Land of the Dead

by Thomas Harlan

  “The Goddess watches over the patient,” Mitsuharu said to himself. His stylus tapped rapidly on the console, setting a new course. He frowned as the nav comp calculated the intercept, as the resulting numbers were not good. This gives us a very poor angle of approach. We need to trim that up.

  De Molay opened one eye as the timbre of the Wilful’s vibration changed, the maneuver drives going into their pre-ignition sequence. “And now?”

  “We need to pick up some velocity, Sencho. How high can I push these engines?”

  Both of the old woman’s eyes opened. “Are you mad? If you go to maximum burn, the Khaid will pick us up on long-range scan.”

  “I know.” Hadeishi offered her a lopsided smile. “I want one of their light cruisers to come looking for us—or at least change their course enough to scan our area.” He paused, thinking. “The absorptive mode will work again, correct? It wasn’t a one-time getaway device?”

  “Yes,” De Molay said, sounding wary, “it will work again.…”

  “And unless a Khaid camera is pointed directly at us as we occlude the star field—which is luckily very sparse here—or move across one of the more excited dust clouds, their sensors won’t pick us up?”

  “That is the idea.” An acerbic tone crept into her voice.

  Mitsuharu stood up, straightened his battered leather jacket, and gave her a very proper bow. “Then we’ve a great deal of work to do. Thank you, Sencho.”

  * * *

  Several hours later, Hadeishi climbed awkwardly up one of the gangways to the command deck, having trouble adjusting to the restricted field of vision and clumsy weight of his new armor. The bandolier of grenades strapped across his chest and the bulky Yilan-class shipgun over his shoulder banged against him with every movement. Maybe, he thought—a little late—this wasn’t a good idea.

  Clomping in his heavy boots, the Nisei made his way onto the bridge and fetched up beside Tocoztic’s station at Navigation. The Thai-i looked up at the sound, about to snarl something rude, and yelped in alarm. Trying to leap backward while snatching out his service sidearm earned the lieutenant a hard collision with the second chair, a bruise, and a seat on the deck.

  “Resume your station, Thai-i. I am no Khaid.” Mitsuharu opened the visor of the salvaged combat armor to expose his features. His face seemed a little small inside a helmet designed for the larger Khaidite cranium and jaw, but the foundation of the suit itself was composed of a gel similar to that used by the Fleet, and had sized itself to his frame as best it could. The chitin plates riding on the gelcore were now awkwardly distributed, but he hoped they’d still serve.

  Tocoztic recovered himself smartly, climbing up from the floor with a doughty, “Hai, Chu-sa!”

  “Status of that light cruiser, Thai-i?”

  “Still holding course, dead on for the end of our burn, kyo.”

  “Hm.” Hadeishi frowned, turning to the holocast to check their vector.

  De Molay, working on a thermos of tea, raised an eyebrow at the Nisei officer. “I thought you wanted them to come hunting for you?”

  “I want them to come—look—find nothing—and return to their initial patrol pattern.” He tugged a stylus from the holder at the edge of the Navigator’s console and sketched out a trajectory in the air. “Like so. Then, when we overlap course here—roughly—we’ll match velocity for nearly thirteen minutes.”

  Mitsuharu looked over at the old woman, his face filled with speculation. “Unless … can your absorptive mode swallow our engine flare as well?”

  “No, it cannot!” De Molay sat up, wincing at the pain in her side. “It is a passive system, as you can well guess. It is not a weapon, but a defense.”

  Hadeishi laughed, brightening for a moment. “We will make do, Sencho.”

  Feeling well enough to stand, the old woman limped over to him and examined the Khaid armor from top to bottom, testing the dark black-and-green fittings and running a fingertip along the tight, blocky lettering on the upper arms. Nodding in approval, she said, “You make a fine raider, Chu-sa Hadeishi. I think you’ve been in the wrong business all along!” Then her face grew more serious. “How many are you taking in with you?”

  “I leave you our esteemed Thai-i here as pilot,” he said, “plus two in Engineering and Galliand in medbay. But not Cajeme, he’s in the first team with me.”

  De Molay’s expression darkened and she rapped him sharply on the arm, making the chitinous armor ring hollowly. “That would be fifty-five men sent to their deaths, Chu-sa, if your calculations are wrong.”

