“Wait one.” The chief had known Nicole for only a month, and suddenly wished he had never met her. He turned to his exec, who shrugged.
“Looks like the thing’s back on-line,” the younger woman said. “Green across the board, now.”
The chief frowned. He did not like it when machines decided to be finicky. It got people killed. His gut told him not to launch the CAG’s fighter, but he was not left with much of a choice. “Stand by, CAG,” he said. “You’re up.”
Nicole’s heart rate picked up as she anticipated the launch. She eagerly watched for the visual signal from the control booth that hung down from the ceiling of the launch tunnel. Red. Yellow. Green.
Her ship suddenly accelerated away from the blast gates, the tunnel rushing past her in a blur as the stars outside seemed to grow larger, tantalizingly closer.
Something went wrong. Without warning, the magnetic field that accelerated the ship, and that was also responsible for ensuring the craft’s safe passage down the center of the catapult tunnel, lost its integrity. Nicole’s fighter slammed against the catapult tunnel wall, the Corsair’s right stub wing disintegrating in a hail of sparks and electrical discharges. The ship yawed further to the right, the slender nose of its hull crumpling under the force, the metal screaming but the sound lost to vacuum. In the cockpit, Nicole reeled from the violence of the impact, the dampers in her ship unable to completely compensate for the horrendous forces that had taken hold of the fighter.
Long before humans could react, the launch safety computer intervened. Terminating the failed launch field, the computer activated emergency dampers that rapidly slowed Nicole’s ship, bringing it to a stop twenty meters short of the tube’s gaping mouth. Blast vents snapped open in the floor and ceiling of the tube; should the fighter explode, most of the force would be directed out the mouth and through the blast vents, lessening the force on the blast doors far behind that led to the vulnerable insides of the ship.
“CAG, can you hear me?” the launch chief asked tensely. He had seen this before. And worse. “Please respond.”
“Oui,” she said numbly. “I am… all right.”
“Get her out of there,” the chief said to the emergency crew that was already pouring through one of the tunnel’s service entrances. “Move it.”
Nicole Carré would not be doing any dogfighting this day.
***
“Sir,” the intel chief said quickly, “it looks like we’re facing two squadrons. One with a heavy division of two battleships and a heavy cruiser, and a second division with three cruisers.”
Sinclaire nodded grimly. The odds were in their favor. For now. Turning to his ops officer, he said, “Order Mackenzie to take out the three cruisers. We’ll handle the other lot.”
“Aye, sir.”
A few moments later, Sinclaire’s orders reached Jodi as she led two Corsair squadrons from Gneisenau toward the enemy fleet.
“Roger,” she acknowledged tightly. She was still unsettled by what had happened to Nicole. She had heard her over the common channel, screaming as her fighter was torn apart in the cat tube. Jodi had bitten her tongue so hard it had bled, as much to keep herself from tying up the channel with her own voice as from fear that Nicole might be hurt. But then the emergency crew had come. Nicole had been all right, just a little shaken up and with a mild concussion.
With difficulty, she pushed the thoughts of Nicole from her mind. Fifty-three other pilots from Gneisenau were depending on her now; as the second most senior pilot, she was in command. She was now the fighter force strike leader.
“Rolling out of your line of fire now,” she told the controller on Gneisenau. She did not want her fighters anywhere near the massive gunfights that would soon erupt between the opposing capital ships.
Like a massive living thing, the two squadrons behind and to either side of Jodi’s Corsair swept toward the three Kreelan cruisers that had the misfortune of being separated from the other ships of the Kreelan fleet.
As Sinclaire watched Jodi’s fighters clear the field, he turned to Colonel Riata Dushanbe, the commander of Gneisenau’s Marine regiment, the Fifty-Eighth African Rifles. “What is it, colonel?” he asked.
“Admiral,” she said urgently, “we’ve finally gotten through to the colony, to some Marine forces there.”
“What?” Sinclaire asked, incredulous. “When the hell did Marines arrive there? Why the hell didn’t MARCENT inform us?”
