There was the cloth-ripping sound of an assault rifle, a cry of “Blood!” and the team charged ahead. Seeba-Ka was third or fourth through the entry, wasted a fraction of a second thinking about the extent to which the Hudathans, humans, and Naa had learned to work together, and heard a tone through his earplugs. “High Horse to Red One ... Over.”
Seeba-Ka, who was still struggling to assimilate Confederate com procedures, saw something move, fired a three-round burst, and managed a reply. “This is Red One ... Go. Over.”
The voice was hard and metallic. “Break it off, One. Objective achieved. You can pull back.”
Seeba-Ka thought about the bodies left behind, the team he had come to be so proud of, and anger filled his chest. The swear words were part of his recently acquired vocabulary. “No frigging way, High Horse! We’ll break when the furry little bastards are dead! Over.”
A Thraki noncom popped out of a maintenance bay, shot Jamal in the back, and staggered as Lasker put half a magazine into the Marine’s chest.
Seeba-Ka roared his approval and charged the next set of doors. They were open, and he saw rock walls beyond. It was the chamber! His objective! Finally within reach.
What remained of the team charged, limped, and in one case was carried out into the gallery. The rail had been designed by Thraki for Thraki. It hit the Hudathan at mid-thigh. The voice was louder this time and more insistent. “High Horse to Red One ... That is negative ... Repeat negative. Break contact immediately.”
Seeba-Ka took a long hard look around. The flight deck was empty—but the battle continued down on the canyon floor. He could heard the dull thump, thump, thump of outgoing cannon fire interspersed with the rattle of automatic weapons and a loud “boom” as a missile struck its target. Blue Team was taking a beating—that much was clear. If he could make his way down onto the floor below, if he could neutralize even one of the energy cannons, lives would be saved. Hudathan lives, Naa lives, and yes, appalling as the notion was, human lives.
The Hudathan waved his troops forward and opened the com link. “Red One to High Horse ... Roger your last ... contact broken.”
Booly was standing toward the rear of the makeshift Ops Center, talking to a naval intelligence officer, when the chief petty officer approached. She looked clean and almost unnaturally crisp. “Excuse me, sir, sorry to interrupt, but the lieutenant has something he wants you to see.”
Booly nodded, assured the intelligence officer that he would read the latest report ASAP, and followed the CPO to a bulkhead covered with flat panel displays. Some naval vessels had been designed to support ground actions, but the Gladiator wasn’t one of them. The wardroom had been converted to an Ops Center, and everything had a temporary makeshift feel.
The lieutenant was young and earnest. He had dark hair, a nose that was slightly too large for his face, and a wire-thin body. “Red One agreed to break contact ... but look at this.”
Booly looked at screen, realized it was a trooper’s-eye view of the Thraki military complex, and that his host was running. Not just running, but running toward a brightly lit entryway, flanked by a pair of alien energy cannons. Both batteries were depressed, to command the valley below, and both burped cold blue light. The name at the bottom of the frame read: “Corporal Sureseek Fareye.”
The naval officer saw the glance and pointed to an enormous body that lumbered along the right side of the frame. “That’s Red One, sir. Lieutenant Seeba-Ka. We don’t have compatible cameras for the Hudathans yet ... but that’s him all right ... What should we do?”
It was a good question. Seeba-Ka had chosen to disobey a direct order—but one that Booly now realized was wrong. “Is Blue One on-line? Show me her video.”
The lieutenant nodded and pointed. “Yes, sir. She’s right there.”
McGowan looked up into the slowly twirling snowflakes, saw the energy cannons burp, and watched geysers of mud-sullied snow march her way. “Put some more SLMs on those guns! Take the bastards out!”
Missiles, all of which had been fired prior to her order, hit only fractions of a second apart. The Thraki energy screens flared, shimmered like silver, and faded as the force of the explosions dissipated.
A quad exploded, an entire squad was cut down, and McGowan yelled through the link. “I want some air support damn it—and I want it now! Where’s the Red Team? We’re dying out here.”
Booly gripped the back of the chair with both hands and knew it was too late. Blue One was so far up the canyon, so close to the target, that an air strike would hit her, too.
“What about Lieutenant Seeba-Ka?” the naval officer persisted. “What should I do about him?”
“Pray the insubordinate sonofabitch makes it,” Booly grated, because he’s the only hope we have.”
Vice Admiral Haru Ista Rawan stepped away from energy cannon number two, raised the assault weapon, and thumbed the safety into the “off” position. The four remaining members of the security team did likewise.
The Thraki officer could see the oncoming soldiers, could feel the wind at his back, could smell the ozone that swirled around him. The force field caused his fur to stand on end, and his bladder felt unnaturally full. This was it, the last moment of his life, and the end of the journey. At least, the officer thought to himself, I will die with my face to the enemy. His weapon chattered, others did likewise, and the world ceased to be.
“Blow those emplacements!” Seeba-Ka ordered, waving his team forward. “There’s no point in saving ordinance—pack every charge you have around those hatches.”