  “Wilful carries no missiles, no guns, Sencho. We cannot overcome this Khaid from a safe distance. We must do this the hard way, as your ancestors did in the old days.” He flashed a brief smile. “And so we need at least eight minutes at zero-delta, but thirteen would be better.”

  “We could abandon this place, take these men to the nearest Fleet depot.” The old woman’s voice was beginning to sound tired. Her fingers tightened on his arm. “Saving some would be better than losing all, would it not?”

  Hadeishi shook his head. “These men and women are Fleet, Sencho. It is not in them to flee the battlefield when their comrades can still be saved, or when they can still strike out at our enemies.”

  Then he carried her back to the shockchair, and the Thai-i helped him tuck her into the blankets.

  * * *

  “Ten minutes to intercept.” Tocoztic’s voice echoed in Mitsuharu’s earbug. Within the Wilful’s port cargo-bay, ship-comm was still working. The Chu-sa had the Khaid radio in his armor working as well, which let him hear the rasping breath and muttering of every man and woman crowded into the bay with him. The alien armor was lacking any number of features—no personal vitals, no med-band-style dispensers—but it would hold pressure, the chitin-scale armor was tough, and the maneuvering jets had propellant. No complaints.

  “All teams, equipment check,” Hadeishi announced, rotating to the crewmen who’d drawn Team One duty with him. There were five—Cajeme and his two assistants, who were heavily laden with demolitions packs and a pair of magnetic rams—then a marine for security, and the junior comm officer from the Eldredge, who had survived the destruction of her ship by an utter miracle, and was kitted out with the most powerful field comp they could salvage from the Wilful and a satchel filled with tools, spare parts, and data crystals. Mitsuharu ran through a careful check of Cajeme’s z-suit and his demolition packs. “Can’t have you lose air while we’re working, Nitto-hei. You might drop something that makes a loud bang.”

  The Yaqui’s leathery face remained impassive as he waited, but his nut brown eyes were sparkling. “The Chu-sa relates an excellent joke, kyo. Knowing how difficult it is to drop things in z-g.”

  “Eight minutes.” The Thai-i’s voice was growing tenser by the second.

  “All teams, sound off by section,” Mitsuharu ordered as Cajeme finished checking the Chu-sa’s armor. Team Two was also six men—two engineer’s mates and the rest of the blasting plastic, along with a portable monofilament saw from the Wilful’s shop and a plasma cutter carried by two more able-bodied men—then another two marines with salvaged Khaid grenade launchers. Team Three was next—eighteen men in the heaviest armor and shipguns, either Fleet or Khaid, they could scrape together—and then Team Four, the cleanup crew, which comprised the remaining twenty-five. These men were armed, in some cases with no more than their personal sidearms.

  “Six minutes, kyo. Target is holding steady course.”

  Hadeishi nodded to Cajeme and the junior comm officer. “Load up.”

  Cajeme and his cutters swung up into the first tray on the cargo gantry. Hadeishi and the comm officer followed, spacing themselves equidistant across the second tray, with the marine to her left.

  I’ll miss our little talks, De Molay’s voice came in his earbug, when you’ve had your guts pulverized on the side of that ship.

  Mitsuharu clicked his teeth, switching channels. “The cruiser’s still off-vector?”r />
  By a point and a half. The freighter captain’s voice was very dry. You’ll only have three minutes and you won’t be coming in at a right angle.

  “As long as our velocities match, we’ll be fine.” Hadeishi felt his blood quicken, his vision sharpen, everything begin to grow preternaturally clear. “Just keep a steady hand on the tiller, Sencho.”

  “Five minutes.” Tocoztic’s voice had settled, becoming hard and flat. “We’re in their wake. Powering up the gantries.”

  A set of rails embedded in the roof and floor of the cargo bay rattled to life, warning lights blinking and their motors whining. Team One was on the ventral rail, crouching in their successive loading trays—each a large, X-shaped rectangle a few centimeters larger than an Imperial-standard cargo pod. Team Two had already secured themselves to the second tray—and directly “below” them the rest of the teams were swarming into the second rail.

  We’re in the drive-plume full-on, De Molay reported, though Mitsuharu could already hear a roar of background static on the Khaid radio as the exhaust of the Khaiden ship’s antimatter drive washed over the Wilful’s hull. Three minutes and we’re popping out like an appleseed. Primary hull temperature is soaring and we’re getting radiation damage to the secondary.

