by Mike Sheriff
“Where?”
“Fifteen miles astern of the leading body. Do you hold anything on them?”
“We’re only seeing sixty-one cullcraft at a range of eighteen miles.”
Bhavya snorted. “That’s because their acoustic-sensor operator is a fid.”
“What are your orders, sireen?”
Cang bit her lower lip. Mongrel cullcraft were no match for Jireni aeroshrikes. Their rail cannons, the most powerful weapon they carried, boasted half the range of a barometric cannon. Their top speed, maneuverability, and armor protection was similarly lacking. But the sheer number of vessels opposing her and Commander Eshan changed the equation. Could two aeroshrikes hold off this many adversaries? Could their power reserves withstand the—
“Commander!” Bhavya shouted. “I’ve fingerprinted the acoustic signatures of the trailing objects.”
“What are they?”
Bhavya swiveled in her seat. Blood drained from her cheeks. “Troopships.”
A chill crested on Cang’s skin. “How many?”
“A hundred. Maybe more.”
Cang’s blood turned to ice. The mongrels weren’t on a harassing incursion. This was a full-scale invasion.
“What are your orders, commander?” Eshan repeated. “Do we stand and fight or turn and run?”
Cang gazed through the window at the threat-filled sky. She remembered the vow she’d made when they took off from the northern aerodrome hours earlier. It gave her the answer. “Weapons, do you have a firing solution?”
“Yes, sireen!”
“Prepare a full-spectrum salvo from the barometric cannons. Optimize the rounds for long-range armor penetration.”
The weapons console chirped as the operator programed the parameters. “Barometric rounds ready!”
“Distance to the cullcraft?”
“Sixteen miles!” Bhavya answered.
Cang placed her hands against the window’s nullglass frame. “Stand by . . . fire!”
The barometric cannons atop the gas envelope thundered. The salvo’s recoil decelerated the aeroshrike—those not seated or braced against solid objects lurched forward. A deafening report rattled the bridge, interrupting the data flow to the console screens.
Cang watched six white contrails fan out from the bow, etching the sky like sharpened fingernails. She activated the comms tile. “There’s your answer, Commander Eshan.”
Yongrui joined her at the forward windows. He lowered his voice—it took on a reverent tone. “Do you think we can stop them?”
She turned to the comms console. “Open a channel to Commander Slabidan in Nansilafu Cheng. Stream all electro-optical and acoustic-sensor data to his outpost. They need to know what’s coming their way.”
“At once, sireen!”
Cang drew a deep breath to steady her voice. “There’s your answer, Jiren Yongrui.”
JULINIAN TRACKED SIX inbound contrails. From her vantage point, the barometric rounds drifted right, making it clear they weren’t homing in on her cullcraft. The realization triggered a flush of relief, but the feeling was blotted out by slag-hot outrage.
The Jireni had fired upon her, the rightful ruler of Daqin Guojin.
Beside her, Itta gaped at the incoming salvo in what appeared to be a mesmerized stupor. Massum had given her charge of the control gondola five minutes earlier when he left to oversee a fault repair to the plasma-beam on the cullcraft’s uppermost deck. His decision might prove disastrous if she failed to take the necessary actions in the face of the aeroshrike attack.
“Are you going to take any action?” Julinian asked.
Itta opened her mouth, but no words emerged. Her unblinking gaze fixed onto the approaching rounds. It took twenty seconds from the time they left the aeroshrike’s nacelles to reach a cullcraft positioned five miles on the starboard beam.
The unlucky vessel’s hemispheric bow shattered like a ceramic bowl dropped from a table. Its control gondola dropped away, flipping end-over-end as it fell. The remaining gas envelope rolled onto its back and plunged toward the desert two thousand feet below.
The kinetic display prompted gasps from the mongrel crew. Itta’s proved the loudest. “There . . . there were seventy people on that cullcraft!”
Julinian ignored her screeching. Far more than seventy mongrels would die before this day was out . . . especially if they let themselves be picked off one-by-one by barometric rounds. “We need to bring the gyroblades into the fight!”