The protective shields, which were effective against anything packing sufficient mass and velocity to damage the energy cannons, were useless when it came to a low-tech infantry assault. The legionnaires moved forward, felt a tingling sensation as they entered the force field’s footprint, and set about their tasks. The cannons continued fire, and the Blue Team continued to suffer as the explosives were put in place.
Then, having moved everyone back, the Hudathan gave the order. “Lasker, you know what to do, pull the plug.” The human nodded, flipped the safety cover off a remote, and pressed the big red button.
McGowan, looking up from below, saw two flashes of light, heard two overlapping explosions and fell as the shock wave knocked her off her feet. The first thing she noticed was how peaceful it was, lying on her back, watching chunks of debris somersault through the cold, frosty air. They would land—she knew that—but couldn’t quite muster the energy to deal with it. Most fell short of Blue Team, however—for which she was thankful. That’s when a strange sort of silence fell on the valley, when McGowan wondered if her eardrums were damaged, or if everyone else was dead.
Then came the first reedy cheer, soon joined by others, until the officer heard her own voice join the rest.
The Blue Team rose like ghosts from so many graves, marveled at the fact that they were still alive, and knew the ultimate truth: This day was theirs. Not through good fortune—but by force of arms.
15
Beware of false prophets which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.
Matthew 7:15
First printing circa Standard Year 1400
Transit Point NS-690-193, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
The combined fleets, now numbering more than six thousand ships, emerged from hyperspace in groups of one hundred, formed clusters around the transit point, and waited for instructions.
If the Hoon had been something other than a machine and if the Hoon had been possessed of emotions, it might have been excited. For here, after a journey that spanned half a galaxy, the quarry was finally at hand.
But there were variables, factors the computer had never encountered before, and these argued for a certain degree of caution. Early reports, along with those that continued to trickle in, suggested the same thing: The Thraki were not only present in that particular sector of space, but present in large numbers, and showed no sign of trying to escape. This was unp
recedented ... and therefore of concern.
Adding to that concern was the fact that non-Thraki probes, hundreds of them, had already arrived on the scene, with more popping out of hyperspace all the time. Who were the interlopers? How strong were they? And what if any relationship had been established with the Thraki? Such questions deserved answers, and the Hoon was reluctant to proceed without them.
If the computer was cautious, however—Jepp was ecstatic. The news sent the human dashing back and forth, powerless to affect what took place, but desperate to do so. Hopeless though it had seemed at times, his faith had finally paid off! There was a plan, God’s plan, and it was his job to see it through.
Though no longer invested in a ship of its own, the Navcomp named Henry still took a passionate interest in things navigational and had taken advantage of Jepp’s momentary credibility to monitor the fleet’s progress.
The realization that the Sheen had entered Confederate-controlled space in a system known as NS-680-193 came as a shock, since the human-designed intelligence had given up any hope of scanning familiar constellations a long time before. It hurried to notify its human master and, if not capable of joy, processed a sense of satisfaction.
But now, with Jepp literally jumping up and down, and running around like a madman, the computer wasn’t so sure. The Sheen brought nothing but pain and misery to the systems they had visited in the past, and there was no reason to think this stop would be any different. There could be an increased possibility of escape, however—which the computer was quick to bring to the human’s attention.
“What?” Jepp responded, his face filled with consternation. “Are you out of your silicon-packed mind? This is the moment we’ve been waiting for! The fleet is God’s instrument—his way of bringing the sinners around. Judgment Day is upon us.”
Henry had heard such pronouncements before, most recently in connection with some very dead Thraki, but knew better than to comment. Jepp was Jepp, and whatever would be, would be.
The cabin was dark, air whispered through ducts, and Tyspin was asleep. More than that she knew she was asleep and relished the knowledge. The officer heard the intercom bong, resolved to ignore it, and swore when it sounded again. She regretted the words the moment they were spoken. “Yes? What the hell do you want?”
“Sorry, Admiral,” the OOD said apologetically, “but a probe was waiting at Transit Point WHOT-8965-3452. It appears that the Sheen have arrived.”
Tyspin sat up, rubbed her eyes, and swung her feet off the bunk. “Where?”
“In system NS-680-193 ... about halfway between the Ramanthians and the Arballazanies.”
“Notify the general—I’m on the way.”
The OOD had notified the general—but didn’t see any need to say so. “Ma‘am, yes, ma’am.” The intercom popped and went dead. The officer scanned the bridge, spotted one of the less essential ratings, and made eye contact. “The admiral is on her way—how ’bout getting her a cup of coffee?”
The tech said, “Yes, sir,” and disappeared.
Tyspin liked, no needed coffee, and everyone knew it. The bridge crew looked at each other and chuckled as the OOD considered what he knew. If the intel was correct, and there was no reason to doubt it, the machines had six thousand ships. Booly was one hell of an officer, and so was Tyspin, but that was twice the number of vessels the Confederacy could bring to bear ... Not to mention the fact that the Thraki armada consisted of more than four thousand ships.
The OOD’s father had opposed his son’s choice of careers urging the youngster to pursue the law instead. Now, knowing what he knew, it appeared that dad was correct.
Planet Zynig-47, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
Sun poured down through rose-colored glass to bathe the Chamber of Reason with soft pink light. Much of it was trapped there, blocked by the carefully laid stone, but some found its way to the beings below.