  “All teams, secure yourselves!” Hadeishi craned his neck, eyeballing everyone. He secured his tether to Cajeme, who was already linked to the others. “Three minutes, thirty seconds to the bay doors, four minutes to contact!”

  Time dragged as Mitsuharu breathed slowly and steadily through each nostril in succession, steadying his heartbeat. The radio circuit was filled with tiny noises—men praying under their breath, the rasp of someone with smoke-damaged lungs, the tic-tic-tic of someone nervously clicking their teeth together.

  * * *

  Musashi’s sandals slid on black sand, the whole slope under his feet breaking free and cascading down towards the beach. Behind him, the jagged crown of Suribachiyama loomed up against a darkening sky, filled with the outriders of the taifun blowing up out of the Western Ocean. This time the trusty bokutō had shattered on whale-bone armor, leaving him with nothing. He tossed the splintered rattan away, keeping his balance with a shift of his hips. The beach itself was hard and flat, the sand gleaming wet as the tide ran out. Heke and his retinue were waiting, weapons drawn, some of the younger men leveling muskets at the ronin.

  “Nowhere to run, Pākehā,” the chieftain shouted, his tattooed face twisting with anger. “Put down your sticks and take up a man’s blade!”

  One of the other Maori overhanded a bolo at Musashi, which he caught from the air with a twisting motion. The long, flat steel blade felt tremendously heavy in his hands—far heavier than any katana. Then Heke and his men came on at a run, their war-cries booming against the counterpoint of the surf.

  * * *

  “One minute, thirty seconds, Chu-sa.” Tocoztic announced, his voice barely a whisper. “Maneuvering burn—now!”

  The ship quivered, the motion magnified by the cargo-rails, and Hadeishi felt the engines tick up to barely a g of acceleration. The momentary burst, he hoped, would be obscured by the Khaid ship’s own engine flare. The immediate roar of static faded slightly as the little freighter slipped out of the drive plume.

  “Cycling bay doors,” the Thai-i announced. Warning lights along the sides of the fifteen-meter-wide cargo doors flared to life as the motors kicked in. An audible alarm blared in their ears. “Vector match in—wait one, wait one.”

  Hadeishi stiffened, suddenly wild to see the navigation plot and the holocast. The bay doors rolled aside, revealing the glare of the Khaid ship’s drive plume falling away above them.

  She’s lit off her own maneuvering burn, De Molay snapped, her voice tight. She’s preparing to roll aspect and change direction. But we don’t know which way—

  “He’s turning a dog-leg, doubling back on his trail.” Mitsuharu’s blood was singing. “This one alternates in thirds—he’s going to swing to port, Sencho, to port. Match course and give me thirty percent power for seventeen seconds, then snap the gantries and we’ll take it from there.”

  You are mad.

  “Do it!” Hadeishi reached down and unsnapped his tether from the cargo tray. “All teams! Release your tethers. The Khaid ship is rolling aspect and we need to match v on her. No step-through, repeat no step-through. We’re going to make contact in free flight.”

  There was a flurry of activity, but the Nisei officer had already turned to watch the bay doors thud back into the hull. A vast expanse of boiling dust and hidden, gleaming stars opened before him, swallowing all sight and vision. The beauty of the kuub—the intricate traceries of debris plumes and the shining coronas of distant stars—poured in, filling the cargo bay with a hot jeweled light.

  The appearance of the black shape of the Khaid ship was an abrupt jolt as the Wilful went into a hard burn herself. It loomed up suddenly, still in the middle of its own maneuver, the drive-plume blazing like a rising sun off to starboard as the massive ship turned inside their own course.

  “Velocities match!” Tocoztic and De Molay’s voices overlapped. “Gantries away!”

  Rail one slammed forward, safety interlocks disengaged, and Mitsuharu and his two crewmen were suddenly blown out of the side of the freighter as the tray slammed into the end of the rail and flipped down and out of the way. The successive trays on the gantry banged away, one every three seconds. Clouds of men hurtled across the void between the two ships, suddenly enveloped in a coruscating radiance.

  The Khaid light cruiser continued her burn, the hull swelling before them like a basalt cliff, a jagged landscape of thermocouple fins, airlocks, gun emplacements … Hadeishi’s eye grasped her outline in a flash and exulted. His intuition had been right, the drive signature confirmed.

