Kingdom's Swords

by David Sherman

  "Don't touch anyone, they might be booby-trapped," Gunnery Sergeant Bass warned.

  Third platoon was at a convent in the middle of a forest. Unlike the other places the Skinks had raided, the buildings here were intact, the livestock alive, nothing was burned. Only the people were dead. Seventy-three nuns and two handymen were in the convent's courtyard. Most of them had been killed by bladed weapons; only a few had their flesh eaten by the acid guns. Drag marks indicated they'd been shot down while trying to run away. There was no evidence of the horrible weapons the Skinks had used during the fight in the Swamp of Perdition.

  The bodies were all naked. The two male bodies and six female were arranged in an obscene tangle. The rest of them were sexually mutilated, many with breasts cut off or lower bellies cut open. Many were laid in grotesque positions. The Skinks had taken time to lay out a tableau, one they obviously knew would offend and sicken.

  Bass tore his eyes away from the awful sight and snapped into the all-hands circuit, "Secure this area."

  Staff Sergeant Hyakowa took advantage of the order to leave the courtyard. "First squad, northeast; second squad, southwest," he said into the all-hands circuit as he went. His voice rasped, his throat constricted and raw. "Gun, into the bell tower."

  "Get me the Skipper," Bass said to Lance Corporal Dupont, the platoon communications man.

  Dupont had trouble finding his voice to make the call.

  Bass took the UPUD's handset to report what they'd found and to request that local authorities be dispatched to deal with it. When he handed it back, he felt like he should wash his hands. At least the radio worked so far, even if he didn't trust any other part of the Mark III.

  "God's will, I cannot look on it," said First Acolyte Wanderer, averting his eyes from the carnage in the courtyard. Bass had his shields raised so his face was visible, but the rest of him was invisible to the Kingdomite officer. Wanderer's gaze jumped about, everywhere but at the bodies and at Bass. He found speaking with what appeared to be a disembodied face too unnerving.

  The deacon who arrived with the company of the Army of the Lord, to make sure they weren't contaminated by the off-world heathens, seemed struck dumb by the sight.

  "‘God's will,’ you have to," Bass snapped. "These are your people, your holy women." He paused to take a deep, calming breath. "Listen, we respect your beliefs, even though your beliefs portray us as little better than devils. I have no idea of what your customs are, how you treat the bodies of murdered people, how you handle the bodies of holy women. I don't want to do anything to defile them..."

  "Defile? You speak of defilement? Have you looked on them? They have already been defiled—by demons! That mortal clay is beyond redemption."

  Bass moved close to the young officer and dropped his voice. "I'm taking my Marines and going out to see if we can find where the Skinks who did this went. The women are yours. You take care of them. If I find out you left them like this, you best hope you never see me again."

  "You threaten an officer of the Lord?" demanded the deacon, who had gotten past his shock and was suddenly next to them. He stared sharply at Bass's hovering face.

  Bass looked at the deacon. If he hadn't known he was a minister of some sort, he wouldn't have guessed. The man wore a standard army field uniform. His collar emblem may have been a religious symbol, but it wasn't one Bass recognized.

  "No," he said coldly, "I do not threaten him. I advise him. You're a holy man. You know the rules, the procedures, the ceremonies for the dead. You see to it that those bodies are properly cared for. And do it reverently." He slid his chameleon shield into place and said into his helmet comm, "Third platoon, saddle up and assemble on the south side."

  The deacon swallowed when Bass's face vanished. The officer blanched. Bass didn't warn him about booby traps. He thought the man didn't need anything else to discourage him from dealing with the carnage.

  "That way." Schultz raised his arm to let his sleeve slide down and pointed a few degrees off due south. That was where the Skinks went when they left the convent.

  "Did you send anybody out there?" Bass asked Hyakowa.

  "About half a klick," the platoon sergeant replied. "The trail continued."

  "Line 'em up and let's follow. I want a fire team out about seventy-five meters on each flank."

  "Aye aye, boss." Hyakowa issued the marching orders on the platoon command circuit.