Dushanbe shook her head. There was no way for her to know that Thorella’s regiment had been dispatched outside of Marine channels in extreme secrecy, and Reza’s contingent – a reinforced company – was so small that probably no one had bothered to report it as being on Erlang. No one had been expecting trouble like this. “I don’t know, sir. Apparently, however many there were, there is only a company left, now. Alpha Company of the Red Legion’s First Battalion, with a First Lieutenant Washington Hawthorne in charge. They’ve only got a single boat to lift their company and some injured civilians.”
“What about the rest of the civilians?” Sinclaire asked. “There are supposed to be over a million people down there!”
“I asked him that, sir. He said he didn’t know other than that the capital and probably the other settlements had been bombarded from orbit and completely destroyed.” She paused. “He also felt sure that a lot more Kreelan ships would be headed this way, and quickly.”
“How the bloody hell could he know that?” Sinclaire muttered to himself.
“Admiral,” Captain Amadi said, “main batteries are within range, sir.”
Sinclaire scowled. Too many irons in the fire, he thought. As always. He turned to his ops officer. “Have Mackenzie pull off a flight to provide escort to the Marines down there. Coordinate it with Dushanbe here.” Then to Amadi, he said, “Captain, you may commence firing.”
***
Jodi had just pulled out of her first attack run, her weapons crisscrossing the lead cruiser with splashes of light and a few minor explosions, when she received her new orders.
“There are still Marines down there?” she asked, mortified. Much closer to the planet than the rest of the fleet, she could see the damage the Kreelans had done to the surface: the blackened pockmarks where cities used to be, clouds of smoke streaking across the emerald surface like rivers of crude oil.
“Commander Mackenzie?” a voice suddenly interrupted on the link. “Is that you?”
“Eustus? Eustus Camden?” she asked, the muscles in her jaws tightening up. Where there was Eustus, there was… “What the hell are you doing here? And where’s Reza?”
“It’s a long story,” the voice came back, scratchy in her earphones. Jodi could sense the strain in it. “Reza is… gone. Lieutenant Hawthorne’s in charge down here, but he’s in back trying to get some more wounded on board. There aren’t many people that survived the attack on Mallory City. Jodi, we’ve got to get out of here, fast.”
“Wait one, Camden,” she said, hauling her fighter up and away from the three enemy cruisers. From here they looked like rakish beetles surrounded by enraged wasps. “Day-Glo, Snow White, Whip,” she said, “form on me after you’ve made your runs.” In perfect sequence, the three pilots acknowledged, and had formed on her wing in less than a minute. “Hangman,” she called to the remaining senior pilot, “you’re in charge. Finish those bastards off.”
“Roger,” Hangman, the second most senior pilot replied. “Good luck, Commander.”
“All right, Camden,” she said after switching back to the established air-to-ground link, “where’s your beacon?”
As the four fighters screamed down through the atmosphere, the warships above them grappled like scorpions in a bottle, engaged in a fight to the death.
But Jodi could not push Eustus’s words from her mind: Reza was gone.
Thirty-Eight
In the clearing mists that hung over the Plain of Aragon, the battle raged for the fate of Erlang. Like a living thing in agony, the mass of clashi
ng humans and Kreelans writhed and twisted, their even lines having dissolved in the fury of battle. Battle cries and the screams of the injured and dying filled the air, accompanied by the crash and echo of sword against ax, wooden club against steel armor. The bitter smoke from the ruins of Mallory City swept over the once beautiful plain, masking the coppery scent of human and Kreelan blood that now splashed under the feet of those who remained standing, fighting. The humans fought for their home and their loved ones, the Kreelans for the honor of the First Empress for whom they had come.
Ian Mallory stood in a tiny eddy of the stream that was the battle, his breathing coming in harsh gasps as his eyes sought out another of the enemy to join the one that he had just slain. He turned in time to see Nathaniel Markham searching for his own prey. The big man’s gaze fell on Ian, and he offered his old friend a smile that was cut suddenly, tragically short by the blade that suddenly exploded from his chest like a great silver tree from bloody earth.
