by Jean Johnson
Those missiles and their accompanying streaks of light did, however, tear into the tents and container structures, puncturing holes and venting the air each contained. She hadn’t given orders preventing the Army from taking out whatever they could of the frogtopusses in their way. Mostly, some of the metal-wrapped missiles made it through only to explode in golden puffs rather than in dark smoke and bright fire. The rest destroyed random targets as real missiles would.
“You’re bombing the enemy with . . . with passion-moss spores?” Tumseh asked her, one brow quirked in confusion. “They’re not Dabinian animals, General. They won’t go into a mating frenzy. Frankly, given the viciousness I’ve heard about Salik females compared to the relatively calm temperaments of their males, I would not be inclined to make them sex-change in the middle of a war.”
“Have you ever fed onions to a dog or a cat?” Ia asked him, ignoring his quip about the quirks in Salik biology.
“What? No!” the brigadier general denied harshly. “That’d kill the poor animal—not even Ginger would’ve deserved that. Shooting her was a bit extreme, but at least it was a quick death. So to speak, since you can’t actually kill the silvery bastards,” he added under his breath. “Onions would be a slow and painful death in even modest amounts, and no animal, no sentient deserves that.”
“Precisely. Onions contain a compound called . . . thiosulfate, if I remember right,” Ia said, eyes still on the screens. One of them jolted and fuzzed with static, going dark as the hidden drone became a casualty of random battle shrapnel. The scanner techs sending them this feed switched to a different camera’s view. “It causes the blood cells to burst. Symptoms include lethargy, breathlessness, diarrhea, vomiting, even paralysis of the extremities, particularly the legs . . . It can go away given enough care and time, but it can also build up in the system in small doses spaced out over a matter of days. Humans aren’t affected; we can eat all the onions we want. But not cats and dogs.
“The Salik possess hemoglobin-based blood, the same as we do, but in some ways they are more like cats and dogs. Their cell structures are a bit different, and the compounds in passion-moss spores are not exactly like thiosulfate . . . but they will have a similar effect after roughly two weeks of exposure. All we have to do is keep harassing them so they cannot maintain any airproof shelters. It won’t work on the Choya, who have hemocyanin-based blood,” she admitted lightly, “but then they aren’t here, and they won’t fight as tenaciously as the Salik. Thankfully, they will be slightly easier to drive off the other colonyworlds, once the frogtopi are forced to flee.”
“The Choya, yes, but not the . . .” Tumseh broke off, frowning at her. “Wait, are you planning on releasing Dabinian passion-moss spores on other worlds?”
Ia nodded slowly, still watching the combat chaos on the remaining screens. A second went abruptly dark. It, too, was replaced by a new surveillance angle. “They are indeed being released on other words as well, with passion moss grown and transported on a wide variety of ships and scheduled for release today. And yes, I do know I’ll have the various colonial environmental agencies screaming at me for it,” she murmured, flicking him a brief, wry look. “I accepted that stain on my soul years ago. But clearing passion moss out of an alien planet’s ecology will be a lot easier to deal with than what will happen if the Salik are allowed to remain on any of our worlds.
“We—and by we, I mean the Dabinians I contracted with to grow the stuff in sufficient quantities over the last few years—already know how to kill the moss quickly and cleanly—if tediously—with targeted counter-rhiozomes. Thankfully, the war will be over before the Salik can develop an effective counteragent of their own in any quantity large enough to do them any good. In the meantime . . . every breathable world they touch down on that isn’t theirs must be rendered unbreathable for them.”
“So you say,” Tumseh muttered, his tone disapproving and skeptical.
Swiveling her seat, Ia met his gaze evenly. “So I know, as an extremely high-ranked precognitive.” Returning her attention to the screens, Ia nodded at the chaos. “But that is a job for another day. The release of all these spores today, here and on other worlds, is only the start of the end, not the actual end. Today, you and I must focus on Dabin. Now that we have the Salik pushed back into eight main lobes, which bottlenecks would you recommend cutting through, to further disorient and isolate them, Tumseh?”
