fruitless counterattacks."

  "Those were different circumstances, my son. There, in the city of Joolon, the enemy provided his own reason to believe the city was ready to fall, Stinghal merely added to the illusion. Here, on the other hand, the enemy threshkreen have not been in a position to really hurt us. We must provide the illusion and that illusion must seem very real indeed. Thus, I throw away thousands of the people in these fruitless attacks, to convince the enemy."

  "I . . . see, my father," Riinistarka agreed, though in fact the junior Kessentai did not see.

  Will I never acquire the skills my father and our people need?

  Suarez was screaming into the radio when his track reached the bridge where Connors met him. The gringo captain didn't know at whom the colonel was shrieking, but took it as a good sign that the radios were working at all.

  In frustration, Suarez threw the radio's microphone down, and raised his eyes to Heaven, shouting a curse. The curse had no name to it, but Connors guessed that it was directed toward higher levels, rather than lower.

  The MI captain trotted over and removed his helmet. Suarez seemed fascinated by the silvery gray goop that slid away from the gringo's face before collecting on his chin and sending a tendril down into the helmet. His eyes followed the tendril as it disappeared into the greater mass, leaving Connors' face clean.

  "That creeps out everyone who sees it for the first time," Connors admitted, with the suit still translating.

  "Umm . . . yes, it would," Suarez answered in English, the first time he had shown faculty with the language.

  "Your radios are working again?" Connors asked.

  "Yes. Even the fucking artillery is up." Suarez voice indicated pure suspicion at his suddenly granted ability to talk to his subordinates; that, and a considerable disgust at suddenly having to listen to his superior, Cortez.

  He continued, "There was nothing but static or a few disconnected phrases and then, in an instant, poof, I was in commo with everyone. I almost wish I were not, especially with my idiot division commander."

  Tracks continued to roar by, heading westward, as the Panamanian and the gringo MI captain spoke. The stink of diesel filled the air as the heavy vehicles ground the highway—never too great to begin with—into dust and grit. Both Connors and Suarez coughed at a particularly concentrated whiff of the crud assailed them.

  That track passed and in the sound vacuum left Connors observed, "Well, as long as you have commo with everybody, you're probably best off keeping us close to you and using us as a powerful reserve."

  "Boot don't spatter?" Suarez quoted.

  Connors smiled. It was so good to work for a man who knew what he was doing.

  Darhel Consulate, Panama City, Panama

  "You have lifted the interdiction of the humans' radio traffic?" the Rinn Fain asked.

  "Yes, lord," the Indowy technician answered. "But we are continuing to monitor for an appropriate time to reimpose it."

  "Show me the deployment of the Posleen forces."

  Another holographic map popped up, which the Rinn Fain studied closely.

  "Very interesting," he said, noting the tens of thousands of Posleen moving off the main road and taking cover in the hidden valleys to the north of it. "This is a clever Kessentai leading these people. He does not know we are helping him, but he sees the results of that assistance and acts accordingly. How goes the attack on the humans' warships?"

  "That has been a great success, lord," the Indowy answered. "Two of the three seem to be pulling out of range of their own guns' ability to support. The last was never meant to stand alone."

  "It troubles me, Indowy," the Darhel said, tapping a finger to its needle-sharp teeth contemplatively, "that the last ship is able to resist us. Its AID should not be able to do so."

  "I have some suspicions about that, lord," the Indowy whispered. "I have checked. Simple insanity is not unknown among Artificial Intelligences. But these are invariable older AIDS. The AID in the human warship is virtually brand new."

  "And so?" the Rinn Fain prodded.

  "I have run simulations, lord, at much faster than real time. I have discovered that such insanity is possible if a new AID is left alone and turned on for too long a time."

  "Do you think this happened?"

  "I do not know, lord. But I have sent a query out over the Net as to whether that AID might somehow have been turned on before packing."

  Interlude

  Guano and Zira lay on their bellies, fishing poles in hand. They moved the poles up and down, more or less rhythmically, to keep the baited hooks moving. They spoke only in whispers. Zira suspected that the vibrations of loud voices would reach the water and frighten off the fish.

  "This is pretty boring, Zira," Guano said softly.

  "Is an ambush boring, young Kessentai? Think of it as an ambush."

