Yellow Eyes-ARC

by John Ringo

  "We made it," he whispered to none but his AID. Standing upright, he waved to the oncoming relief force and fired three DU rounds, at super slow rate, to mark that he and his command were still there.

  "So it would . . ."

  Grintarsas was in shock now, almost completely. Whether it was the shock or olfactory fatigue, the rotten-meat and garbage stench of the People's bodies bloating in the sun around him was gone. He still cradled the HVM launcher in his arms as he had for the past two cycles.

  Consciousness was not his to control; he drifted in and out of reality randomly for the most part. The shock of threshkreen ballistic weapons exploding on the other side of what he had once thought of as his objective was enough, if barely, to bring him to consciousness.

  He saw the threshkreen, metal-armored and soft skinned both, standing up and cheering. It was infuriating. How could they cheer such pointless destruction? They didn't even bother to harvest the food, adding further to the insults they heaped upon his People.

  One threshkreen stood above the others, very near to the summit of the old objective. Grintarsas took his HVM launcher and lifted up the sight. Painfully, he moved it to line up upon that one prominent threshkreen. At some level the Kessentai knew that the backblast from the HVM would kill him. He didn't care so long as he could take one of the hated humans with him. Moving slowly, Grintarsas finely adjusted the weapon, making sure the aiming dot was precisely on that threshkreen.

  Then, giving a last smile despite the pain, he fired.

  Connors never saw or felt a thing. The blast of the HVM launch, the white streak it left upon the air, and the disintegration of the torso armor of his suit happened so close together that they may as well have been simultaneous. The sudden overpressure inside the suit was enough to blow the arms and helmet off. The front and back plates likewise came apart, even as the missile turned the soft-fleshed body inside to dust. The AID died to the same blow, the e-mail Connors had been working on still unfinished.

  Interlude

  With the gradual breaking up of the Posleen horde, the jungle had grown comparatively quiet again. Rather, it had returned to normal: birds calling, insects chittering, the steady pitter-patter of rain. The normal denizens, herbivores mostly, had returned with the sounds. Following the herbivores came the predators: snakes, lizards . . . the jungle cats, small and large.

  He was like a leopard . . . on steroids. Normally a spotted species, this jaguar was "melanistic," which is to say its coat had darkened over the generations to provide better camouflage in the dim light that penetrated the jungle canopy overhead. At nearly two hundred and fifty pounds, it was largish for its species.

  The jaguar hadn't fled when the Posleen horde had first approached. Rather, when its normal prey had fled it had simply followed. A cat's gotta eat. Now the prey had returned and, so, it had returned as well to its normal spot by the broad river where its a la carte menu often came to water.

  Now this is new, thought the nearly black jaguar, looking down unseen from his lordly perch upon the half dozen horselike creatures that ambled the trail below. Never seen caimen with such long necks. Or six limbs. Smell funny, too. It's a lot to eat at one sitting but, then again, they look a little skinny. I think lunch is served.

  There was an empty spot inside Guanamarioch where his friend, Zira, had once dwelt. He was lonely now, with only normals for company. They couldn't talk, tell jokes . . . teach one to fish. All they were good for at the moment, reproduction, he was incapable of. Even if he hadn't been so weak from long-term starvation, despite the thresh provided by his slaughtered pack and his friend, the itch and ache where the jungle rot had latched onto his severed reproductive member made reproductive activity impossible.

  Shambling along, head down, the very picture of Posleen misery, Guanamarioch might have lost his life then. Only a warning cry by one of the few normals remaining to him caused him to look up in time to see the midnight black streak descending.

  The thing, the nightmare, must not have thought about the implications of a centauroid form. Guano was just able to get one arm up to block. The creature's jaws latched onto that, rather than the skull for which it had been aiming. The jaws slammed shut with a sickening crunch of bone. Almost, the God King fainted.

  Worrying the arm like a shit demon from legend, the black creature also began lashing out with its front claws. One of these raked across the Kessentai's face, lacerating it and ripping empty one eye socket. From then on, fighting blind as he kept his remaining good eye away from the claws, Guano fought—or, rather, defended himself—by feel alone.

  The quarters were too close for his own boma blade. After what seemed like an eternity of fending off fang and claw, two of his normals came up and dispatched the attacker. They were careful, this time, to cut off no pieces of their god.

  Chapter 35

  Offshore where sea and skyline blend

  In rain, the daylight dies;

  The sullen, shouldering swells attend

  Night and our sacrifice.

  Adown the stricken capes no flare—

  No mark on spit or bar,—

  Girdled and desperate we dare

  The blindfold game of war.

  —Rudyard Kipling,

  "Destroyers"

  Off Isla Cebaco

  There hadn't been time to consummate things.

  Pretty word, thought Daisy, "consummate." Fact is, I wanted to get laid. But with the firing, the skipper's refusal to leave the bridge, the underway replenishment of ammunition . . .

  He hasn't even kissed me since that once. I'd almost think he's afraid to.