“It’ll depend on the Sharriah Valley sappers. Lieutenant Colonel Xenaria said she was going to try to tunnel through the east side of the camp as well as the west, but that depended on whether or not her engineers could get the two broken machines running again. I’m not a massive precog and cannot get instantaneous, reliable information on her movements,” he added dryly.
Ia twisted her mouth in a half smile. “Okay, I deserved that one. They’ll have made it halfway to the east by the time you can get some troops into position, and nine-tenths to the west. The northern tunnels are doing fine.”
Tapping a few controls, she switched the central image from passion moss in bloom to an overlay map of the broad valley in question. Green Army icons and red Salik markers indicated the current known placements for both forces. Programming the map to display an approximation of the sapper forces’ works far below the main Salik encampment, she zoomed out the view to show the approximate battle lines for that moment.
“Presuming they can step up the pace and get into range . . . these two lobes, this one, and the north ones. That’ll leave Sharriah with three main battlefronts still attached to the south and east. I’d want to cut off this one in the middle as well,” Tumseh stated, eyeing it in regret, “but there’s no way to do it without compromising the retreat zone for the sappers.”
“Just as well; the enemy will need an approach vector from orbit for the evacuation of their surviving forces,” Ia stated. “Since my crew destroyed a number of their hidden crèche stations, plus the big push to destroy their main base in the Helix Nebula last year, the Salik are slowly being forced to consider every adult warrior still alive as an asset to be preserved. It’ll only get worse by the end of the year.”
“Care to share with the rest of the class what you know, General?” Tumseh asked, giving her a sardonic look.
Ia shook her head. “Wish I could, but once I’m gone, you won’t be able to rely upon me anyway. You’ll have pockets of lingering Salik resistance to stamp out, and all those not-cats to hunt down. They won’t be as badly affected by the spores as their creators, but they’re still dangerous. Don’t leave them for the civilians to handle. You have far more resources and enough firepower for it than they ever will. And Brigadier General . . . your orders are to ship any prisoners off-world by the end of this year . . . and by the start of the new year, your orders are to kill all Salik found on this planet, whether or not they surrender. Kill, not capture.”
“Begging pardon, sir, but that isn’t exactly in concordance with Alliance sentientarian regulations. Mind you, I don’t think a second Interdicted Zone will work again. I’ll put some trust in you,” he murmured, studying her warily. “I’d do the same anyway about the Salik, kill them if we can’t kick them off-world, but . . . kill them even if they surrender?”
She held his gaze levelly. “You do not want to see what will happen if a second landing attempt succeeds on this world. You will not survive it . . . and you have my Prophetic Stamp on that, General. Consider it a strong incentive to round them all up and ship them off-world before New Year’s Terran Standard . . . and a standing order, Brigadier.”
Unsettled, he looked back at the images she was still monitoring. “I’d think making a big show about killing off the not-cats might help more toward repairing the Army’s reputation . . . but I will comply. Thank you, by the way,” he added dryly. “I can now see the day when we will kick the Salik off Dabin—preferably by New Year’s—and that means I can start planning to put my troops to work in
rebuilding the war-damaged buildings and infrastructures out there. I’m good at long-range strategic and logistics planning . . . but I suspect you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Ia nodded, pleased that he was able to see beyond the immediate applications of her suggestion and the distasteful horror of her order. He’ll do. I cannot be everywhere or do everything, but he’ll do in my stead.
JULY 24, 2498 T.S.
No one but Ia saw the V’Dan ships slipping into insystem space. Certainly not the Salik, not until it was too late. Plenty of people saw the explosions in the local predawn sky, however. Many of them were civilians, not just soldiers. Once again, Ramasa found himself busy at the comm station in the Olympic Ballroom, coordinating a stream of civilian inquiries with V’Dan battle reports being beamed their way as their interstellar allies smashed through the orbital blockade.