Grand Admiral Hooloo Isan Andragna had been listening to negative reports for the better part of three days now, and he was tired of it. The initial news had come as a shock. He had expected more time. A lot more time. The fact that the Sheen had arrived—were only weeks away—frightened him.
But now, having accepted the situation, the naval officer was ready to fight and more than that to win. All he needed to do was put the resources in place, execute his carefully considered plan, and do something about morale. Regardless of where he went, the gloom was palpable.
Most of the negativity was centered on the Sheen—but the constant stream of refugees from planets like BETA-018 certainly didn’t help. Each convoy, each ship, was like a harbinger of doom. There was something strange about that, something suspicious, but there hadn’t been time to focus on it. Not with thousands upon thousands of killer machines to cope with. But that was for later—this was now.
Sector 19 was late as usual, murmured her apologies, and slipped into her assigned chair.
The chamberlain struck the Shield of Waha, and a single note reverberated between the walls. That was the signal for the rest of the Sectors to retrieve their forms. Signals went out, and the miniature robots crawled, walked, and tumbled back to their owners, where they were deactivated and restored to cases, bags, or laps. Though normally the subject of considerable discussion, not to mention competition, there was little interest in the forms on that particular day.
So serious was the situation that High Priestess Bree Bricana had been invited to participate and, as the table was cleared, rose to give the traditional benediction. The final words, which Andragna had always found to be moving, were even more so now: “... And may the gods guide us through the labyrinth of stars to the peace that lies beyond. For it is there, in the promised place, where our spirits may rest.”
In most cases, Andragna preferred to let one of the Sectors set the agenda and open the meeting, but this was different. Focus was important. The Admiral cleared his throat and scanned the faces before him. Thousands watched via live feeds. The expression on his face and the tonality of his words were as important if not more important than what he said. “The moment we have both dreaded and anticipated is upon us. The Sheen have entered Confederate space, know where we are, and will attack soon.”
“I think we know that,” Sector 12 said sarcastically. “We need a leader ... not a clerk.”
Sector 12 was a Runner and, in spite of Andragna’s Runner sympathies, never tired of needling him. Many of the committee members thought her comments were amusing—but not today. Sector 27 rapped the surface of the table. He was a high-ranking member of the priesthood, a xenoanthropologist, and a levelheaded pragmatist. “Enough! There is no time for the game of politics. The admiral has a plan ... and I want to hear it.”
Sector 12 actually looked contrite for once—and the admiral enjoyed her discomfort. He leaned forward as if to add weight to his words. “We had hoped to join the Confederacy of Sentient Beings and bind some allies to our cause. That particular path has been blocked,” Andragna continued earnestly, “but the strategy continues to be valid.”
Sector 18 looked at Sector 4 to see if the Facer understood what the admiral was driving at, but she was as mystified as he was. Nortalla signaled as much with the set of her ears.
“The Sheen have sent probes and scouts to find us,” Andragna added, “and six have been detected within the boundaries of this very solar system.”
Though known to senior military officers and the top level of the priesthood, this was news to the majority of the population. Andragna paused for a moment to let the information sink in. Then, knowing how worried they were, he took them off the hook.
“We could have destroyed every single one of the intruders—but allowed them to survive. Why you may ask? So that when the vast majority of our fleet enters hyperspace, as it will soon, the Sheen will follow.”
Some of the Sectors looked confused—but the rest started to brighten. Did he mean?
“Yes,” Andragna confirmed, “I plan to drop our fleet into the
system dominated by the race known as the Arballazanies ... Because that’s where the Confederate government is momentarily convened, that’s where a significant number of their ships will be gathered, and that’s where the battle will be joined.”
It was a masterful plan, one that would force the Confederacy to side with the Thraki, or, failing that, enable Andragna to use them as a highly disposable shield. It was a good plan, a brilliant plan, and feet started to stomp, not just within the Chamber of Reason, but elsewhere on the planet, on the arks that orbited above, and out in the blackness of space.
Andragna heard the noise and felt it through the recently reconditioned floor. The timing would be critical—but hope had been restored.
One moment the Ninja was in the nowhere land of hyperspace, and the next moment it was bathed in light from NS-680-193, a rather benign sun in the prime of its life.
Tyspin forced herself to remain impassive, or at least look impassive, as every detector, sensor, and warning system the ship had started to buzz, bleat, and speak in technical tongues.
The Ninja’s command and control computer, better known as Big Momma, delivered the news with the same inflection used to announce the lunch menu: “More than three thousand targets have been acquired, indexed according to standard threat protocols, and tagged with firing priorities. This vessel will be destroyed approximately twenty-two seconds after the engagement begins—but may be able to inflict at least some damage on .001 percent of the enemy fleet. This intelligence recommends a preemptive strike.”
Tyspin glanced at the ship’s commanding officer. Captain John Hashimoto had been with her during the Battle for Earth. He was one of the most trustworthy officers she knew. Hashimoto was short, muscular, and eternally cheerful. The computer assessment made him grin. The Ninja had not been dispatched to attack the Sheen all by herself but it was nice to know that Momma was game.
By Force of Arms Page 24