  McNair paced the deck of the bridge. He had belted on his sword—and felt silly doing it too until he remembered that his ship just might be boarded—and placed one of the Sterling submachine guns Daisy had procured nearby. One never knew, after all.

  His mind was aflame with worries, of which there were two main. One was impending action, without much cover, against the Posleen who were sure to try to escape west through the old and now recovered San Pedro Line. That one was easy; he knew how to fight his ship. Rather, it would have been except for the other.

  What do I do about Daisy? I'm no good with women, never have been. I knew ships. As a ship I could love her and comfort her and take care of her. But as a woman?

  He'd ordered her below, once they veered to starboard around the southwest corner of the Peninsula de Azuero. And she'd refused, just flat refused to leave his side. The little voice she could project had said nothing. Instead, she'd crossed her arms under her—oh, sweet Jesus, those—breasts, stamped her foot defiantly, and shaken her head frantically "No!"

  Almost he'd decided to put her over the side, in a boat with a crew with orders to take her ashore. He'd even said he would. Then the little voice had come, informing him, "You can't, Skipper. The body's brain is the AID. Anything more than half a mile away—the same distance I could project a hologram—and the body dies. And you can't send the AID off the ship and still fight."

  He'd scowled then, scowled at the AID, scowled at the woman.

  And felt immediately like a heel. "Belay that. The woman can stay."

  Sniffing, the woman Daisy had turned her nose up and away as if to say, How could you even think about sending me away?

  McNair still didn't know what to do, or what to say. He had no idea how to act. He was lost until . . .

  "Captain, this is LIDAR. We've got multiple Posleen tenar . . . correction; multiple groups of . . . correction: Oh, hell, there's a shitpot of them, Skipper. Thousands, at least, and they're heading our way."

  McNair bit his lip for a moment and turned to Daisy the woman. He grasped her gently but firmly by each shoulder and leaned close to her ear.

  "Love," he whispered, "we'll work this out later; I promise. For now, I need you to go down to CIC. It's armored there. I'll probably be along later. Take the AID with you."

  He felt her body stiffen once again with defiance. "You have to go, Daisy
. What happens if this body is hit? What happens to the ship? The AID will feel everything, won't it? Can we count on the AID to fight this ship if it is feeling you sliced in two?"

  He didn't add, but thought, Can we count on me to fight this ship if I see you sliced in two?

  The woman Daisy began to struggle in his grasp. He refused to let go until she subsided.

  "You know I am right, don't you?" He felt her slump and saw her head, reluctantly, nod. "Leave me your avatar and go below then. It'll be okay. And we will work this out as soon as we can. And, Daisy? I do love you, hon."

  The woman looked into the captain's eyes and saw that he spoke the truth. Firmly, she nodded her acquiescence. But in her own eyes flashed the determined warning, Yes, you cannot escape; we will be together.

  Binastarion told his AS, "Project an image and magnify it."

  A holographic picture of the two ships sprang up in front of the tenar. Carefully the Kessentai squinted over the projection. The ships were as alike as

  two abat in a nest. Then he found, so he thought, what he was looking for.

  "There, AS. Focus in on that section there." He pointed at the hologram. "Okay. Good. Now cut to the same part of the other ship. Hmmm. Back to the first." There should be some marks, some scarring where we hit it, on the ship which killed my boy.

  "Got it!" the God King exulted. "There is the murderer of my son and frustrator of my dreams. Orders."

  "Ready to copy, Binastarion," the AS replied.

  "Skipper, LIDAR. The aliens are splitting into four groups. One seems to be veering off to go after Salem. But three of them are coming straight for us."

  "Cap'n, this is CIC. I confirm LIDAR's projection."

  "Ready to fire, Captain," announced the avatar, which appeared suddenly on the bridge.

  For a moment McNair felt more at ease. The avatar was, after all, not the girl. Pheromones. It must have been the pheromones. Christ, in the flesh I nearly did her against the wheel.

  "What are we carrying in our anti-lander gun barbettes?" McNair asked, more calmly that he felt.

  "The first five rounds in the magazines are canister, Skipper. Plus there's another twelve rounds per standing by."

  "Daisy Mae, show me the Posleen deployments."

  On the holographic map projected by the ship McNair made out the four groups. LIDAR and CIC had assessed well.

  "Daisy, priority of fire is the northernmost group. Commence firing. Order Salem to support as she is able."

  "Wilco, Captain. I am also projecting holographic deception measures" . . . McNair saw the great shapely legs appear to either side of the bridge and heard false lightning crackle overhead . . ."but I don't think they'll help much this time."

  The giant demoness appeared before Binastarion's attack groups. He was not fooled. Many nights had he stood awake, thinking on how the ship had deceived him previously, to his great cost.

  "AS, how many plasma cannon and HVMs do we carry?"

  "Ninety-seven plasma cannon, Binastarion, and seventy-two HVM launchers with at least three missiles each."

  Ahead, the God King saw the black, angry puffs—nine huge, ugly things—that told him the enemy had fired its anti-tenar rounds.

