Knight's Move

by Nuttall, Christopher

  “They’ve stopped producing hatchlings completely,” a voice said, from behind him. Glen spun around to see a middle-aged man, wearing a green tunic decorated with strips of coloured cloth. His face was painted green, his eyes were tinted an inhuman red. “I think that most of them have despaired.”

  Glen shuddered. There was little sexual dimorphism separating the male and female Dragons, nothing that stopped the two sexes working together as equals. A pregnant female would lay her eggs wherever she happened to be at the time and then carry on, leaving the hatchlings to be raised by whoever happened to encounter them. There was no stigma to bastardry at all amongst them, he knew; they were all bastards in the purest sense of the word. And they bred like rabbits.

  “We had quite a few suicides when they were first brought here,” the supervisor added, leading Glen towards a small building. “Those that remained were the lowest of the low, as far as we can tell. They didn't really have any ambitions in life beyond simple survival. We’re trying to convince them that they have futures, but I really don’t think they believe us.”

  “I wouldn't, in their place,” Glen admitted. “What are we going to do with them?”

  “That is indeed the problem,” the supervisor said. “We've been experimenting with hatchlings, trying to have them raised by human foster parents. But there have been few volunteers and ... Dragon hatchlings are quite wild by our standards. There was a case where a hatchling bit a human step-sibling. He might well have eaten the poor kid if the mother hadn't intervened.”

  “Shit,” Glen said. He hadn't even heard a whisper about that incident. “How did that get covered up?”

  “I believe a hefty compensation payment was made, in exchange for silence,” the supervisor said. “From what we've been able to draw from our captives, Dragons are tougher than us; dominance games among siblings are just part of life. It may take years to convince them to forsake their culture for a better one.”

  “If we can,” Glen said, slowly. Human biology had helped to define much of human society throughout the ages. Women had been second-class citizens because they were generally weaker than males, as well as being the only ones who could continue the species. It hadn't been until technology and modern medicine had been developed that women had finally been accepted as equals to men. “Their nature might tell against it.”

  “Nature is a result of nurture,” the supervisor said, primly. “We will re-educate them into a better way of life. Indeed, they’re already halfway there.”

  Glen had his doubts, but kept them to himself, Maybe technology could do something for the Dragons ... or maybe a sound thrashing ever so often would convince them that aggression would not be rewarded. But their biology would hamper them, no matter what wishful thinking humans engaged in.

  “We’ll finish unloading the supplies within the hour,” he said, instead. “Once they’re down, you can distribute them as you see fit.”

  The supervisor nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “We haven't had any support at all from the locals. They want the whole island to vanish.”

  He looked down at the ground, as though he couldn't imagine anyone being so unpleasant. “I don’t understand it,” he added. “Why ...?”

  Glen looked towards the Dragons, then snorted. “They remember the Dragons stamping over their homeworlds,” he said, simply. “This bunch might be peaceful now, but who knows what will happen if they get another chance to go to war?”

  “But they’ve been beaten,” the supervisor protested. “They know it too ...”

  “Humans have known it too ... and rebuilt and come back for another round,” Glen said, tartly. “But I wish you the very best of luck in taming the Dragons.”

  He headed back to the shuttle. Two more hours, then they could slip back into hyperspace and leave Putrajaya behind. And, once the convoy was unloaded completely, they could actually start patrolling the sector. Maybe then they could win the Federation some good publicly.

  ***

  Jason had been dozing in his cabin when Dana paged him. “Commodore,” she said, “the feds are pulling away from the planet now.”

  “Good,” Jason said. He pushed the girl he’d taken to bed aside, then sat upright and reached for the bottle of stimulant. Using it was a dangerous habit, but he couldn't afford to be inattentive now, not when there was a danger of crossing swords with a Federation Navy cruiser. “Bring the squadron to battle stations as soon as they are gone.”

  “Understood,” Dana said. There was a long pause. “They just opened the portals and returned to hyperspace.”

  “Sound battle stations,” Jason ordered. He turned to glare at the girl, who had reached out for him in the semi-darkness. Buying her contract had been a whim, one he wasn't sure he should have followed. She shrank back at his gaze, fearful for her future. He turned away and kept barking orders. “Power up weapons, charge defence grid. And prepare to take us against the planet.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Commander Ibrahim Rosharon watched the convoy depart, feeling a cold bitter hatred that should have surprised him. It didn’t. His family had been slaughtered by the Dragons during the early stages of the war, leaving him alone in the universe. He’d been adopted by parents from Fairfax and joined the military, hoping for a little revenge, but even though the war had been won the Dragons had not been wiped out. The Federation had, at the final moment, stayed its hand from exterminating its most deadly foe.