“Nathaniel!” Ian screamed as he watched his best friend’s face contort in puzzlement as his eyes took in the length of the sword that had just taken his life.
But then those eyes, normally those of a peaceful man, filled with a killing rage. As the Kreelan warrior who had struck him the mortal blow fought to withdraw her weapon from his body, he whirled around, seizing her by the hair with one great hand. Then, like a dying Thor, brandishing an ax rather than a hammer, he took his opponent’s head from her body with a turn of his great weapon. Holding the severed head high above him, he let out a roar of triumph that boomed over the raging battle.
Before Ian Mallory could take a step toward his friend, Nathaniel Markham’s voice died away. Without another sound, he collapsed to the earth, the Kreelan’s head still clutched in his hand.
Like an all-consuming fire, the battle swept onward. And at its center were Reza and Esah-Zhurah, locked in their own battle of a higher order, refined well beyond the uncontrolled chaos that whirled around them like a great tornado of slashing steel and bleeding flesh. But while they stood as titans beside their warriors, they were evenly matched against one another, each denying the other the quick victory that would have spared lives on either side by the honor that bound them to the Empress and to one another. And so it was that their own private hell raged on in time measured by the blood spilled upon the ground from those around them, each dreading the blow that would kill their beloved.
The two circled and crashed together like beasts fighting for the right to mate, oblivious to the small ship that leaped from the forest but a few kilometers away, carrying Reza’s company and a few Erlangers to the comparative safety of the human fleet.
***
“You look like hell, captain,” Sinclaire told Nicole as she walked onto the bridge. While his comment seemed brusque, his voice was filled with concern.
“Thank you, sir,” she said flatly as the lights suddenly dimmed and a deep thrum shook the ship as the main batteries fired again. One glance at the tactical display told her that she might as well forget about asking for another fighter. There would not be much to shoot at for much longer. Two of the three cruisers that Jodi’s fighters had attacked were already destroyed. The third was severely damaged and obviously out of control. The battleships that had devastated Erlang from orbit were far from finished, but their efforts now were more out of spite than anything else. The guns of Gneisenau, Hood, and the other heavy ships would soon finish them, as well.
“Nicole,” Sinclaire said, “I’m just glad that you’re alive. I know you’re upset about not being able to lead your people today, but I’m not one to push luck too far.”
“I know, sir,” she said, looking down at her shaking hands. “I am sorry.” To herself, she thought, He just does not understand. It was more than just wanting to lead her people; combat had become an addiction, a craving that she had to satisfy. It often terrified her, but she did not know what else to do. Worse, since she had awakened in sickbay from the minor concussion she had received, passing out as the emergency crew freed her from her wrecked Corsair, she had felt terribly odd, as if ants were crawling on her body. She saw visions, flashes of some kind of battle, two warriors fighting, and felt her muscles twitch in time with movements other than her own. As she was coming from sickbay, she felt a horrible pain in her upper left arm, as if it had been torn by animal claws. She had nearly cried out, it had been so intense and shockingly sudden, but her tongue had remained silent. The pain had gradually faded to a dull throb, but her breathing remained abnormally rapid, and she could swear that she smelled her own blood. Turning away from Sinclaire, she stared at the viewscreen and the battle that raged there between human and Kreelan ships. But her eyes were far away. A muscle twitched in her face.
Sinclaire regarded her quietly as the bridge continued to bustle with the hectic activity of the battle.
He had seen the signs before, too many times. She had lost her edge. While it was a great regret for him, he would have to post new orders for Fleet Captain Carré. Her days of combat were over.
***
The sands of the hourglass in Reza’s mind had run out. His Marines were well away, and he knew in his heart that Esah-Zhurah would beg the Empress to spare the people of this planet on his behalf. There was no point in prolonging the battle further, for that would only leave more Erlangers dead and increase the risk of harm coming to Esah-Zhurah, the one thing that he could not allow. He also knew that she would not attack him with his guard down; he would have to trick her.