  Guano really had no answer to that. He was too young ever to have participated in an ambush. He tried to imagine one, waiting with beating heart for an unsuspecting enemy to show up, never knowing if the enemy would be too great to take on—even with surprise—and never knowing if the enemy had spotted the ambush and was even now circling to . . .

  "Wake up, Guano," came the urgent whisper. "I think one of the little darlings is sniffing at your bait."

  "Wha' WHAT?"

  The tugging at the line that Zira had seen stopped abruptly.

  "Shshsh. Quietly. There's one of the fish that was at your bait."

  Guano quieted down and watched the line intently. Sure enough, the line was moving erratically, in a way that indicated something was nibbling at the hook. Suddenly, there was a strong tug.


  "You've got him, Guano, now pull once, medium hard, to set the hook."

  Guano pulled on the fishing pole, feeling a plainly live weight on the other end. "Yeehaw!" he exulted, though the Posleen word was more along the line of "Tel'enaa!"

  "Its mouth might be soft," Zira counseled. "Let it run about until it tires."

  For fifteen minutes Guano did just that, giving the fish some room to run and then slowly and carefully bringing it back. By the end of that time, the piscine was running out of steam, its tugs on the line and pole growing weaker.

  "Very good, young Kessentai," Ziramoth commended. "Now pull it above water . . . gently."

  The pole bent nearly double as Guanamarioch pushed down on the end while slowly lifting from near the middle. With a splash, a foot and a half long greenish gray creature appeared above the water, its tail flapping to one side and then the other as it sought purchase in water that was now too far beneath it.

  "Dinner," said Zira, "is served."

  Chapter 17

  And when we have wakened the lust of a foe,

  To draw him by flight toward our bullies we go,

  Till, 'ware of strange smoke stealing nearer, he flies

  Or our bullies close in for to make him good prize.

  —Rudyard Kipling, "Cruisers"

  Remedios, Chiriqui, Republic of Panama

  Nineteen B- and C-Decs for each of the enemy water vessels should be more than enough, Binastarion thought as the fifty-seven low-flying craft glided soundlessly by a few hundred meters overhead. This close to the surface and this close together the spacecraft moved comparatively slowly, wary lest they make disastrous contact with the ground or with each other. In addition, each B- or C-Dec was accompanied by anywhere from seven to eighteen tenar.

  As the Posleen craft passed, the People below the flotilla, Kessentai and normal alike, felt a strange and unpleasant tingling sensation both inside and out.

  May you do more than tingle our enemies, my children.

  USS Des Moines

  "We've got trouble, Captain," Daisy's avatar reported. "LIDAR shows enemy vessels approaching . . . fifty-two . . . fifty-four . . . no . . . fifty-seven of them. They're deployed in three broad wedges. My guess, though it is more than a guess, is that two of them are heading for Texas and Salem. The third is behind those two, more spread out."

  McNair scratched his head, uncertainly. "Looking for us, do you think, Daisy?"

  "Likely, Captain," the hologram answered.

  "Get me the admiral and Salem," McNair ordered.

  The center screen came on live again. "Graybeal here. I see them, Jeff. They're below, well below, Texas' ability to engage."

  McNair swallowed hard before continuing. This was the difficult decision: to risk your greatest love, your command, on behalf of a mission.

  "Sir . . . I think you and Salem should fall away to the south. Des Moines will intercept."

  McNair risked a glance at Daisy. Her hologram was flickering less now.

  "I'm devoting less power to defending Salem," Daisy answered when McNair asked.

  "You're okay with this?" McNair asked.

  Daisy's holographic chest seemed to swell, if that were possible, with pride.

  "Captain, I'm a warship. This is what I do."

  The admiral interjected, asking of Salem's captain, "Sid, have you managed to get any defense up for yourself?"

  "Three of the six secondary turrets are manned and manually operating, sir. That's the best I can do with what I have. But, sir, you ought to know that we have no radar or lidar interface or guidance. We can engage manually but only straight line of sight and even then only at fairly short range."

  "How truly good," the admiral said sardonically. "Very well, Sidney, head south to sea. Texas will follow. McNair? Intercept . . . and good hunting."

