Trial by Fire

by Charles E Gannon

  Darzhee Kut half-rotated to face Astor-Smath. “It is an impressive structure.”

  Astor-Smath smiled. “And with power from a dedicated fusion plant, it will put a half kiloliter container of up to three hundred fifty kilos into low earth orbit, either for pickup or transfer to higher orbit.”

  Darzhee Kut wondered the tactful way to express his assessment. “That is a rather modest payload.”

  “Per canister, yes. But, even in our start-up phase, we will be launching one every two minutes throughout a twelve-hour operational day. Once we’ve smoothed out the system and are comfortable with the operating procedures, we will begin to reduce the launch interval and extend the hours. We conservatively estimate that, at nominal function, the driver will lift be lifting high-gee-rated cargos into space at only one-tenth or even one-one-hundredth of the current market cost.”

  “Such a complex machine will be malfunctioning more than it will be operating.” Graagkhruud’s dismissive assessment was unusually aggressive in tone. Darzhee Kut flexed his claws. So, he is made nervous by the humans’ greater technical acumen.

  Astor-Smath was utterly unruffled. “It is hard to envision the source of such problems. The mass driver machinery is arguably far less complicated than the rail-guns of warships. It obviates the need for manned launch vehicles, so instead of piloting problems, we have an easy training regimen for the ground crew. There are only minimal insurance fees, since the loss incurred by any single catastrophic container failure is relatively minor. The silver-colored exposure sleeve enables virtually all-weather operation and repair, and the basic payload canisters cost less than twenty-five hundred credits per unit, when manufactured in bulk. And, when they are retrieved and emptied, they themselves can be converted into modular drop tanks for less than three hundred per unit.”

  Yaargraukh was also looking at the mass driver. “So the launch canister is actually part of the payload. Ingenious. But I must wonder at your choice of construction site.”

  “I do not understand.” Astor-Smath’s voice was mild; his eyes were unreadable.

  Darzhee Kut picked up the topic; he had been wondering the same thing. “With respect, Senior Liaison Astor-Smath, the weather in this region hardly seems optimal for the operation of such a system.”

  “That consideration determined much of the driver’s design. You will notice how it remains relatively low to the ground for as much of its length as possible: a precaution against storm winds.”

  “Still, its girth is greater than I imagined. It presents a large silhouette.”

  “The width you see from the outside is misleading. That’s just the exposure sleeve, which protects the rails and accelerator junctures within, and allows workmen to walk or drive the length of the system even in heavy weather. The sleeve is lightweight and fully disposable. In the event of a typhoon, its sections are designed to tear loose and fly free of the mechanism, if the wind speed becomes dangerous to the entirety of the structure.”

  “So it is secure from the weather.” First Voice pointed beyond the bunkers housing his warriors and out toward the remains of a charred kempang. “But it seems vulnerable to human threats.” The other Hkh’Rkh looked along with their leader and, evidently saw something which caused them to rumble in agreement.

  Darzhee Kut strained his multiple ocular lenses into the best distance resolution he could muster. He saw thin, burnt sticks angling skyward among the shattered huts and houses. He extended a claw. “What are they?”

  Yaargraukh spoke over Graagkhruud’s disdainful nasal guttering. “Launch stakes, Speaker Kut. And beyond, blackened shells of armored vehicles, cratered mortar pits, skeletons of burnt-out trucks.”

  Graagkhruud snorted. “I have read the after-action report. These humans were foolish to try cases with us. Our PDF systems intercepted their missiles and free rockets. Orbital fire eliminated their tanks and troop carriers. And then our warriors went among them like scythes in the reeds.”

  “An admirable fight, in which we too had a hand.” Astor-Smath’s comment was as calm as a maître d’s invitation to be seated.

  First Voice looked over at the human. “Tell me, Being, do you delight in aiding us against your own kind?”