Itta’s eyes widened. “I . . . I don’t think that’s the best course of action.”
Julinian’s ire flared past the point of containment. She knew Itta would hesitate when the moment came. “Are you fond of breathing?”
“That’s . . . that’s not—”
The double-thump of distant salvos interrupted her reply. Twelve more barometric rounds scored the sky, six fired from each aeroshrike. Within eighteen seconds, the first six tore into another cullcraft wide on the port beam. The rounds converted the vessel into thousands of glinting fragments.
Pressure waves from the sonic blasts rattled the gondola’s windows. Itta flinched. Her lips moved as if in silent petition to Sha. Julinian cocked her arm and slapped her across the face. “You can offer as many petitions as you want, but your only hope of survival is to do as I say!”
“What in Sha’s name is happening?”
Julinian turned from Itta.
Massum entered the gondola from the aft hatch. He abandoned his usual reticence and raced forward, arriving at the forward windows in time to witness the destruction of another cullcraft by the second salvo of barometric rounds.
“Is the plasma-beam fixed?” Itta asked.
“Yes.”
“Then we must use it against the—”
“We have to be within six miles of the aeroshrikes for it to be effective against their armor,” Julinian said, cutting her off. “To get that close, we’ll need to deploy every gyroblade at our disposal to overwhelm their defenses!”
Massum pursed his lips as he pondered the statement. Beside him, Itta shook her head. “We need the gyroblades for our assault against the Great Northern Border.”
Julinian snatched Itta’s blouse and slammed her against the window. “If we don’t deploy them now, we won’t make it to the Great Northern Border!”
“That isn’t the plan!”
She expended every reserve of self-control to tamp down her outrage. Itta’s obstinance was typical and bred into her bones. Mongrels loathed deviations from a set strategy. Most lacked an innate sense of spontaneity, making on-the-fly adjustments impossible. Under ordinary circumstances the trait could be exploited for personal gain; now it could result in her demise.
“So you’ll blindly stay the course and let them pick us off one-by-one before we can get within range?” she asked. “Then what? Let the aeroshrikes destroy every troopship? Your aversion to change will send one hundred-thousand mongrels to the Great After! Your people will remember you as the mongrels who led the most disastrous incursion in recorded history!”
Massum snatched a comms tile from a console and raised it to his mouth. His even voice filled the gondola. “Cullcraft of the fleet, this is Massum ili Mussam. Deploy your gyroblades for a frontal attack on the Jireni aeroshrikes.” He lowered the tile, then raised it to his mouth again in an apparent afterthought. “This is an order.”
Julinian expelled a sigh of relief. Massum’s coolness in the face of the attack was exactly what his people needed to hear. No matter that his hands belied his calm demeanor—the rest of the fleet couldn’t see them quivering. She released Itta and turned to the aft windows.
The cullcraft to the rear disgorged scores of gyroblades. Their tear-drop hullforms bore an azure tint, making them difficult to spot against the cobalt sky. Within thirty seconds, two flights of twelve craft streaked past, bracketing the gondola. They announced their passage with a high-pitched whine that made her ears tingle. Another two flights zipped past moments later.
She marveled at the aerial cavalcade. The single-pilot craft were no bigger than the levitrans that plied the city-state’s transways, each weighing less than five hundred pounds. An aft-mounted pusher airscrew yielded a thrust-to-weight ratio of two-to-one, allowing for breathculling acceleration. Each gyroblade featured a triple-bladed rotor, pylon-mounted on the craft’s center of gravity. Combined with negative stability, the gimbaled rotor translated into hyper-responsive roll and pitch control.
Despite possessing more advanced knowledge in aerodynamics, Daqin Guojin had nothing similar in its inventory of aerial vehicles. She’d studied the gyroblades at length during her stay in Havoc and immediately recognized their utility for the coming invasion. Now it was time to see them in action.
Beyond the forward windows, the vanguard of sixty gyroblades closed to within six miles of the aeroshrikes. Delicate contrails emanated from the larger vessels, stitching the sky like gleamglass threads.
