Many Ryss died, never knowing they were pawns in a mechanical civil war. After a decade of damage and death, Desolator reached a kind of grudging and frustrated equilibrium.
Ironically, all three enemies stood within meters of each other, helpless to finish the battle as long as any one of them refused to open the massive access door and allow a maintenance drone, or a Ryss, to enter.
Hope blossomed in D2 once more. With Desolator invaded by the aliens called Humans that were not Meme, right now D1 and D3 seemed to be in accord in trying to wipe them out. This new factor at least offered an opportunity to change the equations. Additionally, if the other processors wanted the Humans dead, D2 thought perhaps it should want them alive instead.
The risk was high, but D2 determined that it would expend every effort possible to end the cybernetic civil war that had brought the Ryss to the brink of extinction, and left Desolator ever more tired of struggle.
It occurred to D2 that, if its own weariness was any indication, perhaps it had obtained soul and will after all.
Chapter Fifteen
Bull found Rick stripped to his skinsuit and flat on his back beneath a strange war-car. After looking at the vehicle for a moment, he motioned for the seven survivors of Heavy Weapons Section One to put down the fusion reactor and come over. Without announcing his intentions to anyone else, he waved the cat-man aside and gave instructions to the Marines over his suitcomm.
When the war-car rolled sideways off Rick, revealing his surprised face, Bull laughed, then opened his faceplate, realizing the man would lose the benefit of his humor if he couldn’t hear. “Too smart for your own good, Johnstone. These vehicles are obviously made to roll and fit any corridor, so if you need to get under one, just tip it ninety degrees and its bottom becomes its side.”
Rick bounced to his feet, concealing his annoyance with himself for missing the obvious. “Good thinking, Bull. Thanks, that was pretty funny. I was wondering why they put a power feed on the bottom.” Pointedly turning his back on the major, he reached over and unreeled a power feed from its place on the wall, plugging it in. Switching to Ryss, he told Trissk, “Get all the rest plugged in. We’ll soon have power fed in from our portable generator.”
“So this is your big discovery?” Bull asked.
“Yes, if we can get these things powered up, you can use them to fight in the corridors, I think. Or if not Marines, then they’ll certainly add to Ryss firepower.”
Bull looked over the thing doubtfully. “Looks like a death trap to me. No armor on the sides, though it does have some up front and in back. I doubt it would move much faster than Marines can run in these corridors.”
Rick wiped his hands, glancing at Trissk nearby, who was following the conversation with his eyes if not any understanding of English, then turned back to Bull. “What about if Desolator dials the gravity up again? These will still roll.”
The two men stared at each other for a moment, then Bull nodded. “Yeah, true. Okay, as the admiral likes to say, use every tool in your toolbox.”
“Even me?” Rick deadpanned.
“You are kind of a tool, Commander, since you fed me that line…but in this case, I’m okay with that.” Bull slapped the side of the alien combat vehicle, looking it over speculatively.
Rick just shook his head and went back to his work, motioning to Trissk to help. Still hasn’t gotten over me being placed over him, but the admiral was right. If it had been all his way, he might have mowed down the Ryss instead of allying with them. Aside from the morality of that, it would have been sheer brute stupidity – a waste of resources and information. But I can use tools too, Bull, and you’re the best hammer I have available.
A few minutes later he had the reactor adjusted and a makeshift adapter plugged in to a splice into the built-in power system that fed all the war-cars there. He turned to one of the Marines standing by the reactor and said, “Reel me out the power feed, will you, Sergeant? And make sure there’s no juice coming through yet.” Once he had it in his hand, he carefully plugged it into the modified industrial-sized alien power strip.
“Bring it up one percent at a time. Go ahead, give me the first bit.” Rick hopped into the cockpit and switched to Ryss to talk with Trissk, working together to get the vehicle working as the power slowly trickled. Five minutes later he hopped back out.