  Bass looked into the forest while the platoon prepared to move out. It was the local equivalent of a temperate zone deciduous forest. Some of the trees strongly resembled Earth oaks he'd seen in nature preserves in a number of worlds. He briefly wondered if the Kingdomites had imported and planted real oaks. More important than thinking about the trees, though, was the Skinks. Until now third platoon, which had more contact with them than anybody else, had only encountered them in or near swamps. He didn't need to bring up a map to know that the nearest swamp or wetlands was more than a hundred kilometers from the convent. All of the strikes the Skinks had made while the Marines were embarking on the Grandar Bay were some distance from swamps. Maybe they weren't all that dependent on water to function. He wondered why they had held off for a week after the battle in the swamp before they struck again. Was it coincidence that they launched all those raids while the Marines were boarding ship, or was it deliberate? If it was deliberate, what was their motivation?

  "Ready any time you say, boss," Hyakowa said, interrupting his ruminations.

  Bass toggled on the all-hands circuit. "Look alive, people. These Skinks might be smarter and tougher than we ever guessed. Move out."

  It was an old growth forest. The trees were large and separated widely enough so their branches didn't meet to form a full canopy. There was a lot of undergrowth, except under the biggest, most thickly leafed trees. The trail was easy to follow; the Skinks hadn't been interested in passing unnoticed.

  Schultz, on the point as usual, was mildly surprised that the Skinks were so careless in their passage. It was as though they were encouraging pursuit. He could only think of two reasons: to lead the pursuers into an ambush; to lead the pursuers away from something more important. He was here, not someplace else, so here was his concern. He watched the trail carefully, alert for any sign that it slackened, as though fewer bodies were making it. He also watched ahead as far as he could make out for sign that the creatures they followed had turned aside to double back and set an ambush. He didn't lead the platoon along the same track the Skinks had taken, but parallel to it. An easily followed path was too likely to be booby-trapped. He and the Marines behind him left a far less visible trail than the Skinks had.

  Two or three hundred meters beyond where the patrol had gone, a small river crossed the Skinks' trail. The trail didn't resume on the other side of the river.

  "We have to check it out," Bass said. "First squad, go upstream, second squad go downstream. If you don't see sign of them coming out in two klicks, cross over and come back checking the other side." Through his infra he watched the two squads leave. He didn't feel comfortable about splitting the platoon, but it was the fastest way to check out where the Skinks might have left the river.

  "What are you thinking?" Hyakowa asked.

  "I'm thinking they're trying to screw with our minds."

  "I imagine you're right."

  "They're messing with us," Schultz rumbled when second squad was halfway back to its starting point.

  "What do you mean?" Kerr asked.

  "They stayed in the river."

  "How do you know?"

  "Mind fuck."

  "How can you be sure?"

  Schultz grunted. It was obvious to him that the Skinks were playing games with the Marines, working on their psyches.

  "You think they just kept going?"

  Schultz grunted.

  "They're trying to put us on edge and keep us there?" It wasn't really a question; Kerr was extrapolating from what Schultz said. It fit with what Gunny Bass had said, that the Skinks might
be smarter than they guessed. It didn't take much thought for him to realize that if he were the commander of an outmatched unit in enemy territory, he'd want to do things to keep his opponent unsettled. After a big fight, let them think they'd won, then hit again while they were withdrawing. The withdrawing force would think it was over. Their morale might go down if they suddenly had to go back and fight again—especially if they'd suffered significant casualties in gaining what they thought was victory, which 34th FIST had. But why not hit the withdrawing forces, injure them while they were less alert and able to fight back?

  That was one more question to add to who they were, where they came from, and why they always attacked without attempting to communicate.

  Bass already knew the squads had found nothing before they returned. He radioed his report to Lieutenant Humphrey.

  "What do you think is the most likely direction they went?" Humphrey asked.

  "Downstream. According to this map, the river gets pretty narrow upstream and the land gets rocky."

  "I agree. Follow downstream about ten klicks. Stay in close touch."

  "Aye aye."

  As soon as the platoon was reassembled, Bass called, "Squad leaders up."

