Land of the Dead

by Thomas Harlan

  Streams of data played out on the inside of his eyelids, including a navigational feed of the various ships in motion around the periphery of the Pinhole. His t-relay—despite being bounced around a bit—was still in operation. A quick diagnostic check indicated the unit was receiving and transmitting. Good. Hummingbird gauged distances and times, then toggled open a subaudible channel.

  Have done, winged out into the night, directly to one of the Khaid command ships.

  * * *

  “It is ours,” Xochitl snarled as his exo whispered the name of the approaching Imperial ship and her commander, along with pertinent details of crew, tonnage, and weapons systems. “Set an intercept course, Engineer, and speedily, too. She’s faster than Lucifer himself and will not wait!”

  He turned away from the engineer, his exo supplying a visual overlay for the communications controls in the capsule. Ghostly images emerged in his sight, highlighting the necessary mechanisms. The Prince keyed up a comm channel and sought handshake with the fast-approaching battle-cruiser.

  Behind the Naniwa, the Khaid fleet—now minus another battleship—had regrouped again. This time they did not speed in pursuit, but watched with interest, waiting for the reckless Imperial commander to obliterate his ship in the same spectacular way that had consumed so many of their fellows. The Khaid destroyers were already beginning to withdraw to a safe distance.

  * * *

  “Incoming comm,” Chu-i Pucatli blurted in surprise. “Flash traffic from the Flag!”

  The corner of Koshō’s lip curled up. Her whole attention was devoted to gentling the battle-cruiser through the drifting shoals of threads as fast as Gretchen could pump navigational data into the threatwell. Holloway—the only officer now at loose ends on the bridge—was obliged to take the call and blanched to find himself face-to-face with a ragged-looking Imperial Prince in smoke-stained combat armor. A cluster of other faces peered over the Tlatocapilli’s shoulders, and none of them looked at all well.

  “Slow and take us aboard,” the Prince demanded. “I’m transmitting our coordinates now.”

  A winking dot appeared in the threatwell, drifting steadily towards an effusion of threads.

  “We’re maneuvering to intercept you.…” Xochitl continued, pausing to wipe his forehead. He was sweating profusely.

  “No!” Holloway turned, staring hopelessly at his captain. “Chu-sa … it’s the Gensui! He’s on that evac—”

  “Tell him to stop and wait.” Koshō’s patience had long since reached its limit. In her hands the battle-cruiser jerked and jumped from side to side, swerving around individual threads. Her nerves were stretched tight, tensed for the instant when she missed one of the deadly filaments and the Naniwa squealed in agony as armor and shipskin parted before an unbreakable razor. “Thai-i, if you can devise a way to bring them aboard at speed—I’m open to suggestions—but I am not slowing down. Not for him.”

  THE WILFUL

  Well away from the Khaid squadron concentrated at the Pinhole, the little freighter went about her salvage work. She loitered amongst the dust clouds, letting the dim violet glow wash over her, while the passive sensors on the hull boom listened hopefully for the sound of Imperial distress beacons, or the drive signatures of shuttles or other Fleet boats.

  On deck two, the pair of Fleet ratings arrived at the medical closet, their companion unconscious between them. Captain De Molay was standing at the entrance to the medbay, one hand clutching the edge of the platform, the other resting on the grip of her Bulldog. Her pallor matched theirs, though she was in better color than the man who’d lost his foot.

  “Stop right there, Sho-i.”

  All of the Falchion crewmen halted, their eyes fixed on the remarkably steady muzzle of the Webley. The ensign managed a “Hai, kyo!” and the start of a salute. The other Joto-hei just stared, struggling to support the wounded man.

  “At ease, gentlemen,” she said, lowering the pistol. “And raise your faceplates. I’m breathing decent air. Let your recyclers take a rest—you may need them again! I’m not going to shoot you. At least, not yet.”

  The two able-bodied men opened their helmets. Together, they hoisted the wounded sailor into the med-bay, though his limbs were limp and difficult to manage. De Molay examined the severed foot, which was tightly bound in someone’s shirt. The fabric was caked with blood. Her lips drew into a tight, pale line. “Has this man had treatment?” Her sharp gray eyes raked over each of them in turn.

