by Chris Walley
“Yeah.” It came over as a grunt. “As expected. Recon party. Be grateful they aren’t carrying weapons. It’s going to be tough enough anyway.”
“Thanks.”
“Mr. V,” another team member said, in an agitated voice, “there’s a sentry on the Walderand Bridge. We could alert him, if we’re quick.”
Vero felt a sick twisting of his stomach.
The room fell silent and Vero realized everyone was looking at him. He closed his eyes. I had been hoping I would not face this. Lord, give me grace and wisdom. He made his decision. And forgiveness.
As he opened his eyes he was aware his hands were shaking. “I-I’m s-sorry w-we can’t do it. If they suspect, it would jeopardize everything. . . . H-he must take his chance.”
There were stiff nods and silence.
I wish Perena were here. Vero looked away from the screens in utter misery hoping that no one could see his face. How long does the sentry have to live? Ten minutes?
He caught sight of Azeras. His head was shaking softly, his eyes seeming to focus light-years away. Azeras suddenly looked up at Vero, and then beckoned him over.
Vero walked to him, his feet unsteady, and knelt at his side.
“It’s war,” Azeras whispered in his ear. Vero heard a roughness in his voice. “You have to make decisions like this some times. . . . I know. Oh, how I know. . . . But, Sentinel, you must keep on. Don’t let it shake you. Don’t freeze.” He gestured clumsily at the screen. “This has got to work. Okay? . . . Now get back to running the show.”
Vero shook himself and sat down. He’s been here; he knows what it’s like. He swallowed and gave an order to the team at the screens. “Make sure the team in the trapping hall are ready. They need to be silent soon. Tell them our visitors are on their way.”
A quarter of an hour later, they watched the Krallen pack race up a streambed leading to an old drainage tunnel beneath Isterrane.
Vero stared at them, noticing no diminution in the slightest in their speed. He also saw they were keeping to the left-hand side of the ditch. “Why are they doing that, Sarudar?
“To avoid leaving tracks. There’s no mud up there.”
I must remember that these things are smart.
They vanished off the screen and in seconds, a new image came up, of a large grille in a stone wall.
Vero, fascinated and appalled, stared as the six ranks of Krallen came to a sudden, disciplined, halt. Two cautiously paced forward, their heads moving this way and that as they examined the grille. Vero could make out the red pinpricks of their eyes. In a single sudden movement the remaining ten turned and faced outward in a defensive arc.
“Gotta admire them,” said a voice behind him and Vero turned to see who it was.
“Anya,” he said. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“I asked to be called when the incursion was definite.” Her eyes didn’t leave the screen.
“Are they as you expected?”
“Hmm. I hadn’t imagined them to be so fluid in their actions. And they look much more powerful than . . . our friend.” The existence of Betafor, who was safely locked away in a screened room under armed guard two floors below, remained a closely guarded secret.
On the screen the two Krallen twisted the screws on the grille. They have enormous strength in the fingers. I wonder if we’ve taken that into account.
The grille was lifted down. The other ten Krallen turned in a moment of perfect synchronization and ran inside the tunnel, leaving the other two to pull the grille carefully shut behind them. All twelve soon disappeared from sight.
Vero looked up at another wallscreen, which showed a schematic map of the upper levels. On it six pairs of red dots moved down a corridor.
All being well, they will turn left.
Everyone seemed to hold his or her breath.
The twelve dots swung left. “At this rate, less than a minute,” said someone.
Unless they realize it’s a trap.
On the screen the dots moved forward, turning successively right and left, but all the time gradually drawing nearer to a section of corridor marked in green.
The first red dots entered the green zone. “R-ready,” said Vero.
Suddenly, with ten of them inside the section, the line came to a halt.
“Uh-oh, they suspect something!” someone cried.
I must decide. Merral would do this better. “Now!” Vero snapped.
“Blast doors are down,” said a calm female voice.
On the screen, the green corridor was marked off at either end. Within it five pair of dots could be seen moving around rapidly.
“Cameras on,” said the same calm voice.
On the wall, half a dozen screens came on with six different images. It took a second or so for Vero to understand what they showed, but it was immediately clear that he had been only just in time in letting the blast doors drop.
Two Krallen were crushed beneath them. The remaining ten were trapped in the hundred-meter section and could be seen in pairs examining the walls and the single sealed side entrance.
Ten functional Krallen. But we haven’t caught them yet. “Open the adhesive vents.”
The screen showed jets of transparent fluid squirting onto the floor. Two Krallen were caught by the liquid and in seconds were writhing in a futile attempt to free their feet from the glistening floor. The remaining eight climbed the walls, somehow maintaining their hold on the almost smooth surface.
“I’m impressed,” Anya said.
“I warned you!” rasped Azeras. “They can get a grip on anything rougher than glass.”
Two Krallen moved to the vents and suddenly twisted and bent the pipes closed.
A doglike gray face with red glowing eyes approached one camera and peered into it. Metal fingers moved forward, joined together, stabbed forward, and the image died. One by one the four remaining cameras followed it into darkness.
Vero rose. “As expected. T-time to go to the trapping hall.”