  In a moment the three squad leaders joined him and Hyakowa. They all slid their shields up so they could see each other's faces. Dupont kept watching the display on the UPUD, Mark III. Bass did his best to ignore the damn thing.

  "It's more likely they went downstream than up," he told the squad leaders. They nodded agreement. "So we're going downstream too. About ten klicks. We'll get picked up there. If that damn thing," he jerked a thumb at the UPUD, "gives us anything near an accurate position. First squad, right bank. Second squad, left. One gun with each squad. Questions?" There weren't any. "Let's do it."

  They didn't find where the Skinks left the river, all they found was that the forest continued and the river got bigger. Then the platoon was dispatched to the site of another Skink raid.

  The Great Master chuckled as he listened to the reports, his breath rasping. Operation Blossoming Blood was proceeding precisely as planned. The Earthman Marines were scattered in increasingly small segments throughout the populated areas of this world they called "Kingdom," always racing to places his forces had already raided and departed. Any time he chose, he could have his forces lie in ambush and destroy the Marines piecemeal. But he did not choose to destroy them—yet.

  "Continue Blossoming Blood," he ordered, and his breath rasped through his gill slits as he chuckled again.

  The doorway through which the monk ushered them was wide enough for Brigadier Sturgeon and Ambassador Spears to walk side by side. It was Sturgeon's first time inside Temple Mount. Previously, his only contacts with the leading council had been through either Ambassador Spears or Archbishop General Lambsblood. The two Confederation representatives joined Lambsblood, who stood in front of the massive conference table facing the five spiritual leaders, who sat like a panel of judges. They bowed, Sturgeon's bow shallower and brisker than Spears's. The five seated leaders each had a cup near his hand. No one came forward to offer refreshment to the standing men.

  Ayatollah Jebel Shammar, seated in the middle of the quintet, glowered at them from under bushy eyebrows and drummed his fingers impatiently on the tabletop. Swami Nirmal Bastar sat sternly to the right of Shammar. The Venerable Muong Bo, on his left, looked somehow disapproving in his inscrutability. Cardinal Leemus O'Lanners, resplendent in his scarlet robes, looked like he should be in the middle instead of the plainly dressed Ayatollah. Bishop Ralphy Bruce Preachintent sat at the opposite end of the row. Unlike the others, Ralphy Bruce directed his disapproval at Shammar's drumming fingers. A secretary sat ready with stylus and paper behind each principal.

  Ayatollah Shammar ceased his finger-drumming long enough to intone, "The demons increase their depredations. You have done naught to deliver us from them."

  Sturgeon ignored the obvious accusation in Shammar's tone. "Revered One, the raiders strike in widely scattered locations. By the time we learn about their raids and reach the sites, they're already gone."

  "You spy on us from the sky, yet you never see them in time!"

  "We don't spy on you, Revered One," Spears said. "The Confederation's string-of-pearls is looking for the raiders, but there aren't enough analysts on the ship to spot all movement. They cannot be expected to spot every raid in time. Eventually they will spot raiders before they launch one of their attacks." He was well aware that were there enough analysts to examine all the data; the accusation of spying could well be accurate.

  Shammar slammed the palms of both hands onto the tabletop. "Eventually is not soon enough!" he thundered. "The demons murder the Faithful and mutilate their bodies. They destroy our crops and kine. They must be stopped!"

  "Revered One," Spears said in his most diplomatic voice, "Brigadier Sturgeon assures me his Marines can be more effective than they are, but you must allow them to move out of their Interstellar City camp."

  "I do allow them to leave!" Shammar thundered. "Every time the demons raid they have leave to pursue them!"

  Spears shook his head. "Revered One, it's too late then."

  "Sir," Sturgeon broke in, "none of the raids are in the vicinity of Haven. By the time my Marines can reach them, the raiders are long gone. We need your—"

  "You have suborbitals," Swami Bastar interrupted. "They can move your soldiers anywhere on Kingdom within an hour and a half. Your encampment is close enough." The blaze in his eyes made Sturgeon think of Siva, the ancient Hindu god of destruction.