  "For what we are about to receive . . ." the Kessentai muttered.

  "What's that, lord?"

  "Never mind, AS. Call it an old Kessentai's foolish sentimentality. Take centralized control of the plasma cannon and the HVMs. Plot a pattern to blanket anywhere in that apparition that the threshkreen demon-ship might be."

  The thousands of 20mm tungsten balls launched by Des Moines and the one hundred and sixty-nine HVMs and plasma bolts launched by the Posleen crossed each other. Binastarion was surprised by the bright flashes made when a bit of canister struck one of his shots. That didn't happen much, though. A fraction of a second later over one hundred of his tenars' saddles emptied. At about the same time, the Des Moines was struck in nine places.

  Alarm bells were ringing somewhere, off in the distance. McNair knew that that meant something, but at the moment he couldn't remember just what. It was important, though. He was sure of that. Now if only he could remember.

  There was smoke, somewhere above. He could smell it slightly, but not quite see it.

  Oh. That's because I am facing down. Why am I facing down?

  The captain struggled to roll over onto his back and . . . Oh, shit. That's a mistake.

  He tried, even so, until with agony tearing through his gut he righted himself. A little more effort, and a lot more pain, and he managed to prop himself against a metal wall. Now he could see the smoke, pouring out of the armored bridge through one hole through the hatchway and another, or so he presumed, on the other side. Bad . . . very bad. He refused to look down at the direction of the pain. He was afraid of what he might see.

  The hatchway opened and a . . . thing crawled out, feeling ahead of itself with one handless arm. The other was used to prop up the torso. It didn't actually say anything. Instead, it made a hardly human keening sound. McNair thought he should recognize it but couldn't remember.

  He looked right. There were some dead men there. Blood from their torn bodies leaked onto the deck, smelling of copper and iron. He wondered if some of the blood might be his own. Then, too, he smelled ruptured intestines, the odor of feces hanging heavy.

  That made him look down at the source of the pain.

  Oh, shit.

  Hard, he tried hard to remember. His name came first. Then his job. Then, I am on a ship . . . CA-134 . . . the USS Des Moines . . . the . . . ummm . . .

  "Daisy!" the captain called as loudly as he could. That wasn't very loud, certainly not loud enough to be heard over the steady explosions . . . No . . . those are our guns firing. We're still in the fight, my girl and I.

  He'd expected someone . . . ah, a hologram . . . to appear when he'd called for Daisy. But nothing came.

  Using both hands to hold in what seemed intent on coming out, McNair got to his knees. One leg came up but his foot slipped on the deck awash in blood. He fell with an agonizing jolt.

  Must . . . see.

  Again he tried to rise, more carefully this time. He leaned against the metal wall on which he had rested for support and balance. Eventually his head popped over the rim of the wall.

  "Fuck," McNair whispered.

  Number one turret was still in action, he saw, but number two was utterly wrecked, the armor torn open and men and bits of men showing hanging on the jagged scraps. Smoke and fire poured out of it. He thought he heard screaming coming from within but couldn't be sure.

  He heard a steady Brrrrp . . . Brrrrp coming from both sides of the ship. Looking out he saw tracers arcing up. Some of the dots that were coming toward the ship—Posleen. Those are Posleen—fell out of the sky to splash into the sea. One exploded with a tremendous flash that engulfed several more.

  Then the avatar did appear, though it flickered. "I am sorry for not answering immediately, my captain. I am hurt."

  "Hurt? No . . . no, you can't be hurt," McNair croaked.

  "I am hurt, Captain," the avatar repeated. "Number two is gone as are fifty-one and fifty-three. Number three is damaged, unable to traverse but still able to fire. One of the reactors is out, as well; we took another salvo after the one that hit here."

  "Marine marksman topside," McNair ordered weakly.

  "I have already ordered that, Skipper, but it won't be enough. Even with the Panamanian Cazadors we carry it won't be enough."

  "Salem?"

  "My sister is under attack but fighting well. She has little to spare for us, however."

  "Okay, beautiful girl. Head to open sea. And don't give up. Fight us till we sink."

  "Aye-aye, sir," the avatar answered solemnly.

  Back still against the wall of the navigation bridge, McNair began slowly to sink to the deck.

  Daisy the woman had full access to the ship and the AID. She was the ship and the AID. She saw her captain as if she had been standing o
n the bridge with him. She saw him sinking as if dying. She saw the hands trying futilely to hold in the intestines. Even worse, she saw the leaking blood.

  With an inarticulate shriek she jumped up, grabbed the AID and clipped it to her belt, and ran to CIC's hatch. A Marine who was on guard attempted to bar the way. She backhanded the boy, sending him sprawling. Then she emerged into chaos.

  In the smoke and flame she heard, "Goddammit, Smitty, I don't care what it does to your fingers. Connect that hose!" . . . "Aaiaiai, my eyes!" . . . "Mama . . . mama" . . . "Corpsman!" . . . "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." . . .