  Posleen B-Dec Rapturous Feast XXVII

  Ah, the never-ending joys of the hunt, the Kessentai in command of the ship thought. His landing group's target, assigned by the glorious Binastarion personally, was the known of the two lesser enemy surface warships. The location of the other was, at best, approximated on the Kessentai's view-screen.

  What a strange world this is; all disgusting, wet, oozing greens. The Kessentai almost hoped for an early onslaught of orna'adar. Better that mass slaughter than a prolonged stay on such a putrid ball.

  The Kessentai had actually landed with his oolt before being ordered aloft again to lead this abat-hunt. Binastarion had warned him, through his far-speaker, not to be overconfident, that these particular thresh had sharp kreen, indeed.

  They would have to be a tough and resourceful species, he thought, to survive and prosper in such a wretched place. Tough and resourceful, but stupid, since nothing here is worth fighting for. Then again, how stupid are we; trying to take it over. Though the thresh don't know it, we are actually doing them a favor by exterminating them.

  With Rapturous Feast XXVII in the lead, the other eighteen landers—each with its escort of tenar—spread out behind forming a deep "V." This was a simple formation, simple enough that even fairly stupid Kessentai could maintain it.

  Straight as an arrow the wedge of Posleen landers flew, hardly noticing—amidst all the other inexplicable horrors of this world—the shimmering, flashing anomaly on the surface of the sea between the attack group and its target.

  And then the anomaly grew a head, one of the foul threshkreen sensory clusters, with ugly projections and a streaming yellow thatch. By the time the landers and tenar had slowed and reoriented their weapons arrays onto the head it had risen up until halfway out of the water. A shimmering golden breastplate (not unlike the one reputedly worn by Aldensatar the Magnificent at the siege of Teron during the Knower wars) covered the monster's torso and its threatening frontal projections.

  The creature from the deeps raised its arms heavenward, masses of something like ball lightning lashing between its gripping members. All Posleen weapons thundered and flashed towards the malignant apparition.

  With growing dread, the lead Kessentai saw that no harm—absolutely none—was done the beast. But wait . . . it seemed to be rocking back and forth as if in distress.

  "We've got it!" exulted the Kessentai.

  "No, lord," corrected the Artificial Sentience. "The monster is laughing at you."

  Rage warred with fear. Laughing at me? We'll see who laughs last.

  The external speakers carried the sound of a thresh voice, but one frightfully, even impossibly, amplified. The beast's mouth moved as if trying to speak.

  "Translate, AS."

  "My lord, the monster has just said, 'Stay the fuck away from my sister, you son of a bitch!' "

  USS Des Moines

  "Skipper, these fucking animals are stupid. They'll shoot at what they can see with their own eyes, nine times out of ten, and ignore the real threat that they can't see."

  "How does a stupid race build starships, Daisy?" McNair objected.

  The avatar answered, "The theory is that they were genetically altered eons ago, that they are born with skills, even as the Indowy are born with certain talents. The difference is that the Indowy must be tutored to bring their talents to fruition, a long period of intense training and education, while the Posleen just know. But coming into the world knowing all they will ever need in the way of skills, they either never see the need to develop intellectually, or are—in most cases—simply incapable of it.

  "In any case, trust me, Skipper, they'll shoot first at my hologram if that seems most threatening."

  Not for the first time, McNair wanted to reach out and touch the shoulder, if nothing else, of this wonderfully smart and brave and beautiful . . . warship. He knew there was nothing there, however, and so unconsciously stroked the armored bulkhead of the bridge with a palm.

  "Do it, Daisy," he said, "but be careful, my girl."

  The avatar disappeared from the bridge in an instant, while Daisy's larger form began to grow up and around USS Des Moines. As Daisy
predicted, the Posleen seemed to ignore the shimmering fog that engirdled the vessel proper and to concentrate their fire on her appearing torso. Even behind the heavy armor of the bridge McNair felt the shockwaves as kinetic energy projectiles and plasma weapons passed overhead. The ship was on a course of 270 degrees; thus, due south the sea exploded and roiled with the energies impacting it from the fires of nineteen landers and nearly two hundred and fifty tenar.

  And then Daisy spoke. The entire ship reverberated with the amplified message, "Stay the fuck away from my sister, you son of a bitch."