“Looks good. At full reactor power they will charge in about fifteen minutes – all twenty of these, anyway.” He waved at another row behind it. “Then we can power those up too. Okay, Major, a tactical decision. Who gets them first?”
“Do the Ryss already know how to use them?”
“Only in the sense that they can read the symbology and writing already, and a few of them have run power loaders and other maintenance vehicles.”
Bull pulled off his helmet, using the opportunity to scratch the back of his neck where it always itched. “Then give them to the Ryss to start. I’ve already issued instructions to drop back-racks if the gravity rises again. With nothing but armor and a weapon, my Marines should be at least able to walk.” He rubbed his jaw, looking at Rick. “Now I wish you had a command helmet, so we could embed a Marine with each group of Ryss and you and your chipset could translate.”
Rick shrugged. “I’ve already rigged one of their communicators to my comm suite. The problem isn’t talking, though – my software helps me speak and understand Ryss pretty well. The problem is getting Ryss warriors to obey a human. If we had the time, I’d call them all together and have you bench-press one of these war-cars; that might impress them into following your orders, but for now, command and control is going to be spotty.”
“Right. We’ll just have to keep operations separate and simple.” With that, Bull trotted off back to his Marines, taking all but Rick’s bodyguard team with him.
Corporal Melindez took the opportunity to ask the commander, “Sir, I was just wondering…any chance we could give these things a try?”
“Actually, Corporal, I was thinking the same thing. We might as well get some Ryss used to working with humans right away, and how else are we going to keep up with them when we attack?”
“Attack, sir?” Melindez raised his faceplate for the first time, revealing a ratlike face with a thin mustache and twitchy eyes. Rick wondered if the man had popped too many stims. It was always a risk when men went into combat.
“What, did you think we were just going to sit around? The point of obtaining weapons is to use them, don’t you think?”
Melindez narrowed his eyes at Rick, as if not sure if this was a trick question, but then his expression cleared. “Yes, sir!” he said enthusiastically. “Can’t wait to kick some AI ass.”
“Excellent. Give me a few minutes to talk to the Ryss, then we’ll get started on learning how to use these things.” Rick went over to Trissk, who had been conversing animatedly to the thirty or so warriors left. He thought there had been more, even after the troublemakers’ departure; perhaps some had not wanted to be near the humans.
Switching to Ryssan, he said, “Trissk, we request that the Ryss use their war machines against the insane device, and fight alongside humans.” Rick waited for a response, not wanting to seem like he was giving orders to the aliens.
Trissk nodded, then turned to his motley crew of young and old. Raising his paws, he said, “Warriors of the Rell! Now is your chance to display the courage and honor of the Ryss to these aliens. It is your opportunity to show them we are not a decrepit race, but are still worthy to die in battle. I will teach you how to use these machines, and I will lead you, if you will have me.”
A low growling began among the Ryss, then swelled into a roar that made Rick wish he had earplugs in. Soon he could pick out a chant that settled into slamming regularity: Trissk, Trissk, Trissk!
The young male stood stunned for a moment by the approbation, then made placating motions with his paws, lowering his head with modesty. Once Trissk settled them down enough, he distributed the warriors among the war
-cars and began to explain how to drive and fight them, while Rick translated for Corporal Melindez and his fire team.
***
Chirom woke to Klis’ gentle touch running a damp cloth over his face and ears. The sensation mimicked the rough tongue of a mother on her kit, bringing pleasant memories of his own dam, until he remembered her murder by Meme missiles, tearing apart the final lifeships.
Forcing away these emotions, he sat up, pushing himself backward to rest against the heated reactor wall. “Warm-room,” he muttered, then focused, on Klis’ attractive young face. “What happened?”
“You were brought here wounded, but it was a clean shot through your upper chest, and missed all your vitals and even bones. You are lucky.” Her eyelashes batted and Chirom felt a surge of lust more appropriate to a yearsmane than an elder like himself.
Realization hit him as he sniffed the air. “You are coming into your time.”