With the ferocity of their sparring, it did not require much. Warrior priest and priestess, each was able to sense which attacks would fail, and which might not. Thus far, their only injuries had been mere trophies, a gash here or there for the healers to mend to a scar that would be a remembrance of this combat.
It was time. Esah-Zhurah lunged forward with her sword in an attack she instinctively knew Reza would deflect. But he surprised her by holding his sword arm downward at the last instant, leaving his torso completely exposed.
Esah-Zhurah’s weapon did as it was designed, piercing Reza’s breastplate just below his heart. The armor, sturdy as it was to a slashing attack, gave way like warm butter to the sharp tip of the sword’s living steel.
Reza’s vulnerable bones and flesh offered no resistance to the hurtling blade, whose blood-streaked point emerged out Reza’s back, the armor peeled back around it. With a morbid thump, the sword’s pommel slammed to a stop against Reza’s breastplate.
***
Colonel Dushanbe was just informing Admiral Sinclaire that the boat carrying Hawthorne’s Marines and its four-ship escort had landed in the starboard landing bay, when Nicole Carré suddenly screamed in agony. Clutching her hands to her chest, she crumpled to the deck and lay very still.
“Lord of All,” Sinclaire boomed, rushing to his fallen officer and friend, “get someone from sickbay up here on the double!”
Carefully turning her over onto her back, he saw that all the blood had drained from her face. Her eyes were open, but Sinclaire hoped never to see whatever she was seeing: it was as if she was staring into Hell itself.
***
Esah-Zhurah’s shocked eyes swept across the blade of her weapon as it protruded from her lover’s back, covered in his blood. Her nose, far more sensitive than any human’s, was flooded with its coppery tang. She heard, dimly, the sound of his sword dropping to the ground, and felt the weight of his sagging body as he wrapped his arms around her neck, his head falling to rest on her shoulder. All around her, like sails sagging under a dying wind, the Kreelan warriors suddenly lost their ferocity, their hearts torn by the force of Esah-Zhurah’s emotional shock.
The humans, too, felt something change, and accepted the break Fate had given them. Confused and exhausted, they backed away from their Kreelan opponents by a pace or two, many of them dropping to the ground, chests heaving with pain and exertion.
“Pull it out, Esah-Zhurah,” Reza whispered into the sudden stillness, spe
aking in the Old Tongue. His hands clutched at the armor protecting her back, his talons issuing a high keening sound as they sought purchase in the metal of her armor.
“No,” she whispered. Her sword’s blade had a serrated upper edge. It would tear out his heart if she tried to remove it. “No. Reza, I cannot… The healers will take care of you. They can remove it without–”
“You must,” he breathed, a trickle of blood escaping his lips. “Please, Esah-Zhurah. You know I cannot return… home.” He felt hot tears burning his face. “Let this be done… Let it be over… Now.”
“Reza,” she rasped. Her voice was an echo of the agony that seared her soul. She held him tightly with her free arm, thinking desperately for another way – anything – but there was none. She smelled the salt of his tears mingling with the scent of his blood, and suddenly wished she could cry with him. For him. The black of the mourning marks she had worn since he had gone so long ago just did not seem to be enough. “Forgive me, my love,” she rasped as she closed her eyes. With one smooth motion, her sword hand drew back with all the strength she had, freeing itself with a ghastly grating sound against Reza’s armor and the shattered bones of his ribcage.
Reza cried out before he slumped against her. She threw her sword to the ground and held him with both arms, her teeth grinding with anguish, her heart cold in her chest, dead with pain. Gently, with Syr-Kesh’s steadying hands, she laid him on the ground, cradling his head to her breast.
“Reza,” Esah-Zhurah whispered mournfully. There was so much to tell him, so much wonder that he would never know. “Why did you do this?”
His eyes, still gleaming with the life that faded rapidly within, fastened on her. He struggled to free his hand from the armored gauntlet, finally succeeding with Syr-Kesh’s reverent help. Unsteadily, he reached for Esah-Zhurah’s face. She took his hand and held it to her, kissing his fingers.
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