By Ia’s command, the Salik ground troops were permitted to board their drop ships in an attempt to leave. Any ship that fired at forces on the ground was ruthlessly shot down, of course, but the evacuation transports that didn’t attack were permitted to flee. Thankfully by this point, the men and women of the 1st Division 6th Cordon were willing to follow her commands even if they didn’t understand the point.
The point, cruel in the end as it is, she thought, face tilted up to the late-afternoon sky, is to give the Salik hope that they can regroup elsewhere long enough to recover and come back. That puts them in clumps that our various allies will more readily be able to destroy . . . once I convince them to do it.
Now, at the end of the long day that saw the Salik being forced firmly off-world, at a point in time just a few hours after the last alien transport had hastily departed the system, Ia lifted a hand to hold her cap in place as the winds stirred by the thrusters of the descending ships kicked up dust and stray blades of reddish local grass. The local college, Landing City University, had given them the use of their athletics fields for landing sites since the city’s spaceport had long since been abandoned, destroyed in various enemy attacks during the lengthy blockade. The local ground cover smelled somewhat like soap when cut, and vaguely like chlorophyll, but it was the sweet, burned-plexi smell of passion-moss spores that saturated the artificial wind whipping through the campus.
The LCU marching band had also been brought out for this moment, and civilians thronged the stands along one side of the fields, staying at a distance respectful of the huge orbital shuttles with their silvery ceristeel hulls and red Imperial logos. Ia and her crew, arrayed in their cleanest, neatest post-battle uniforms—some in Dress Grays, some in camouflage, whatever was available—stood on the edge of the football field. Behind them, forming a second, double wall of soldierly protection, stood troops from the Army. Over half of them were from Roghetti’s Company, who had more than earned this break from ground-based combat.
Between the civilians and the soldiers stood a knot of waiting government officials and a clutch of local reporters, hovercameras busy swooping over the crowds and the heads of the Army and Special Forces arrayed between them and the incoming ships. They did not fly any closer, though. As it was, Ia had placed her soldiers in the front with the order to keep everyone back from the V’Dan vessels. Thruster fields weren’t too dangerous at a distance of more than fifteen or so meters, but the orbital shuttles were large and heavy, with a slight chance that one or two might wobble out of formation. Thankfully, they didn’t, but it didn’t hurt to be prepared.
The moment the great whining rumble of the thrusters shut off, and the wind died down, the bandmaster raised his baton, beginning some triumphant-sounding piece with plenty of brass, wind instruments, and thumping drums. It was a short piece, just long enough to welcome the V’Dan as the ramps descended from the ships. The melody switched to the Imperial Anthem the moment a double line of V’Dan soldiers marched down each ramp, the officers clad in their formal red-and-gold uniforms, and the enlisted soldiers in reddish gold camouflage meant to blend in with the local foliage.
There weren’t many of them compared to the Terran presence, just a hundred or so, but it was enough to cause the crowd in the background to erupt into a great cheer. At their head, in a crisply cut coat decorated with extra thread-of-gold, strode the admiral of the large Fleet that had just cracked apart the blockade keeping Dabin from receiving any off-world support. He searched along the line of soldiers, checked the approaching knot of planetary officials, and headed for the same spot as the governor and his aides: the black-clad, medal-draped figure of Ia in her full Dress Blacks, centered in front of her carefully spaced troops.
Ia didn’t begrudge them those cheers for their V’Dan saviors. Morale was important for civilians, too. Being able to regain interstellar commerce and travel was vitally important to these people. They could use their own weapons against the Salik on the ground as civilian defenders—and many had—but could not attack anything above their skies. Even the men and women in the Army were cheering the arrival of the V’Dan since it was something they, too, hadn’t been able to change while stuck on the ground without insystem support.
Stopping a meter from Ia, Admiral Donsuu V’Chech lifted his hand to his brow in a very good approximation of the Terran salute. As the visiting officer of roughly equal rank, it was up to him to salute Ia, the incumbent officer, first. Since she was a Terran, it had been decided long ago by the protocol officers that the Terran salute should be used in such cases. Ia saluted him back while the band brought the V’Dan anthem to an end, then shifted her flattened hand into a fist, thumping it onto her chest in the V’Dan version. He returned her second salute with a smile for the courtesy.