  “Only the tourniquet,” the Sho-i said wearily. “I lost my medpack and trauma kit when we blew atmosphere. There were only the most minimal supplies on the shuttle.…”

  “You’re a medic, then?” De Molay took the opportunity to slide to the floor, breathing fast, and get her back to the wall. “Your name, please.”

  “Hai, kyo. I’m Ensign Galliand, gun-i from the Falchion and this is Gunner’s Mate Tadohao.”

  “Well met, gentlemen,” she said, then gestured weakly at the med closet controls. “Do what you can for him.…”

  Galliand wiped his face, which was caked with soot and sweat, then began unsealing the injured man’s z-suit. Tadohao joined in, holding the man steady. After a few moments, medpacks were secured to the damaged leg and their status lights were winking amber. The corpsman paused again, using some antiseptic towelettes from the bay to clean his hands and the rest of his face. Tadohao didn’t seem to mind the grime, hunkering down beside De Molay with his head in his hands.

  “I am Captain De Molay,” the old woman said. “Your z-suits are severely damaged. The Falchion was destroyed?”

  Galliand nodded. “She’s gone, kyo. We were in the throughway between the forward magazines and the gun-deck—Tado and I were clearing out some men wounded when one of the launch rails jammed with a sprint missile in the tube. No one noticed it had hung fire, and then the weapon blew—taking out the whole rail and an adjacent compartment. Then we got hit by something big and the throughway was engulfed in flame. The Thai-i dragged us out—I must have been unconscious for a bit—but we made it to a cargo shuttle.” He shook his head, only just beginning to grasp what had happened. “Risen Christ, that was close!”

  De Molay nodded, and then patted Tadohao on the shoulder. “Joto-hei, can you help an old woman stand up?”

  Both men moved to assist her, and the freighter captain took a moment to look them over carefully.

  “You need new z-suits. If you look through the cabins on this deck, you’ll find something that fits—but hurry. Sho-i, I need you to prep this whole area for multiple injuries and the swiftest triage you can manage. I believe there are more paks for the cabinet in those bins down there. We will be recovering more evac capsules and who knows how many more wounded.”

  Galliand nodded and began stripping off his z-suit, which started to disintegrate as soon as he released the seal. De Molay dug in the pockets of her jacket, finding a threesquare. She broke the peanut-flavored ration bar in half, giving each of them a section.

  “Now, Sho-i, I need Tadohao’s help to get up to Command, but I will send him back to you as quick as I can. I am certain you’ll have great use for him soon.”

  “Hai, kyo!” Both men nodded in agreement, chewing noisily. De Molay leaned heavily on the Iroquois Joto-hei and took a moment to get the worst of her hair tucked back and the Bulldog stowed inside her jacket. “Your Thai-i and my new XO need us, Tadohao, before they both need the medbay!”

  * * *

  Meanwhile, Hadeishi had managed to chivvy Tocoztic and the marine up to the tiny bridge, where they stared around uneasily. The Nisei could tell they were put off by the ancient-seeming equipment, the cramped quarters, and the grime apparent on often-used surfaces. It takes time to see her noble heart, Mitsuharu thought to himself. For she is a willing steed, and does not complain of the load.

  “This is a small ship,” he said aloud, drawing their attention back to him, “compared to your Falchion, but you will find her able. Do not underestimate the quality of the
ship’s fittings. Though not much to look upon, she is neither antique nor decayed. All critical components are in first-rate condition. I will wager they are the equal of anything found in the Fleet. Thai-i.” Hadeishi pointed to the pilot’s chair with the muzzle of his shipgun. “Your duty station.”

  Expressionless, the Méxica officer sat. Immediately he began wiggling around, trying to find a comfortable spot on the old, cracked leather.

  “Marines?” Hadeishi tilted his head towards the little Nitto-hei, who—despite the Nisei’s paltry height—was still shorter, though nearly as wide as the doorframe. “Cajeme, I believe?”

  “Hai, kyo.” The marine clasped his hands behind his back for a moment, then—glancing sidelong at the lieutenant, who was grimacing at the Pilot’s controls—offered Hadeishi a proper salute.