  "Sir, that hour and a half is more than the raiders need to do their killing and make good their escape. Especially when my Marines aren't informed of the raid until several hours afterward." He used the subtlety of emphasis to indicate that there was a difference between soldiers and Marines.

  "Would you then be getting to the site those several hours earlier if your soldiers were stationed closer?" Cardinal O'Lanners asked blandly, returning the emphasis. He drank from his cup and signaled for an attendant to refill it.

  "No, Eminence, it wouldn't get my Marines there those many hours earlier. But it could put us in a better position to learn about the raids early enough to intercept the raiders."

  Shammar held up a hand to stop anyone from speaking further. He rolled his eyes up in momentary thought, then flicked his fingers and said, "Leave us."

  Spears bowed, Sturgeon nodded. Lambsblood bowed lowest and left the room with them.

  "We wait here," Lambsblood murmured when the door of the council chamber closed behind them.

  "What do you think they're talking about?" Sturgeon asked.

  "I think they know they have to do something they do not want to do," the Kingdomite commander replied.

  A few moments later the door opened again and a scribe beckoned them to reenter.

  Ayatollah Shammar peered at them for a long moment over steepled fingers. The expressions of the others were unreadable.

  "Your point is well taken," he finally said. "But we cannot let infidels loose amongst our Faithful to spread their heinous apostasy. We have garrisons a hundred men strong throughout our lands. You may station up to ten of your soldiers with each garrison. When the garrison commander hears of a raid, he will lead your soldiers to it for immediate action."

  Spears cocked an eye at Sturgeon. He knew the Marine wouldn't like the implications of that.

  Sturgeon restrained a smile; he'd been hoping for something like this. "Revered One, I thank you. My Marines have considerable experience commanding indigenous troops."

  Shammar's eyes looked like they should have been firing lightning, and Swami Bastar's visage, even more than before, invoked the image of Siva. Even Venerable Moung Bo's inscrutability seemed threatening.

  "What?" Bishop Ralphy Bruce squawked. "You can't—can't—" He stopped to gather himself, but Cardinal O'Lanners cut him off.

  "Sure and you wouldn't be thinking your heathens can be allowed to command o
ur Soldiers of the Lord, now would you?"

  "Your Eminence, when Confederation Marines operate with local forces, the Marines always have military command. Let me say that again," he hurried on, "military command. We will do nothing whatsoever to impede or intefere with whatever reasonable measure you take to protect your soldiers from any supposed ‘apostasy.’"

  Spears read the laughter under Sturgeon's final statement. Experienced diplomat that he was, he kept his own expression neutral.

  Shammar's steepled fingers went white from the sudden pressure he exerted on them.

  Sturgeon turned to Lambsblood. "With all due respect, sir, Confederation Marines have vastly more experience and combat skills than any planetary military. And the Confederation Marines are both well-schooled and experienced in working with planetary forces. We always leave a local military more capable than it was when we arrived."

  "I am aware of the value of the training, Brigadier. The last time Confederation Marines were deployed to Kingdom, the Army of the Lord received invaluable training. But command—"

  "Yessir, command," Sturgeon said. "Even if I were willing to entrust the lives of my Marines to local command, I am forbidden to do so by Confederation Marine Corps standard operational proceedure. I'm simply not allowed to. Archbishop General," he said in a placating tone, "Marines have been training and leading local forces since before humanity went to the stars. We know what we're doing."

  Lambsblood said nothing, but his expression as he turned his face from Sturgeon to his own leaders made it plain that he was unwilling to hand over command of even one Soldier of the Lord to the off-world Marines.

  "Command is out of the question," Ayatollah Shammar said. He again flicked his fingers at them, and they left the chamber. The audience was over.

  Over the next four days seven more settlements and two additional army outposts were lost to Skink raids. In each instance, the Marines didn't find out until too long afterward to catch the raiders.

  "Archbishop General Lambsblood," Ayatollah Shammar intoned when the Kingdomite commander and the two Confederation representatives were again summoned, "the Army of the Lord shall closely oversee the dispersal of the off-world Marines and their assumption of military command. The Army of the Lord will treble the number of chaplains assigned to each unit so involved. Leave us."