Trevor looked at Stosh, whose grin was as large as ever as he asked, “Can we kick some alien ass now, Captain?”
Trevor stared at him, made sure his own eyes did not show fear. His abject, utter fear. How does Stosh manage to hold life so lightly in his hands? Why haven’t I, after dozens of combat missions, mastered that skill? Will I be fearful all my life? Trevor just nodded, ducked his head. He heard, did not see, Stosh begin the attack:
“Sync detonator leads to the master timer. And five, four, three, two—fire in the hole!”
Chapter Fifty
Presidential Palace, Jakarta, Earth
Downing’s voice was low and respectful. “We accept your surrender, First Delegate Khraam. But I must ask that, for the record, you explicitly agree to all our terms, not just a capitulation on the ground.”
Darzhee Kut saw the two Hkh’Rkh rear up, move past Caine, their claws flexing. One of the Arat Kur computer techs—having nothing else to do—noticed their ominous approach, wormed a claw surreptitiously into the leg-brace-appearing grip of his sidearm. Darzhee Kut glanced at him, made an affirmatory gesture toward the computer tech’s weapon, and then looked back at the two Hkh’Rkh—who stopped, uncertain of what to do.
Hu’urs Khraam’s response to Downing was reedy, ancient. “I surrender our fleet and all other units under my command, according to the terms you offered. But again, since I am still unable to communicate with all of my forces, I cannot assure you that—”
The First Delegate was interrupted by an abrupt rumble that, in rapid steps, became a roar—like the approach of a supersonic freight train. Which seemed to explode into the command center, the right side of the room shearing away in a whirlwind of sound, flying masonry, shattered glass, discorporating consoles and screens. The blast that had amputated one wall of the room sent debris spinning against and through the three remaining walls—and through many of the beings that stood between them.
Darzhee Kut, already deafened, felt the shock waves hit, went with rather than resisted them, let himself roll under an unused human conference table. The largest chunk of rebar-studded wall finished its shallow arc directly atop the couch occupied by Hu’urs Khraam. Darzhee Kut heard the sickening crunch quite clearly and felt his upper digestive tract squirm. Nearby, he saw one of the Hkh’Rkh sway drunkenly, stare down at his chest, discover the protruding chair leg that had impaled him from the rear, try to pull it out, dying as he fell, tugged down by his own hand. Riordan, unharmed, had evidently been in the shielding shadow of the Hkh’Rkh. Rising, he took a quick look around; his eyes stopped on another figure just getting to its feet. The second Hkh’Rkh. Riordan bolted into the roiling dust as the Hkh’Rkh pulled his weapon, fired, and leapt after him into the gaping hole that had been the fourth wall, pursuing the human.
Presidential Palace compound, Jakarta, Earth
“There you are, Advocate!”
Yaargraukh, weak from multiple wounds and blood loss, swayed around. Across the cratered courtyard, Graagkhruud loped at him swiftly. He stopped a leap away. “You have been busy, Advocate.”
“There is much work for a warrior today.”
Graagkhruud almost seemed to forget his contempt of Yaargraukh, evidently pleased by the ritual response. Then First Fist’s normal, contemptuous tone returned. “You will now be my direct assistant.”
“Odd. I expected I would be your next victim in Challenge.”
Graagkhruud considered him carefully. “Had the Arat Kur not ruined us this day, your expectation might have been accurate. But now we have time only to serve the race and its First Voice. We must now take matters into our own claws.”
“Stranger still. I was just told that we have capitulated and that the combat air patrol—or what is left of it—is grounding.”
“Yes, when First Voice sent me to find you, the grubbers were beginning to think such craven thoughts. What you have now heard confirms his worst fear. That they would betray our alliance if our situation became grave. And so sent me after you, since you have several technical skills which will be essential if we are to carry out our contingency plan.”
“Which is?”