  Mitsuharu returned the gesture, trying to keep from bursting into a wide smile. The little man’s accent had confirmed his guess—Out of the Atoyaatl Mayo, if my ear is still good.

  “What was your duty station, Nitto-hei Cajeme? Your badging reminds me of the engineers.”

  “This and that—Chu-Sa.” The Yaqui shrugged.

  “You can be specific. I’ve been below-decks of late, plugging boilers and shoveling coal.”

  The marine drew himself up. “Repair hand first class, kyo.”

  Hadeishi nodded smartly. “There is much to do, Nitto-hei. If one of your fellows is able-bodied, round him up on the way to Engineering. I’ve shut off environmentals in nearly all the compartments, but we’ll start flushing in atmosphere as you work. Khaiden dead go out the airlock—but strip their gear first, even z-suits if they are operable condition. We don’t want to give up anything which might be useful later—guns, ammunition, identity packets, even shoes. Secure what you find along the main shipcore until someone can do inventory. If we are fortunate, there will soon be other hands to help you.”

  Mitsuharu tapped a printed map of the ship tacked up on the bridge hatch. “Medbay is one deck down from the roundabout outside, and to port-side.”

  Cajeme nodded, checked the equipment belt on his z-suit, accepted a spare hand-lamp, and double-timed out the hatch.

  His immediate concerns addressed, Hadeishi turned his attention back to Thai-i Tocoztic, who had swung his pilot’s chair around and was giving him a sullen, obstinate glare. The Nisei affected to ignore this, pointing with his chin at the navigational display. “Check the plot, Thai-i. There were twenty or thirty evac capsules within range of our sensors when last I looked. Route us to the nearest—but take care with our engine signature. We should be underway at the first opportunity, but we want no attention.”

  “I won’t take your orders, civilian,” Tocoztic declared, eyeing the shipgun angrily. “Certainly not under duress. Never at gunpoint!”

  “I am not a civilian,” Hadeishi said calmly, keying up the internal surveillance cameras on the captain’s console with his free hand. A mosaic of v-panes arranged themselves and he could see the wounded man was under care in the medbay. De Molay—and a helper—were on the move.

  He then settled his grip on the shipgun and met the young Méxica officer’s eyes directly. “I am a Fleet reserve officer of superior rank,” Mitsuharu said patiently. “Commanding this ship in a theater of war. Now that you are aboard, Thai-i, you will take my orders or I will consider you mutinous.” He frowned at Tocoztic. “And I would be well within Regs to shoot you for a treacherous and disloyal dog if you continue to be obstinate.”

  The youth’s face assumed a mulish expression. “You can’t be a reserve officer—”

  Mitsuharu reached into the document pocket of his z-suit and then paused; realizing he’d discarded every trace of his old life while languishing in Shinedo. He laughed softly. “I am—”

  “Hadeishi, Mitsuharu; captain of the Imperial Méxica Navy,” croaked De Molay from the hatchway. Both men turned. The old woman was leaning heavily on Joto-hei Tadohao, but still had both feet under her. “Late of the IMN CL-341 Henry R. Cornuelle, discharged from active duty four months ago. Service ID 9874662. Decorated three times for valor under fire, credited with eleven capital-ship kills against Khaid, Megair, pirate, and Kroomākh opponents.”

  Wincing, De Molay slumped into the navigator’s chair next to the lieutenant. “Here”—she said, rather breathless from the effort, tossing Tocoztic an identicard packet—“are his papers.”

  The Thai-i caught them, flinching as though from a water moccasin, and stared at the Fleet packet as though the snake itself were winding its coils around his hand. “A forgery—” he started to say.

  “Read them!” De Molay growled, before leaning back in the chair with a relieved sigh. “I have—they are quite interesting. Particularly his duty jacket.”

  Tocoztic made a sour face, but began paging through the packet, brows furrowed over dark eyes. While the youth convinced himself, Hadeishi studied the mosaic of v-panes from the cameras. Cajeme had made his way halfway down the shipcore, taking apparent delight in stripping the Khaid bodies, but he was alone. Mitsuharu looked up, catching the old woman’s eye.

  “Another hand is needed with the cleanup. Can you spare your assistant, Captain?”