“They’ve activated their point-defense weapons,” Julinian said, pointing at the wispy strands.
As she lowered her hand, the leading wave of gyroblades—twenty craft in total—vanished inside shimmering blooms of shattered nullglass. The two trailing waves pressed onward. Dozens more contrails radiated outward from the aeroshrikes. Dozens more blooms signaled hits.
Massum absorbed the destruction with typical detachment. Itta swore under her breath and glared at Julinian.
She glared back, matching Itta’s ferocity. “Notice how the aeroshrikes aren’t firing barometric rounds at us anymore?”
“But the gyroblades are being decimated,” Itta muttered.
Julinian straightened her spine and stripped the humanity from her voice. “Better them than us.”
DAOREN GAPED AT the console alongside Heqet and Commander Hyro. Behind them, a throng of mute Jireni gathered. If their silence was any indication, the image stream unspooling on the console’s main screen had stunned them senseless as well. Throughout the entire outpost, only Commander Slabidan spoke. His sober commentary contrasted with the stunning imagery as he craned over the console’s lone operator. “This is the data stream from the optical sensors mounted on the gas envelope’s outer surface.”
“On which aeroshrike?” Daoren asked.
“Primae Jiren Cang’s according to the quantum packets.”
The seamless fusion provided a three-dimensional panoramic of an aerial battle. A lone aeroshrike hovered one mile to the west of Cang’s vessel judging by its aspect and the sun’s angle. Scintillating flashes landmarked the multi-barreled turrets along its gas envelope, signaling a frenetic rate of fire. To the north, ten miles distant, nearly sixty mongrel cullcraft loomed at the same altitude. Closer in, hundreds of tiny craft streaked in every direction, mere blurs in the sky. Glowing contrails announced their passage like meteoroids skimming the upper atmosphere.
“What are those smaller craft?” Heqet asked.
“Gyroblades,” Hyro said. “I’ve never seen the mongrels deploy them against aeroshrikes.”
“When was this transmission sent?” Daoren asked.
“It’s happening right now,” Slabidan said. “This is a real-time data stream.”
Daoren suppressed a shudder and leaned in, straining to get a better look at the gyroblades. Their speed made them impossible to resolve. “Can you pause the stream?”
The console operator manipulated a dial. The screen’s image froze, centered on a blurred streak.
“Can you roll it back and get a clear image?”
The operator stepped the stream backward packet-by-packet until a clear image resolved.
The gyroblade was banked at a forty-five-degree angle, nose down. Its transparent canopy allowed an unimpeded view of the lone pilot—an androgynous figure clad in gray and black—seated forward of the main rotor’s pylon mounting. Yellow flashes stood out against the forward fuselage’s blue surface, suggesting a weapon firing.
“Are they fitted with kinetic or acoustic weapons?”
“Both,” Slabidan said. “But neither weapon system can penetrate an aeroshrike’s armor.”
“They can if the range is close enough,” Hyro said, correcting him.
He huffed a dismissive snort. “They’d have to be within spitting distance to do any damage.”
“Then why would the mongrels deploy them?” Heqet asked.
“Harassment.” Daoren gestured to the cullcraft frozen on the horizon in the still image. “Keep the aeroshrikes occupied while the cullcraft close the distance.”
“Merciful Sha!” Slabidan elbowed the operator aside as he stabbed a finger at a smaller screen on the console’s left-hand side. “Look here. The acoustic data-stream is showing multiple point-sources, fifteen miles north of the cullcraft fleet.” He leaned closer to examine the data. His complexion grew more ashen with each passing second. “They match the sonic characteristics of triple airscrews.”
Hyro grimaced. “Troopships.”
“How many?” Daoren asked.
Slabidan traced his finger back and forth over the screen. His lips moved as he tallied. “At least a hundred.”
“And how many shocktroops can a single troopship carry?”
“Nine hundred,” Hyro said. “Maybe a thousand if they’ve improved their hydrogen-capture technology.”
Daoren breathed through his nose and tarried for his throat to relax. “So a hundred-thousand mongrel shocktroops are heading south?”
“At least a hundred-thousand.”