  He’d seen the Dragons when they’d attacked the colonies. They were monsters, killing not for any tactical purpose, no matter how cruel, but because they enjoyed it. They’d slaughtered billions of humans because they could. There was no way they could be trusted, or accepted into the galactic fraternity. They had to be completely destroyed for the safety of the entire galaxy. No one was safe while a single Dragon drew breath.

  But the Federation was helping the Dragons! Ibrahim had seen the freighter manifests when they’d arrived and it had been clear that they were only there to help the Dragons, not the suffering and starving human citizens. What was the point of bringing food specifically for the aliens, rather than something both humans and aliens could eat? He’d yearned to open fire on the convoy, or on the island where the Dragons were coddled and protected; he’d wanted to slaughter the aliens and the fools who kept them alive. And now the colony was gone ...

  He gritted his teeth. They could have taken most of the Dragons with them. Instead, they’d merely ensured that the problem wouldn't go away on its own. The Federation might want to coddle the Dragons, but the colonials knew that the only good Dragon was a dead Dragon. They didn't want to waste food or water or anything else on the monsters ...

  Angrily, he pushed the thought aside. He was an officer in the Colonial Militia, a guardian of the planet below; he shouldn't be allowing personal feelings to cloud his judgement. But he knew that he was far from alone. There were rumours that hundreds of alien refugees had been killed by vigilantes since the end of the war. If the attack on Tyson’s Rest had been aimed at the aliens alone, he would have cheered ... and he knew he wouldn't be alone. The Federation could have the aliens if it wanted them. Their unwilling hosts would be quite happy to see the back of them.

  “Commander,” his tactical officer said. “I'm picking up faint distortions at the edge of active sensor range.”

  Ibrahim stood and paced towards her console. The tactical officer been lucky; her homeworld had never been occupied, although the Dragons had launched projectiles at it during their final desperate offensive. But she was one of the best tactical officers in the militia, which she had to be to work in the debris-strewn system. Two weeks ago, a piece of debris had caused a panic when it had started to break up for no apparent reason. It had taken hours of investigation before they realised that it had included a power cell that had exploded, scattering pieces of junk everywhere. But it could easily have been the harbinger of a pirate attack.

  “Let me see,” he ordered. He stared down at the dist
ortion, puzzled. The station’s sensors were being thrown off by ... a sensor mask? “Hellfire!”

  He hit the alert, already knowing that it was too late. Anyone creeping around under a sensor mask wouldn't have good intentions. There was no point unless they intended to attack the planet itself. God knew that they didn't have the firepower to enforce their control of the system outside the orbitals. The klaxon blared, summoning his crew to the combat stations; he brought up the tactical system himself, trying to run tracks on the intruders. And then their sensor mask faded away, revealing a handful of unknown starships.

  “I read nine starships,” the tactical officer said. “One light cruiser, two frigates, five destroyers and one of unknown configuration.”

  “Looks like a modified assault freighter,” Ibrahim muttered. He studied the display thoughtfully. A corporation in the Federation had produced the attack freighters, claiming that they needed no escort as they hauled goods from system to system. The concept was about as silly as the name. Freighters weren't warships, although a handful of weapons were often enough to deter pirates. “Send them a standard challenge.”

  “Aye, sir,” the communications officer said. There was a long pause as the unknown ships fell into attack formation. “No response.”

  Ibrahim nodded, unsurprised. “Bring up the full tactical network, then send a distress signal,” he ordered. The two cruisers wouldn't be that far away. For once, maybe help could arrive in time to do some good. “Has the government declared a full alert?”

  “They’re sounding the alarm now,” the communications officer said. “But ...”

  His voice trailed off. Ibrahim understood; it was unlikely that everyone, or even most of the population, would get the word before the projectiles started to hit the ground. The planet’s infrastructure was such a mess that the communications network was unreliable. And even if word did get out, too many people were concentrated on the surface. There was going to be a massacre ...

  “Enemy starships are locking weapons on us,” the tactical officer said. Thankfully, she sounded calm. “I’m picking up energy spikes ...”

  The display changed, sharply. “Missiles away,” the tactical officer added. Deadly red icons flared to life as the missiles detached themselves from their parent starships and roared towards their targets. “Missiles away!”

  “Defence grid is to fire at will,” Ibrahim ordered. It was futile, he knew; there were just too many missiles, with modern warheads, for them all to be swatted down before it was too late. But he had to try. “I say again, fire at will.”

  A handful of missiles were picked off by the point defence, but the remainder roared in and struck the station. Ibrahim felt the entire station shake violently as the first missile struck home. The shields collapsed instantly, allowing the second missile to slam right into the hull and detonate inside the armour. Moments later, there was nothing left of the station, but debris drifting down towards the planet’s surface.

  ***

  “All defences destroyed,” Dana reported. “Our ships took no fire at all.”