  “She’s an old Spear-class cruiser,” he barked on both channels, hands light on his suit propellant controls. “Cargo locks are dorsal mount, to our right and high. All hands, maneuver on my mark. Mark!”

  Mitsuharu angled to the right, jets hissing, and the black wall came rushing on. Even without a suit-comp to feed him intercept times and distances, his eye was keen enough to gauge the right moment.

  “Team one, braking!” He blew the last of his propellant, but even this was not enough to avoid slamming hard into the shipskin of the old Spear. The junior comm officer hit next, then the marine. Off to their left, Cajeme and his team had done a better job, touching down at almost zero delta. “Team One is down, repeat Team One is down.”

  Hadeishi staggered up, letting his boots adhere to the shipskin. The marine was cursing, his right arm injured, and the comm officer was just clinging in panic to the hull with both hands and feet.

  “Up you get, Sho-i,” Mitsuharu growled, seizing her by the shoulder. The ensign yelped but got her feet beneath her. “Joto-hei, are you mobile? We’ve thirty seconds to get inside.”

  The marine nodded, his face parchment-pale behind his helmet visor. “Good to go, kyo!”

  The hull shivered under Hadeishi’s feet and he moved left, a lanyard snapped to the Sho-i’s belt, another cast to the marine. Cajeme had already scuttled towards them, sparing only seconds for himself before the demo plastic he’d slapped down around the periphery of a maintenance hatch offset from the set of massive cargo doors blew—a hard white flash stabbing at their eyes, sending everyone’s visor polarized—and the shipskin peeled away from the edges of the portal. A pair of remote-controlled antipersonnel guns had also taken the brunt of the explosion, and their short, stubby barrels were now pointed off at the distant stars.

  “Team One, go!” Mitsuharu was at the side of the two crewmen with the magnetic rams as they slammed them into place at the edge of the hatchway, where the locking bolts were now exposed. Each ram consisted of a half-circle of molybdenum-steel wrapped around the magnet array and a fusion-pumped capacitor. The crewmen snapped the adhesion arm into place, stamped down on the locking mechanism to fix the rams to the shipskin an
d then—bracing themselves—triggered the two devices on a count of “And one!”

  Hadeishi’s radio squealed, flooded with radiation, and the bolts tore free. Chunks of metal spalled away, spiraling off into the void. The crewmen cranked back the rams, peeling away the hatch.

  “Team Two, go!” The engineers’ mates with the blasting plastic swarmed into the hole, their tethers taut in the hands of the men behind them. Mitsuharu spared a glance for the comm officer, seeing she still had hold of her comp and the data-crystals. The marine was right at her side, shipgun at the ready, his face a blur of sweat. The two engineers popped back out of the hatch, shouting “Clear!”

  A jet of plasma erupted from the hatchway, boiling the shattered edges and licking out thirty or forty meters into the jewel-hot sky.

  You’ve got company coming, De Molay suddenly announced in his earbug. We’re getting a storm of chatter on that circuit you pirated.

  “Team Three, go!” Mitsuharu rotated in a quick circle, picking out the rest of his men, spread out across the hull. “Cargo doors first, then punch through to the shipcore.” He clapped a hand on the Sho-i’s shoulder. “We need to get Ensign Lovelace as far into the hull as we can!”

  Then he toggled the throatmike channel. “Get out of here, Sencho; they can’t miss seeing you now.”

  We’ll hold on just a little longer. I have an idea, but you’ve got to get clear of the outer hull.

  Hadeishi’s heart skipped, catching a wild tone in the freighter captain’s voice. “You have to leave my ship in one piece, too, Sencho.”

  De Molay laughed and at this short distance, he could see the black outline of the Wilful rotate on her maneuvering jets, swinging the main drives ’round to face him. Marines were dropping through the hatch as fast as they could, but Mitsuharu was suddenly certain they wouldn’t all get through before De Molay lit off her drives.

  “One hundred eighty-six seconds to get them all inside,” squeaked a tiny voice at close range. Hadeishi looked down, seeing Lovelace crouched on the hull, her satchel clutched to her chest and one hand gripping a twisted piece of metal. Her eyes were huge and he suddenly realized she was susceptible to vertigo. “Three seconds for a marine, five seconds for a crewman.”