  Darzhee heard the trap in the words and the tone. Of the many human traits and behaviors that the Hkh’Rkh had found difficult to understand, the existence of individuals who would collaborate with invaders was the most difficult. But if First Voice unduly antagonized these key indigenous allies—

  Astor-Smath sidestepped the trap that First Voice had laid. “I delight in doing whatever will end this war quickly, minimize the loss of life, and will allow my defeated planet to rebuild itself as quickly as possible. And as I remarked, this mass driver will greatly facilitate that rebuilding. So if some of our corporate security elements were able to better protect it by guarding your flanks and providing targeting information during your assault, we deemed it unfortunate but necessary to thusly take up arms against other humans.”

  Yaargraukh bobbed his head in the direction of a mass of ill-clothed humans—mostly male—who had appeared from among the many low buildings and warehouses that were clustered at the western extents of the security compound. “Are they prisoners taken during the engagement?”

  “No, they are merely residents of the area. A few are refugees, I believe.”

  “And what is their purpose?”

  “Garbage collection.”

  Astor-Smath’s reply was so unexpected that Darzhee Kut supposed none of the Hkh’Rkh knew how to frame a further, productive inquiry, either. Meanwhile, a second group of humans emerged from the ground floor beneath them, their loose, gray fatigues flapping in time with the shoulder straps of the assault rifles they were carrying at port arms. They angled toward the motley group of locals, marching with a unison and precision that bespoke considerable time spent drilling on a parade ground.

  “These are the—beings—who support our warriors?” First Voice’s question was a sotto voce aside to Graagkhruud that could nonetheless be heard by all on the deck.

  “Yes, First Voice.”

  “They all look—very similar.”

  Darzhee Kut stared at the humans more closely and noticed what First Voice had called attention to: all the armed humans were extraordinarily alike in height, coloration, build. As they turned to close with the ragged mass of civilians, Darzhee Kut had the impression that their facial profiles were also remarkably similar. Even for humans.

  Astor-Smath nodded and smiled. “The First Voice of the First Family has eyes that are as keen as his intellect. Yes, they are not merely similar. They are identical.”

  “All of them?”

  “All of them.”

  The Hkh’Rkh made noises in their chests that sounded like a combination of revulsion and nausea. “They are Unbirthlings,” one huffed hoarsely.

  “We call them ‘clones,’” Astor-Smath supplied. “They make excellent soldiers, if for no other reason than they know no other existence. They are matured quickly and taught only what they need for the tasks that they are given.”

  Darzhee Kut listened carefully, decided he had not heard incorrectly. “These humans are not part of a family? Not taught to, to—harmonize with others?”

  “They find satisfaction and a sense of belonging by performing their tasks excellently and in unison. They ask for no more than that.”

  “Because they know nothing else.” Yaargraukh’s comment was low and rattling, a dangerous sound.

  “Which is why they remain happy and untroubled by needless complexities.”

  The clones, all wearing shoulder patches bearing CoDevCo’s logo, had split into two columns, each flanking one side of the civilian throng. They escorted it at the double-time march toward the sickly-looking trees and greener slopes that were beyond the blasted kempang to the northeast.

  “And they are going up there to collect garbage?”

  “Yes, but not just typical refuse, Darzhee Kut. The ground
there is regularly littered with scraps of soda cans and tattered mylar balloons.”

  “That is strange garbage.”

  “Not at all. It’s just another part of the insurgency.”

  “How so?”

  Yaargraukh interceded in a calmer tone. “To complicate any scans attempting to detect small metal objects, such as the enemy’s ground sensors, booby-traps, or personal weapons. Looking down from orbit, or even from a loitering high-altitude observation drone, this rubbish produces thousands of sensor returns. We can sort some of them out as false signals, but it takes time, and there is usually too much uncertainty to act upon one of these signals without sending in a scout patrol to confirm the presence of a valid target.”

  “And already, the vermin are fond of ambushing those patrols.” Graagkhruud’s talons came together with an infuriated clack.

  From behind them, the sound of an aggravated, oversized hornet rose, approached, shot overhead; a remote operated vehicle with a two-meter wingspan, four tilt-props, and a bulging belly buzzed after the receding trash collecting detail.

  “To help them find the trash?” Darzhee wondered aloud.