“We must reach our own grounded troopships. They were powered down when the human virus infected the grubbers’ systems, and so are still serviceable. First Voice foresaw that the Arat Kur might fail us, even feared they might have tried to infect our ships with a disabling virus that they could trigger at will. So he kept our ships’ systems unreachable by them.”
“And what are we to do with these ships?”
“Return to orbit, gain access to and man our own interface attack craft.”
“To what end?”
“To hold this world hostages to our nuclear weapons.”
“Before we go, why not gather some actual hostages, such as the human workers here in the compound?”
Graagkhruud stared at Yaargraukh. “It is a sound tactic. We shall do so.”
By my patriarchs, the impenetrable shit-scraper thought me serious! “You are deranged by the stress of this day. My suggestion—and these plans—are nonsense.”
“Have care, Advocate. By a prearranged signal, First Voice sent me after you not only to secure your assistance, but to afford you the opportunity to fully redeem your honor—or to forever lose it. So, I repeat, we shall use hostages—cities as well as individuals—to finally cow the humans, and so, save our brothers, this invasion, and our race’s honor.”
“And what if the Arat Kur have surrendered not merely on the ground, but in orbit also?”
“We shall hunt that st’kragh when we encounter it.”
“If we encounter that st’kragh, it will be our death. Without the orbital supporting fire from the Arat Kur ships, we are lost.”
“Which only proves that First Voice was—from the first—right about how to fight the humans. We should have crushed them the moment we could. Bomb their greatest cities directly, force them to capitulate, to agree to all our terms.”
“Oh, yes, we could have achieved that. And we would have been the puppets of the Arat Kur forever after.”
Graagkhruud’s eyes disappeared for a full second, so disoriented was he by this sudden redirection of their argument. “What do you mean?”
“Can you not see it? Even if we triumph here, we cannot reach the human star systems on our own. Our ships do not have the shift range to cross the gap from our worlds to theirs. But, deposited by our Arat Kur allies as occupation forces, we would now have colonies in the midst of the human spheres.”
“We would crush the humans and take their worlds.”
“Can you seriously think it? Have you seen this planet? Their cities, their factories, their infrastructure? They have managed to build and preserve, while we are always trapped in the process of rebuilding what was destroyed in the most recent Family War. And with the humans unified by a hatred of us, by an unquenchable thirst for vengeance, they would build so much, so quickly, that they would overwhelm us.”
“Not if the Arat Kur prevent them.”
“And so you make my point: we are dependent upon our allies. What will occur if, later on, we should dare to disagree with them over some policy? Will they not threaten to withdraw their support of our colonies in human space?”
“No, for they will wish to keep us strong there, as an aid in controlling the expansion and power of the humans, who will hate the Arat Kur just as much as they hate us.”
“Do not think it. The Arat Kur have been almost invisible on this planet’s streets. Overwhelmingly, the humans have seen us killing their insurgents and burning their towns.” He aimed his calar talons at either side of his head. “This, this is the face the humans will remember and hate. And as we grow stronger, the grubbers will find it useful for the humans and us to weaken each other in wars. They will play us one against the other. They baited the trap of this alliance with the promise of green worlds that were not ours. And what have we gained? Debt and a pointless waste of the blood of the brave.�
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“So what would you suggest?”
“What I suggested from the first: that we side with the humans. They had the right of the Accord behind them. Our borders are far apart and we have no logical points of contention. And they can know both honor and the way of a warrior.”
Graagkhruud scoffed, looked at the smoking skyline. “This insurgency? You call this a war of honor?”
“I call it the war we forced them to fight.”
“Which they do not fight with honor.”
“Think of this as you would a Challenge. The Challenger calls for a test of Honor. What is the prerogative of the Challenged?”
Graagkhruud looked away. “The Choice of the Test.”
“Just so. That is what has happened here. We challenged the humans, so we cannot complain at their choice of weapons. That is the prerogative of those who have been Challenged—particularly when we attacked their homeworld. There may be fewer trained warriors among them, fewer who are ready to obey and die. But they are more inventive and better technologists, and quick to perceive and exploit new opportunities.”