Heqet gripped Daoren’s hand and squeezed. “This is more than an incursion, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so,” Hyro said. “This is a full-scale invasion.”
Slabidan stepped back from the console. His hand remained on the seated operator’s shoulder as if he needed the added support. His ashen pallor persisted. “The mongrels have never sent such numbers our way.”
“How long before they reach the border?” Daoren asked.
“If Commander Cang can’t stop them, they could be here within sixty minutes.”
The number settled in Daoren’s chest like a solid object. Sixty minutes. “How many denizens are still north of the wall?”
“A thousand perhaps,” Slabidan said. “But they’ll have to fend for themselves. I need every Jireni at my disposal to—”
“Get the denizens inside the wall first.”
“With respect, Unum, I need to—”
“You need to get all of them inside!”
“I’ll dispatch more levicarts to transport them,” Hyro said. “Once that’s done, I’ll disperse the vehicles among the outermost crop circles.”
“As part of a layered defense?” Daoren asked.
“More like a speed bump,” Hyro said with chilling detachment. “They’ll force the troopships to land farther north. The more ground the mongrel shocktroops have to traverse to reach the wall, the more we can cull.”
“I also want four aeroshrikes patrolling two miles south of the wall,” Daoren said. “Place the others on five minutes’ notice-to-launch.”
“We’ll need more than four aeroshrikes to stop a mongrel fleet of this size,” Slabidan said.
“We can’t stop a fleet of this size. We’re going to make our stand at the wall.”
Slabidan’s heavy eyelids closed. After a moment’s mulling, he nodded. “Keep most of the aeroshrikes in reserve to fend off the ground assault?”
“Exactly,” Daoren said. “The mongrels can’t take control of the city-state without their cullcraft. And they can’t bring their cullcraft over the wall unless their shocktroops eliminate its weapon batteries. We mustn’t commit any part of our aeroshrike fleet until we see them deploying ground troops. Is that understood?”
Hyro and Slabidan came to attention and answered with one voice. “Yes, Unum.”
“Make it happen.” Daoren turned to Heqet—glassy eyes betrayed her otherwise calm exterior. “I’m sending you to the Librarium.”
“No, you’re not. I’m—”<
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“I’m not just sending you.” He placed his hand on her belly. “I’m sending both of you.”
“But I . . . I want to stay here. I want to help you.”
“You can help me best by going to the Librarium. I need to focus on what’s coming our way. You think I’ll be able to do that if you and Mako are still here?”
Her eyes welled. “Just know that it’s under protest.”
Daoren managed to excavate a smile. “Isn’t everything with you?” He turned to Slabidan. “Can you spare a levicart to take my wife to the Librarium?”
Slabidan huffed a grating sigh, making his irritation known. “Of course, Unum.”
“Where’s the best place to direct our defenses?”
“Atop the wall.” Hyro pointed at the console screen. “I’ll make sure the data streams are air-linked to my command post before I head up to the battlement.”
“I’ll join you in a moment,” Daoren said. He peered at Slabidan, whose expression still bore the sheen of irritation. “Carry on, commander.”
Slabidan whirled to the gathered Jireni. “I need a levicart. Now!”
Daoren tugged the quantum tile from his shenyi’s pocket. He caressed Heqet’s bare forearm. She flinched despite his gentle touch. “I’ll let my mother know you’re coming.”
CORDELIA SAT BETWEEN Asla and Kimye in the first row of the Spires’ main amphitheater. As anticipated, the Laoshi Lecture on Mother China’s imperial past had attracted a sizable audience. Over one thousand students, Libraria, and other castes filled the amphitheater’s terraced seats.
The three of them had been lucky to find a prime vantage point so close to the lumenglass stage. Or lucky to be with Asla. She’d convinced the denizen who’d been holding the seats for his colleagues to relinquish them. Cordelia was out of earshot when the exchange took place, but she suspected her friend had promised to visit harm on the man if he refused. The denizen—a slight Indonoid with a rasping cough—had abandoned his seat in haste after the three of them sat down. As a result, Asla had ample elbow room to her right.