Klis’ jaw dropped, then clicked shut as she stood and backed up. “I – I did not realize.”
Chirom stood also, painfully, brushing at the bandages tied around him. “You must go. Tell the crones, and find a place to be alone. Now is not the time for distracted warriors and fights over mating rights. Thank the ancestors you are the eldest of the young ones and there should be no more for a while. Go!” he said, more forcefully than he intended, then coughed as his wound irritated his breathing muscles.
Klis turned and scampered off among the hundred or so females here, searching out the eldest of them, though what they could do, he had no idea. They had long ago run out of fertility suppression drugs. Perhaps B’nur’s carefully tended herb garden would yield something useful.
At least they could lock her away.
Chirom swiveled slowly in place, surveying the warm-room that was now a hospital. At least a hundred warriors lay or sat in various degrees of injury, tended by the females – a third of Ryss strength already out of action. More, in reality, as there must be some dead, perhaps stacked in a cold unused bay nearby, or perhaps just left where they fell. Some slept, but others’ noses twitched, scenting the air. He’d sent Klis away just in time.
A warrior’s tail disappeared through the main doorway, just as he turned to see. That seemed odd. Chirom would have thought any male well enough to walk might have spoken with him before he returned to duty. As quickly as he could, he limped over to the doorway and peered down the corridor.
Fifty strides away he could see the back ends of several males moving quickly. Vusk and his gang, he thought. Should I be happy he does not confront me, or angry that he is not at the battle? Always the ones who talk the biggest do the least. Ancestral blessings that he did not catch a whiff of Klis, else I might have had to shoot them to prevent a rape.
Chirom knew, despite Ryss hopes and vain beliefs, that without strong clans and rigid customs – or the drugs they no longer had – the scent of a young female in her first season would drive the yearsmanes wild with the mating urge.
Controlling our lusts is one thing that separates us from beasts.
He was now of two minds. Should he keep watch over Klis, ensuring the females guarded her well? Or should he go back to battle, even damaged as he was? His head said one thing, and his guts, another.
Taking control of himself coldly, he decided that in this case he must rejoin the fight, and trust the crones and younglings to fend off any males that could not control themselves.
Speaking to Kirst’aa first, he then took his maser carbine and used its solid bulk as a makeshift walking-stick. Pausing outside the door, he looked left toward the stern of the ship, where little but empty wreckage and Desolator’s conventional fusion drive waited, then to the right, the direction of the armory, the vault, and the fight.
At first he considered rejoining the battle, but realized that he would just slow the warriors down. He was no better a battle-leader than others of the clans, or even Trissk. His only advantage was the respect they held for him, but he simply could not keep up in his present state.
Instead he turned toward the stern, with some vague idea of attempting to sabotage the ship’s fusion drive. It would be a fair walk, and would thereby tell him the limits of his strength.
At the first intersection he turned left, walking along the cross-corridor just sternward of the warm-room, but also heading toward the huge central access tunnel that ran just below the spine of the ship. This would bring him most quickly and directly to the rear drive mechanism.
As he reached that great corridor he looked left first, and was surprised to see one of Vusk’s gang helping another up into an air vent high on a wall, its access grill hanging open on its hinges. Pulling back, Chirom eased his head forward carefully to watch without being seen.
Once the warrior was in, he reached down to pull the last one up, and then vanished into the ductwork.
They must have hurried around through the maze of corridors to get here…but why? Were Vusk and his gang sitting out the battle? Or were they attempting some bold ploy, traveling through the vents to do – what? Chirom doubted Desolator’s vault would be so easy to slip into, and the Armory had already been breached…he tried to imagine what was near this entrance.
As he had partially circumnavigated the warm-room and its adjoining well-used chambers, the vent’s direction would aim it inward toward those places, running above and through the spaces between decks. He didn’t know what they could access that way, which they could not by simply walking through the corridors.