“General Ia. His Eternal Majesty speaks highly of you, and the help you have already given the Empire,” the golden-skinned Human stated, his accent faint, but his vocabulary well educated in the trade tongue of the Alliance. He ignored the trio of cameras swirling around them, recording everything in three dimensions for broadcast. “I am deeply pleased to see you have helped our shared world with equal diligence during your time here. As sorry as they will be to see you go, it will be our pleasure to host you. I trust you will give the Imperial Fleet more of the same superlative aid as we transport your soldiers to their next destination?”
Clasping the hand he offered, Ia nodded. “You may assure His Eternal Majesty that I will continue to do my best for the V’Dan people, for they are as dear to me as the people of Dabin, my fellow Terrans, and all Alliance members. Please, let me make you known to the Governor of Dabin, Meioa Cole von Straschen,” she introduced, stepping sideways with a slight pivot to begin the local introductions. “Governor, this is Admiral Donsuu V’Chech of the V’Dan Imperial Fleet, head of the forces which have just driven off every Salik starship they can from your skies. Admiral, Governor Cole von Straschen of Joint Colonyworld Dabin.”
Letting the governor wring the admiral’s hand in enthusiasm as he began a speech for the hovercams, Ia stepped back two paces and gestured for Tumseh to join her. Unsnapping her jacket sleeve, she opened her arm unit and tapped in a few commands. Under the cover of the more formal greetings going on, she addressed the green-clad man at her side, keeping her voice low.
“Brigadier General Michel Tumseh, at this moment in time, I am formally handing over the full command of the 1st Division 6th Cordon Army and all its subordinate and ancillary ranks into your command, and I am attaching your chain of command to Major General Louise Xenadra. She may reassess and reassign you, but it will be at her discretion from this point forward.”
“General, yes, sir,” he agreed, saluting her. “I accept full command of the Terran Army’s 1st Division 6th Cordon, and will report to Major General Xenadra.”
She saluted him back, allowed him a chance to log the changeover on his own arm unit, then extracted a datachip from her unit to hand to him as a more tangible record of the matter. “Remember to heed the precognitive recommendations I have handed into your care, but take care t
o craft and carry out such plans as you believe will best serve the remaining war effort here on Dabin. Particularly be mindful of the safety and prosperity of the civilians of Dabin, whom you and your soldiers pledged to guard the moment you put on those uniforms.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” he confirmed briskly. “The Army will not fail you in our duty, sir.”
“Good.” Leaning in close, Ia added in a murmur, “You also owe every last Company in the 2nd Battalion, 2nd Brigade big for being willing to keep the fight going tonight on the remaining Salik forces stuck planet-side, so that the rest of us could enjoy this party tonight.”
Tumseh nodded firmly, grinning. “Sir, yes, sir. I’ve already started the paperwork for a Battalion-sized barbecue two days from now, when the rest go back to work.”
“Good. Speaking of which . . .” Turning back to the admiral and the governor, whose praise was finally winding down to an end, Ia gestured at the college gymnasium in the distance. “Gentlemeioas, I do believe the kindhearted staff and students of the LCU have arranged for a little victory celebration. We still have a lot of fighting left to do in the morning, and for several mornings to come . . . but for tonight, we celebrate the liberation of Joint Colonyworld Dabin.”
“Ia’nn sud-dha,” Admiral V’Chech agreed in his native tongue . . . and then paused, smiling ruefully at Ia. “As you will it, Prophet.”
Knowing she had more of that to put up with on the ride out of Dabin, Ia let it pass. She needed people to believe in her only as much as they needed to in order to heed her prophetic directives. The importance lay in the messages she could read in the shifting waters of Time. Turning crisply on her heel, she addressed the assembled troops. “Soldiers! Dismissed!”