  “Indeed. Thank you for your help, Nitto-hei.” She crooked a finger at Hadeishi. “There’s no point in wasting time making this gunner play pilot. I was a navigator in the old days; I can lay a plot for you better than he—with my own ship, no less!”

  “He needs something to do, Captain, and he needs to be up here.” Where I can keep an eye on him, went unsaid.

  “Second seat then,” sniffed De Molay. She made a puckered, terrible face, as though sucking on a salted tamarind. “You’ll be useless yourself unless you’ve my spot—I knew it from the first.”

  “Well then,” Mitsuharu said, settling himself into the captain’s chair. “We are certainly overqualified on this watch, aren’t we?”

  De Molay nodded, head held high. Her fingers were not as quick on the controls as they once had been, but in a few moments the navigational displays were reconfigured into a pattern closely approximating those used by the Fleet. Hadeishi clapped his hands, unexpectedly pleased to have all of the v-panes, slide controls, and other mechanisms in their familiar places.

  “Thank you,” the old woman said, sketching a bow from her seat. “Now there’s one thing more you’re missing, I believe.” She tapped through a series of obscure panes, hunting for something, and then, after changing this and that, the air forward of the captain’s chair and behind the pilot and navigation stations shimmered with the distinctive heat-haze of a holocast projector. After several false starts, De Molay—frustrated by her inability to remember where the proper settings were—conjured up a threatwell. Not a large one, or as detailed as the data collection allowed by a warship, but a threatwell nonetheless.

  “Excellent.” Hadeishi smiled in thanks. Then he leaned forward a bit, studying the display, while rolling a stylus between the fingers of his left hand.

  “How about this one? Not too far away,” he said. “This heat signature implies a cooling plasma cloud, if the color coding is accurate.”

  “This analysis program is at least as good as anything you’ve ever worked with, Chu-sa.” The old woman’s voice was aggrieved. “But one lifeboat is as good as the next. Engaging drives on your mark.”

  “Underway then, Pilot.”

  The Wilful’s maneuver drive flared briefly, and then the secondary thrusters kicked in, reorienting the freighter. On their new heading, the little ship glided forward into the darkness, hurrying towards its next rescue.

  THE NANIWA

  Once the battle-cruiser had entered the Pinhole proper, Koshō was tempted to put on more speed. Unfortunately, only a thousand kilometers into the aperture the topology of the threads grew more complex, and she was forced to cut speed to three-quarters. This ended the brief respite from Khaiden bombardment. Fusion detonations began to flare around them, scattering the clouds of chaff which Konev and his crews had
been liberally ejecting to mask their position. The scavenged remotes had been expended on their approach, so the Naniwa was back to her own resources.

  The space-frame shook, rattling the consoles in Command, as a series of bomb-pods blew apart off their ventral quarter. The Khaid battleships were refining their firing solutions. Compartment alarms sounded, but Susan had no attention to spare for them.

  “Chu-sa, we’ve about three hundred sixty sprint-class contacts incoming,” Konev warned.

  “Understood,” Koshō gritted out through clenched teeth. She cast about in the topology rushing towards her, looking for a pocket she could lay the battle-cruiser into. Nothing sprang into view.…

  “Chu-sa! We have to try and rescue the Prince!” Holloway had muted the comm channel, but his voice was near panic at the thought of abandoning the most superior officer he’d ever come into contact with.

  “Sixty-five seconds to missile storm impact,” Konev announced, his voice flat. The weapons officer’s fingers were flying across his control surface. “All point-defense engaged.”

  “Weapons, rolling aspect in thirty-five seconds.” That’ll bring the dorsal batteries into play.

  “Hai, kyo!”

  Susan spared a glance for Holloway. “I won’t lift a finger for the Prince, not if it places my crew and ship in danger—he won’t be the first great lord of the Méxica to die gloriously in battle.” Koshō managed a tight, wintry grin as her fingers danced lightly on the control console. The threatwell was now fairly choked with gleaming strands of Barrier threads, yet the “passageway” had not completely closed. A fresh plume of the invisible razors now emerged from the chaotic storm on the sensors. The constant detonations of Khaid missiles were fouling the ship’s perceptions, and the Naniwa had lost enough shipskin to seriously degrade her capabilities in the best of circumstances.