  “To make sure that there are no ambushers waiting to shoot the clones. And to spread chemicals.”

  More noise from behind—this time a growing crescendo of heavy, rapid footfalls upon the ramp from the ground floor—caused Darzhee Kut to turn about.

  The troop of Hkh’Rkh had arrived, stopping at the head of the ramp when they saw to whom they were reporting. “First Voice of the First Family!” They were in a respectful, even awestruck, crouch immediately. The troop-leader rumble-whispered from his chest. “Permission to speak?”

  “You have it, and you are to stand before me. You are warriors to whom we owe much—since you are the only warriors here.”

  Even though, as a member of the Ee’ar caste, he was trained to find harmonies with creatures radically different from himself, Darzhee Kut felt First Voice’s dismissal of the Arat Kur war technicians as though it were a physical blow.

  The Hkh’Rkh had risen, some of the younger unable to keep their tongues from wiggling out in a brief spasm of amusement at their greatest leader’s backhanded gibe at their ostensible allies. This does not bode well. If at this early stage, with matters mostly under control, there is so little harmony between us, what atonalities might arise along with serious problems?

  “How may we serve, First Voice of the First Family?”

  “I see no Arat Kur with you. Are they not assigned to assist our troops?”

  “They are, First Voice of the First Family, but only upon combat missions.”

  “What mission is not a combat mission in time of war?”

  “The Arat Kur have—have a different concept of operations, First Voice of the First Family. They call this a ‘security escort.’”

  “And they are too important to aid you with it?”

  Rubble and scree: more trouble?

  “No, First Voice. They may only conduct operations within their combat-suits. These are wondrous devices, but they need much maintenance, particularly in this climate where mechanisms foul and jam frequently. Thus, they are deployed only on missions where we have confirmed contact with, and intend to engage, the enemy.”

  The troop-leader’s explanation seemed to mollify First Voice. “Very well. Perhaps we will have some opportunity to see these wondrous combat suits ourselves.”

  Let it please the first mother of the first rocknest: No. Please, no. The troop leader began detailing the deployment of the many Hkh’Rkh on the base and pointing to the less noticeable support systems, particularly the domelike PDF blisters dug in along with the bunkers, and in a ring around the vertipads behind them. Darzhee Kut looked after the dwindling quadrotor ROV and noted again the sickly color of the vegetation towards which it was headed. “Senior Liaison Astor-Smath, I would make an inquiry.”

  “Yes?” Astor-Smath, despite his smile, seemed to be even more bored than Darzhee Kut with the troop-leader’s ongoing explication of interlocking fields of fire, overlapping intercept umbrellas, and primary and secondary fallback positions.

  “The foliage to the north seems to be turning brown. Is this evidence of a blight?”

  Before Astor-Smath could answer, Graagkhruud swiveled around. “No, Speaker Kut, this is evidence of common sense. You saw the remote vehicle that flew overhead?”

  “Yes.”

  “It has a payload bay for chemical dispersion.”

  “You are defoliating the area?”

  “We are. With new dispersions every hour.”

  “And First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam knows of this?”

  “He approved it yesterday. Finally.”

  Darzhee Kut looked cautiously toward Astor-Smath. Again, no sign of concern on the human’s face. “But why?”

  Graagkhruud was the one who answered. “Why do you think? These jungles, particularly those close to our compounds and installations, are perfect lurking grounds for these human vermin.”

  “But thermal imaging—”

  “Cannot reliably distinguish insurgents from the normal workers, or from the dogs, or deer or other creatures which abound in those cursed bushes. We have but one choice: to strip away the forests.”

  Astor-Smath finally spoke. “First Fist Graagkhruud is correct. This has been an observed principle of jungle warfare for centuries. Defoliation is a prudent step.”

  Darzhee Kut could hardly believe his audio sensors. “Mr. Astor-Smath, it sounds as though you support the idea.”

  “Support it? I recommended it, and actually commenced a more subtle campaign of it, weeks prior to your arrival here.”

  “But your world’s biosphere—”

  “—Has recovered from injuries far greater than this one. The defoliative agents being spread by your people are relatively safe, nonpersistent chemicals with which we have long experience.”