Five minutes later, Vero stood on the balcony of what had once been a sports hall. The balcony had once been open, but Vero had had it covered in armored glass with a protective steel mesh overlay.
Two dozen large men waited below, their bulk enhanced by the prototype suits of new armor. Some held steel nets on poles, others a variety of weapons, including shotguns. Behind them was a door marked with ominous red stripes.
Vero slid open the balcony window.
“You have eight K-Krallen out there,” he said. “It’s not going to be easy. They may try and come out one at a time or you may have to go in and get them. Remember, if you have to, shoot them, but we want to do all we can to take them in a functional state. A l-lot of lives may depend on us getting this right.” He hesitated. “The Lamb be with you all.”
Hands rose in acknowledgment and then the men turned and lined up in a semicircle around the red door.
Vero closed the glass. “Open the door!”
The door slid sideways. Vero heard the sound of strange, eerie whistles like the wind blowing over open metal tubes.
Without warning two Krallen raced out.
Nets exploded over them. Two more Krallen bounded out, leaped high up in the air as if they were molten metal, then twisted in midair and dived at the men. As the men reeled back, the remaining four Krallen shot out, one pair going left against the wall, the other pair—with perfect symmetry—to the right.
There were shouts and yells and in seconds the floor of the hall was a chaotic melee of men, nets, and flying, tireless gray forms.
For long minutes, it seemed unclear to Vero whether or not the Krallen would be caught. It was only after ten minutes that he realized that they would indeed all be caught or disabled.
But it would be at a cost.
It took thirty minutes before the battle was over and the last Krallen, its claws stained with blood, was toppled from the ceiling by the fourth round from a sniper and wrapped in nets.
Slowl
y, painfully, Vero walked down to the floor of the hall and stood by the door, his hand braced against the wall for support.
On the far side, the last wounded man was taken away. Already some members of his team were starting to clear up the mess of intermingled blood and silvery Krallen fluid on the floor.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Perena. “P., what are you doing here?” he said.
“I heard from my sister that you had a bad night.” She looked around, her face pale. “It’s no Fallambet, but I gather it was pretty nasty.”
Her hand was still on his shoulder. Vero put his own hand over hers and returned to staring at the bloodied streaks on the floor.
“Two dead, six with major injuries. A dozen with cuts. And the sentry on the Walderand Bridge is missing, presumed dead.” He heard his voice sound muffled, as if it came through cloth. “I could have saved him.”
“What can I say? Would he blame you?” she asked. “Hardly. If he was a family man, and this does help save this world, then he might thank you.” He heard the strain in her voice.
“That sounds very rational—even cold.” He turned to see her face pinched and drawn. She caught his look and he saw an intense sorrow in her eyes.
“Vero, this is war. There are things that we must do, even though they break our hearts.”
“P-perhaps.”
She squeezed his hand, then let it go. “Now tell me about Krallen.”
“Ah. Well, we netted five fully functional ones. We have another five badly damaged ones. Two are crushed beyond repair.”
“Enough for Anya’s research. It paid off, Vero.”
“Did it?” Doubt laced his voice. I feel empty.
“It will pay off and you know it will.”
“P., I’m worried. We had casualties. And, as Merral might say, this one was a home match. Our men were armored.”
“And the armor worked?”
“Yes. Azeras’s guidance helped. And that’s a relief. We needed to test that, badly. But it needs improving. In the next few days we will refine it and lighten it. We may be able to use spun silica. Then we’ll start mass production.”
“So another plus point,” Perena said firmly. “And I’m pleased for you. I have sometimes worried about your ingenuity, but tonight it paid off. I think Merral will be pleased when—in due course—he learns about it.”
“Thanks, P. Thanks, more than I can say.” He paused. “But in this full-suppression complex there maybe another hundred thousand Krallen. We fought just eight in here tonight.”
There was a long pause. “Yes. We need to deal with that. And that won’t be easy.” She frowned and shook her head. “Not at all.” She gave him a thin, distant, little-girl smile. “But you need some sleep. It’s nearly three. We all have work to do.”
“Yes, Captain,” he said. “Thanks for coming.” Vero rubbed his tired eyes and, with weary steps, walked back to his chamber and fell instantly asleep.
The following afternoon, the dozen men and women who visited the Dove of Dawn returned to Isterrane. Shortly after landing they met with the contact team where they recounted their experiences and showed imagery of the parent ship. As Merral expected, they had found nothing untoward. They were shown whatever they wanted to see and, apparently, had been given honest answers to their questions. They had found nothing suspicious about either the parent ship or the shuttle. Neither showed signs of military hardware or any hint of concealed weapons.
As the meeting progressed Merral saw Perena had arrived and was standing at the back of the room. Afterward, Merral met with her in his office.
“So what do you think?” he asked.
“It’s civilian.”
“You are sure?”
“Pretty much. I’ve been looking at all the old ship architecture files and I have a good idea of what a military ship should look like. But this has a thin hull with no trace of armor, no evidence of long-range missile sensors, and no high-maneuver seating.”
“No possibility of anything hidden?”