  Jason allowed himself a tight smile. For all of its former wealth, the system had been effectively defenceless against a determined assault. A handful of stations and a few dozen automated weapons platforms wouldn't have deterred a pirate fleet, let alone a military force. Clearly, no one in the Colonial Militia had expected the planet and its star system to be important in the near future, no matter how many refugees had come to live on the surface. If they had, they would have devoted a handful of starships to protect the planet. That would have made his operation far more dangerous.

  “They got a distress call off before we took out the transmitter,” the communications officer reported. She cringed, as if she expected to be executed merely for bringing him bad news. “It will have been picked up all across the sector.”

  “Understood,” Jason said. He didn't kill people for bringing him bad news, only for incompetence or disobedience. Or having the nerve to express their doubts openly. “Tactical, are there any defence positions on the surface we should be worried about?”

  “No,” the tactical officer said. “There are a handful of radio sources, but nothing that suggests hidden defence emplacements. They haven't rebuilt yet.”

  “Good,” Jason said. “Target the alien camp and prepare to fire.”

  He smiled as the tactical officer brought up the image of the alien-infested island, feeling the old hatred crawling along his spine. The Dragons were a nightmare, even broken and beaten; there was no way they could be left alive, not when even a handful of them could rebuild their race in short order. He recalled burning out Dragon nests during the war, watching as thousands of them died in fire. None of them had deserved to live in an universe that included humans. Or even any other alien race.

  “Targets locked, sir,” the tactical officer said.

  “Launch the nukes,” Jason said. Ford had wanted a display to shock the universe? He’d get it – and more. Using dirty weapons – radioactive weapons – on a planet’s surface was taboo. Even the Dragons had preferred to avoid them, knowing that their troops would be slogging through the aftermath of the blast. “I want that camp gone.”

  “Aye, sir,” the tactical officer said. Havoc shuddered as the missiles were launched, directly towards the camp below. “Impact in twenty seconds.”

  Jason watched as brilliant white light flared out above the island. It was overkill, overkill on a massive scale; the island would not only be swept clean of life, but sterilised completely. There would be nothing left, not of the aliens, nor of the Federation fools who believed that the Dragons could be civilised. And what remained would be radioactive as hell ...

  “Target destroyed,” the tactical officer said, formally.

  “Excellent,” Jason said. He allowed himself a smile, then looked down at the display. “You may begin launching projectiles at the secondary target list.”

  The tactical officer smiled. He wasn't a sociopath or a pervert like many of the recruits. Instead, he just liked to watch things blow up. Jason had told him to have fun, but to make sure that he didn't allow his aim to wander just so he could watch the pretty explosions. The last thing they wanted was to waste firepower – or cause an atrocity that would push the colonials and the Federation into working together.

  “And transmit our message,” he added. “I want it heard right across the system.”

  ***

  Sandy, Glen had been pleased to discover, was a keen chess player. It was something they had in common, even if neither of them had started by playing for fun. Sandy’s father had insisted she learn because it taught strategy and tactics; Theodore had taught Glen personally because he’d claimed the game taught long-term thinking. Glen had to admit that they were both right, but they'd also drained the fun out of the game. Playing with a friend was much more relaxing than playing to win.

  “Ensign Hamilton is having slight coping problems with his workload,” Sandy observed, as she moved a pawn forward. “I fear the Academy didn't teach him to handle everything on time.”

  Glen had to smile. It would have shocked and horrified the junior officers if they ever realised just how carefully they were monitored by their superiors. The Academy taught much, but there was no substitute for experience. Those who had served for years knew all the tips and tricks that inexperienced new officers had to be shown, one by one, curing them of the tendency to think that just because they’d graduated, they knew everything. Glen’s own first cruise, even during the fires of wartime, had been a learning experience.

  “The Academy hasn't quite recovered from the end of the war,” Glen agreed. He’d heard from a friend of his who’d taken up a post at the Academy. The classes had been cut, half the staff had been reassigned and the courses were being reorganised to cover all the details that had been stripped out during wartime. “What do you want to do about him?”

  “Chief Jackson is providing some droll advice from time to time,” Sandy
said. “But the Ensign hasn't yet learned how to tell the difference between the times when it’s alright to ask for advice and the times when it isn't.”

  She shrugged. “He makes a good tactical officer,” she added. “But he needs more seasoning before he can take on a permanent duty station.”

  “Rotate him to engineering for a week,” Glen suggested. Crew assignments were the XO’s job. “And let him know that there are moments of boredom in the Navy as well as excitement.”

  “That’s part of the problem,” Sandy said. “He thinks he’s missed out on the war.”

  Glen rolled his eyes. He’d been like that too, back when it had finally penetrated his skull that there was a war on. His life on Mars had been sheltered from the handful of privations inflicted on Earth, let alone the outer worlds. And he hadn't been cured of it until he’d actually joined the Navy and discovered just how many of his gung-ho classmates hadn't survived a year after graduation. Of the one hundred cadets in his class, he knew, only twelve had survived the war.