  “You supplied the poisons?”

  “We refer to them as ‘defoliative agents.’ And yes, we have provided them, free of charge. One of our affiliate megacorporations produces them in bulk.”

  Graagkhruud’s head rose up. “In a month, maybe two, we will have cleared a radius of ten kilometers around all of our compounds that are surrounded by jungle, old plantations, or high brush. Then these insurgents will have to come into the open to fight us. And that will be the end of their rural insurgency. But until then—”

  As if proving First Fist’s point, a rocket hissed up out of the sagging trees just beyond the ruined kempang and struck the ROV as it swooped low to begin its second spraying run. The wings cartwheeled away from either side of the smoky orange flash. The breathy boom of exploding fuel tanks rolled across the cleared ground, trembled and broke like a hoarse wave against the building beneath their feet.

  By the time Darzhee Kut had reverse-scuttled so that his back was against the wall, and as far under the awning as he could go, the Hkh’Rkh were all involved in carefully choreographed chaos. Two of the troop had sprinted back down the ramp and took up covering positions at the entry to the building. The rest fanned out across the deck in the hunched crouch that was the Hkh’Rkh’s preferred combat movement posture. In that time, First Fist had patched into the compound command net and begun giving orders. “All bunkers to combat alert status. Response team one to the marshalling area. Ready reserves and response teams two and three to groupment point alpha. Off-duty reserves to this building in five minutes: combat gear only, no heavy weapons, double ammunition load, autoinjectors loaded with stimulant, ready to embark. Attack sleds one and two to the vertipad with current armament, weapons hot.” As he spoke, First Fist checked his weapon—a large-bore dustmix rifle with an underslung grenade/rocket launcher—adjusted his targeting goggles, and inspected First Voice’s entourage of huscarles cum bodyguards.

  Two of the Hkh’Rkh had unpacked a large weapon from canisters they had been carrying on their backs. They expertly snapped a light, simple tube into a breech-and-tripo
d combination. Two others unclipped large cassettes from their belts, handed them to the loader, who mounted them on either side of the breech. A fifth tossed a complex electronic sighting and guidance device. The gunner caught it, snapped it into place on top of the breech, slightly offset to the left. He checked that the aperture at the rear of the breech was aimed directly behind them into a open walkway. “Rocket launcher assembled and ready, First Fist.”

  Darzhee Kut quivered. Their disdain of us is wrong, but their opinion of themselves as warfighters is warranted. Oddly, the Hkh’Rkh seemed more calm, more temperate and organized now, than at any other time he had seen them. Perhaps a life lived in anticipation of war makes war the most comfortable state of being.

  The troop-leader acknowledged a radio report, turned to Graagkhruud. “Response Team One is ready, First Fist.”

  Graagkhruud turned to his superior. “First Voice?”

  First Voice nodded. “Send them. On foot.”

  “Foot, First Voice?”

  “Foot. We have seen one rocket destroy one vehicle. More vehicles may bring more rockets.”

  Astor-Smath drew his palmcom away from his mouth. “The ROV was hit because it was too low for us to cover with the PDF systems. Attack sleds at fifty meters altitude should be quite sa—”

  “They go on foot. Hold the sleds in reserve. Send up two more ROVs.” First Voice pointed down at the clearing. “And let the response team’s Arat Kur associates send their scouting machines out in a broad forward arc.”

  Following First Voice’s extended claw, Darzhee Kut saw—trailing behind the broad, armored loping backs of the Hkh’Rkh response team—two Arat Kur combat suits. Heavy, armor-segmented, and with enhanced, biofeedback-directed limbs, the hexapedal units advanced, using an insane, high speed serpentine. Around each of the suits buzzed or zipped almost a dozen ancillary vehicles, some no bigger than a pancake. A pair of wheeled units, each sporting quad rocket canisters, paralleled it. They were almost as big as the combat suit itself. As Response Team One passed the perimeter delineated by the outermost of the bunkers, the two new ROVs buzzed overhead, widely separated.