“No. From what they report, there can’t be much room to hide anything.”
“Krallen?”
There was an odd flicker of a smile as if Perena knew something he didn’t. “Barely room for a pack I’d say according to the reports.”
“Just as well. And no steersman compartment?”
“No. They were vague on how they did Below-Space navigation though.”
“The propulsion system? Were they much help?”
Perena stroked a cheek thoughtfully. “What they apparently said made sense. But they avoided giving any detail that would allow us to make one.”
“Any other comments?”
“Our folk noted something that you reported about the vessel at Fallambet—it’s not as well made as our ships. Engineering tolerances aren’t as good. It’s a fascinating difference between us in almost everything. They seek to impose their will on a thing, while we work with it.” She tapped a finger on the desk. “We work with the grain; they go against it. Our materials science is very much better.”
“A fascinating insight, but is it helpful?”
There was a strange, half-amused glint in her eyes. “Oh, it may be.” But her tone dissuaded him from pursuing the matter.
“So what do you feel?” Merral asked. “About the ship and the ambassadors?”
She shook her head. “It’s poison, Merral. Sugarcoated poison. I pray the treaty will be rejected. But . . .” She frowned. “I think that the whole thing is subtler and deeper than we think.” She glanced away from him. “And maybe more dangerous.”
“There’s something else, isn’t there?”
“Yes.” Perena leaned back in her chair, put her hands behind her head, and looked at the ceiling. “Yes. Over the last week I’ve faced a crisis. It was . . . as if I was made an offer.”
“Go on.”
Perena stayed silent for many seconds, then spoke with a wistful intensity. “I felt I was offered the ability to travel between the stars, to go wherever in the cosmos I wanted, to be like an eagle—proud, free to soar wherever I chose.” She turned her gray-blue eyes on Merral, but they seemed to focus far beyond him. “You are an earthbound man, Forester, so forgive me. Perhaps what I describe is not a temptation for you.”
“No. But I sense its attraction. And I may have experienced something similar.”
“It was a temptation. As Jorgio foresaw, we’re all being tested. I rejected it, but it was not easy. I yielded my wings, Merral.” She gave a sad, nostalgic smile. “I said to the one who offered it me that I would rather be the Lord’s hen than his eagle.”
“So you passed the test.”
“I have passed a test,” she murmured and stared ahead with a look of foreboding. “But I sense another lies ahead.” She looked at her watch, then rose. Merral walked with her to the door.
“I may be out of touch from now on,” she said quietly and turned toward him. Suddenly Merral saw her as a slight, almost elfin figure, a delicate creature walking in the midst of terrible forces.
As if moved by some sudden impulse, she hugged Merral. “Take care,” she said, her voice suddenly thick with emotion.
“You are the best, Perena,” Merral replied, responding to something that he did not understand. “Promise me you’ll keep safe.”
“I’ll try.” Her smile was sorrowful. “But I have to do what’s right.” She raised a fine eyebrow. “And in the end, that’s safe.”
Later that day, the ambassadors announced without warning that there would be no further formal meetings until after a decision on a treaty had been made. The liaison program at Langerstrand base would continue, however, and the reports that filtered out spoke of lively debates and discussions between the parties.
Merral wondered what Isabella would think of it all and hoped that she might see through what was offered her. She’s no fool; she’ll recognize what’s going on. But a second thought came on its heels: Will she?
Merral
was glad that the meetings with the ambassadors were over. It removed the risk of them accusing him of honoring Lucas Ringell. It also gave him more time to deal with the appalling volume of work that the defense force now generated. Much of the new equipment and weaponry that had been ordered was starting to come into service and with it came issues of deployment and training. As discreetly as he could, Merral made decisions that would put the forces into the best possible positions should there be trouble immediately after the vote. Troops were dispersed, vessels fueled and made ready, all troops’ leave was canceled, and regiments were edged toward combat readiness.
Over the next few days, the tension slowly rose. Merral noticed a look of permanent and gloomy preoccupation on Corradon, who seemed to go out of his way to avoid him. Clemant was rarely seen and apparently spent much of his time in his office monitoring the changes in Farholme through his wall of images and data. Delastro stalked the corridors with a fixed scowl and solemnly counseled Merral to “beware the trickery of the devil.”
Merral felt strangely and unnervingly isolated. He saw very little of Vero, who made only the most fleeting appearances in the Planetary Administration building. When he did appear, he always seemed to be darting from one meeting to another.
In one of these encounters he passes on some news.
“We’re making armor suits,” he said in a low voice when they met in the foyer of the building. “Spun silica—light, flexible joints. They may resist Krallen claws.”
“How quickly can we get them out to the troops? We should get them out now.”
“No!” Vero’s tone showed agitation, and he seemd to look around. “That would reveal our hand. We’ll stockpile them.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Clemant will complain. So I thought you ought to know.” As he paused, Merral suddenly noticed that he was so thin the bone structure of his face was visible. “And very soon there may be another demand for mass production of . . . other items. I can’t say more. Just get it authorized and make sure there is no fuss.”
Without waiting for an answer, he muttered, “Must dash” and walked swiftly away.