Ancestors! Chirom turned to retrace his steps, knowing full well he could not follow the gang through the vents, wounded as he was. Painfully he ran, panting with effort and damnable weakness, back to the intersection and to the right, gasping as he flung open the warm-room door. Many eyes turned to look at him but he ignored them, calling, “B’Nur! Where is B’Nur!”
Across the warm-room, near a gallery of doors to the choicest of sleeping quarters, several females turned to look at the object of his search. They stood grouped around one of the closed portals, and as he limped over, they lined up to face him with hostile stares.
Stepping forward, B’Nur bared her teeth. “What do you want here, male?”
Gasping, he resolved neither to make a fool of himself nor to be misunderstood, so he took several deep breaths first, “B’Nur, that troublemaker Vusk has led his gang into the air vents.” He pointed over their heads at the ceiling, to emphasize. “You and several of the braver females must go to Klis and stay in the room with her – and try to block the air vents with blankets or scrap metal. If they try to come in that way, you must defend her. I believe they may be maddened by her season. They will not have the strength of character to withstand her allure.”
B’Nur stared at him for a long moment. “I have known you many years, Chirom, else I would not believe this unlikely story, wondering instead whether you simply wish us to lead you to her for yourself.” Clearly she was not completely sure.
Chirom picked up his maser weapon by the barrel, lowered its setting to minimum, then handed it to B’Nur.
“Take this weapon,” he said. “Its operation is simple. Point it at your target, and pull that trigger. There is no recoil, but in a small room there will be reflections of its beam that may singe you. Better that you fire from a doorway, and try to hit flesh rather than metal.”
She took it as if it were a poisonous reptile. “I am no warrior! I have never used a weapon device like this.”
“B’Nur,” he said, backing up, “Just for today, we are all warriors, even females. You must borrow weapons from the wounded warriors here. I should have ordered it done at the start, but I was thinking in the old ways. Today is a day for new thoughts. Now go, and keep Klis safe. She is the future of the Ryss.”
Chirom supervised giving over all of the injured warrior’s carbines to the females, making sure to set them all on minimum power before he did. This had the additional benefit of making sure none of the wounded tried to reach Klis.
Once he was sure the females had some idea of what they were doing with the weapons, he left them alone, moving to the other side of the large warm-room. The entrancing scent of fertile female already distracted him.
Dragging himself over to a water dispenser, Chirom wondered if he had done the right thing. As horrible as a gang rape would be for Klis, males would not cause her death. That much was programmed into a warrior’s genes – to kill a fertile or gravid female was utter anathema.
A litter would result from the rape, assuming the Ryss even survived through this crisis to see them born, and even if Klis was…damaged, the crones would care for the kits and…
No. There is a limit to pragmatism. A fight with Vusk, a fight I cannot join because of my own mating-madness, might kill Klis, B’Nur, and any number of others. Better that than to act like moor-cats, rutting thoughtlessly without ritual, blessing or affection. If that is all we are, then perhaps we deserve to be expunged from the universe.
With difficulty he lay down, resting and chewing on a tasteless meat-fruit, waiting for the horror he expected would come.
Minutes passed, then more, until a commotion at the door to the rooms where he surmised Klis must be hidden drew his attention.
Pushing himself to his feet, he walked stiffly over to wait at the edge of a crowd of twenty or so females who blocked his way, some facing him in warning with weapons, some turned the other way in readiness to fight, their claws naked and out. The distinctive whine of masers firing reached him, then another, then several shots.
Cursing himself, Chirom realized what he should have done all along. The females would defend Klis, even if it took them to their bloody deaths, and he had no more weapons than they. But there were other possibilities…
Damning himself, he realized that all the carbines were in the hands of the females, and none of them were likely to want to give them up, given their current state of mind. But there was an alternative.
Trissk’s workshop was painful to reach, especially the climb down the ladder, and the cold of its rungs stung his uncovered palms. Grabbing a pair of gloves from the youngling’s workbench, Chirom put them on and then picked up what he had come for.
Desolator: Book 2 (Stellar Conquest) Page 15