“You are a traitor to your own race, servitor.”
“No. I am its true servant, because the prerequisite of success is a ruthlessly clear understanding of reality, of the facts with which we must contend. Without that, all plans begin in error, and so, they must end in disaster.”
“It is treason to speak so of First Voice’s plans, and you will pay for your insolence—but later.” Graagkhruud reared back, his crest erect. “You will accompany me to our interface craft. There we will gather what humans we can find, take them at gunpoint to orbit and use their lives as leverage to gain access to our craft and make our attack.” Yaargraukh made no move to comply or accompany him “Obey me, honorless pretender.”
Yaargraukh could not keep his crest from rising in response to “pretender,” the derogatory term for a Hkh’Rkh from the New Families. “I will not. And were I not your subalternate, I would challenge thee at this moment, in this place.”
Whether it was Yaargraukh’s disregard for the traditional authority of his Old Family leaders, his direct refusal to follow an order, or both, Graagkhruud raised up to his full height. As a sudden carpet-bombing sound built rapidly behind him, First Fist’s arms swept high, presaging a Challenge blow to the calmly waiting Advocate . . .
The bomb-thunder peaked. With a roar, the curtain wall behind them blew inward, spraying a cloud of both new and century-old cinderblocks into the volume of space occupied by the two Hkh’Rkh. Indonesian insurgents charged in immediately, following just behind the wave-front of debris, sprinting alongside chunks of rolling, clattering masonry—and over the prostrate forms of two Hkh’Rkh, whose argument of honor their demolition charges had preempted.
Permanently.
* * *
Trevor went past two prone Hkh’Rkh, recognized signs of high rank, shouted to Tygg. “We need those two alive. Leave someone you can trust on security, and take up positions to hold this ingress point.”
“Right. Beruwiak, get up here!”
Trevor pressed on, trying not to fall behind the nimble, lightly equipped insurgents that were with them. “Keep up, Stosh,” he called over his shoulder.
“Keep up yourself, sir.” The smaller, squarish SEAL passed him, huffing.
“Cruz, Barr, stay to the flanks and keep our guys moving in the same direction. Rulaine?”
“Sir?”
“Stay twenty meters behind me, with the Karpassos fire team. If anything happens to me—”
“Got it. I’m the shadow HQ. Give us a shout and we’ll provide covering fire if you get snagged and have to back out.”
Trevor smiled his thanks, hoped Rulaine would live. A good officer and a good guy.
“What about me, sir?” asked Gavin, the long barrel of the Remington M167 assault gun jaunting about like a naked flagpole.
“You’re also with Rulaine, Gavin. I want a good solid base of supporting fire, and you’re an artist with the Remington.”
“So I am sir. I’ll be your guardian angel.”
Gavin an angel? Heaven would blush. “Great.” Trevor drew abreast of Stosh as they neared the rally point from which they intended to rush into the inner compound—and he saw a figure staggering through the smoke toward them. It’s upright, so it can’t be an Arat Kur, and it’s too small to be a Hkh’Rkh. But it could still be trouble: Ruap’s troops or maybe some still-loyal clones. “Who goes there?”
A pause. “Trevor?”
Trevor placed the voice the same moment the face swam out of the humid mixture of mist and smoke: Caine Riordan. “Jesus—what the hell are you doing out here? Taking a walk?”
“More like a run. The Arat Kur have surrendered.” He shouted over the beginning of a few exultant shouts, including Stosh’s. “But the Hkh’Rkh wouldn’t have any part of it. They’ve gone rogue.”
“What’s their objective?”
“Not sure they’ve got one other than to kill as many of us as possible. They don’t have any real commo net left, so they’re defaulting to their basic game plan. When in doubt, terrorize the opposition with everything from knives to nukes until they cower in fear. Then take control.”
“They’re a little outnumbered for that strategy, don’t you think?”
“Of course, but at this stage, they’re not thinking. They’re operating as much on instinct as planning—and a bunch of them are after me, particularly.”
“You? Why you?”
“Long story. Worth telling if we’re both alive tomorrow.”
“Okay. Can you lead us to their command center?”
Caine looked around, squinting into the smoke. “Yeah—yeah, I think so. It’s over here near—”
Trevor caught his arm. “Whoa, let’s arm you first.” With one hand, he passed Caine a brace of smoke grenades, with the other, he reached back toward Cruz, who was unshouldering the rifle they were still carrying in anticipation of Winfield’s eventual return. “This is the eight-millimeter CoBro liquimix assault rifle: state of the art. I know we didn’t get a chance to train on one, but are you familiar with it?”
Caine hefted the long, light barrel. “Read about it.”
“Okay: here’s the quick rundown. All the weapon’s sensors feed data to the visor—yeah, there, hooked on the side—and include IR, laser-designator, rangefinder, and aimpoint. The video pickup gives you look-around/shoot-around capabilities at corners. The liquimix gives you plenty of control over projectile velocity and recoil, and provides the launching boost for the underslung smart semiautomatic grenade launcher. You’re familiar with that from Barney Deucy. It’s got dual purpose HE/frags in the tube. Got it?”
Caine nodded, a bit uncertainly. “Most of it. I’ll learn the rest on the job, I guess. You want their HQ?”
“Yup.”
“Then follow me.” And Caine jogged off into the fog.
Stosh looked after him. “Goddamnit, just what we need. Another officer.”
“He’s not really an officer, Stosh.”
Stosh looked Trevor straight in the eye. “Oh no? I’d know that tone anywhere. He was born an officer, even if he doesn’t know it yet.” And Stosh also disappeared into the mist.
As Trevor waved for the others to follow, he gritted his teeth and smiled at the same time: Damn Stosh, anyway.
North-Central Jakarta, Earth
Winfield held up a hand. The figures in the smoke up ahead stopped.
“Who goes there?”
“Insurgents,” responded a woman’s voice—a voice that was either American or Canadian.
“Come forward, but slowly,” ordered Commander Ayala as the rest of his Team fanned out.
They did. There must have been almost a hundred of them. At their head were two men, grizzled and wearing Kopassus uniforms that were about twenty years out of date, and a woman. The woman was so incongruous that Winfield forgot security considerations for a moment. She was tall, dark haired, fair-skinned, a
nd with a figure that bordered on the dramatic. And stranger still, he knew her.
“Ms. Corcoran?”
She started, veered toward Winfield. “Do I know you—er, Lieutenant?”
“I don’t know if you remember me, ma’am. I was Trevor’s XO, when we rescued you on Mars last year.”
She flushed. “My God—yes, of course. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you immediately. But I never expected to see you he—”
“Quite all right, ma’am. This is Commander Ayala, another SEAL. We’re heading to the Roach Motel. Uh, I mean the—”
“Yes, Lieutenant Winfield, I know of it. That’s where we’re heading, too.”
Ayala stepped forward. “Ma’am, first—my respects for your Dad. Hell of a man. But I can’t let you go on to the enemy HQ. That’s going to be—well, pretty hairy.”
She smiled. “Commander, I understand, and I appreciate your concern. But all the same, I’m going.”
Ayala put his hands on his hips. “Listen, Ms. Corcoran, I don’t have the time—”
“Exactly right, Commander. You don’t have time to stand around arguing. And since I’m a civilian, and you can’t order me about, I suggest—along with my one hundred or so friends—that you stop wasting your time on an argument you can’t win.”
Ayala seemed about to counterattack when Winfield leaned over. “Commander?”
“Yeah?”
“Captain Corcoran told us two important things about his sister.”
“And what were those?”
“Never hit on her, and never try to win an argument with her. Particularly when she’s backed by a hundred Indonesian insurgents.”
Ayala stared at Winfield and frowned. Then he looked at Elena and frowned some more. “So I guess you’re coming with us after all.”
She smiled the same smile Winfield remembered seeing in the pictures of her father. “I guess so.”
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